Four kids. Life could be so unfair. “I don’t think so. I’m not a black widow or anything like that.”
“I see. You’re more like Jessica Fletcher on Murder, She Wrote. You show up and people drop like flies.”
“I hope not.” Her hair blew across her face. It probably looked like a rat’s nest. She put it back into the clip.
“How can I help you, Officer Ward?”
“Officer Ward, is it now? What happened to Joshua?”
“Joshua.”
“Better. I came out to see how you were doing.”
She rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans. “Doing? I’m doing fine.”
“I got a call from Bertie—”
“Bertie!” She turned toward the front door. Before she could take a step, Joshua was next to her on the porch.
“Please don’t be angry.” He was near enough to touch. “She got hold of me and told me about you—”
“What do you mean, ‘about me’?”
“She told me Clinton Lamour Hunter had escaped prison. She explained that you were . . . not comfortable with telling police your real identity and therefore wouldn’t have police protection. She wanted me to keep an eye on you.”
Murphy glanced at the lodge.
“Don’t worry. I can keep your secret.”
The urge to touch him, to have him hold her, was almost overwhelming. “I . . . I would appreciate that.”
“And Bertie said she’s going to help you find out about your sister.”
“Yes.” She brushed a stray hair from her face and looked away. When she found Dallas she could relax. Find peace. Stop lying. Start loving.
“The way I look at it”—he edged closer—“the best way to keep an eye on you is to take you to dinner.”
She could feel his nearness, the heat from his body. Better just end this before it went any further. She stepped away and studied the top of her shoe. “Elin tells me you’re a widower. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Cancer. She went quickly.”
“And that you have four boys.”
He was silent so long she looked up.
He was grinning at her. “Sounds like Elin is a tad bit jealous.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“For the record, there’s no longer anything between us. And as for my boys, well, at least it’s out in the open. No surprises. Travis, Max, Cody, and little Sammy. Did—”
The door opened. Father Ivanov stepped out. “Oh, hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Father Antoniy Ivanov.” He held out his hand.
Joshua took it. “Patrol Officer Joshua Ward. I work with Detective Olsson. Just touching base here with Murphy.”
“Nice to meet you. I was just leaving.” He walked halfway down the stairs, then turned back. “You are welcome to worship with us at our church anytime.”
He smiled. “Thanks.”
“I should be going back to work,” Murphy said.
Joshua grabbed her hand. “Think about dinner. And you’ll call me if you have any problems or if you notice anyone hanging around.”
The touch of his hand made her legs rubbery. “Yeah, sure. Call.” She extracted her hand from his grip. How stupid can you sound?
Elin was just inside the door pulling on her jacket. “Was that Joshua?”
“Yes. He was just . . . asking how Bertie was doing.”
Elin’s eyebrows rose. “Uh-huh. Surrrre he was. You don’t look like the mommy type. Don’t forget those four boys.”
“Elin, really, I—”
Elin placed her hand on Murphy’s arm. “I like you, Murphy. I want to stay friends, so let me be clear about this. Joshua’s off-limits. Understand?” She squeezed Murphy’s arm, then left without looking back.
Murphy was exhausted after finally cleaning up. The twilight darkness that passed for night allowed her to look out each window and check around the lodge for unwanted visitors before closing the blinds. The building creaked and moaned around her as the logs settled. As she headed through the dining room to go to bed, she glanced toward the stained glass door of the office tucked into the corner. She paused.
The employee notebook explicitly stated the office was off-limits.
But everyone was asleep.
No one would know if she downloaded the photos from the Quonset hut. She could make a copy, then delete them from her phone. Should it be stolen, no one would know she’d even taken the pictures.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?” she whispered. Who’d take her phone? And so what if they did? The Alaska State Troopers or the Alaska Bureau of Investigation would soon be taking over the case. They’d return to the island and take their own photos.
The lodge shifted and sighed around her. Sibilant rain pattered on the metal porch roof.
Tomorrow she’d probably return to the island with Elin and Butch anyway.
She found herself staring at the wall of family photographs. Moving closer, she examined each one. Denali as a young man. His daughter and son-in-law on their boat. His beautiful but, according to Olga, drunken wife. Such sadness through the generations reached back to Denali’s father, Paul.
Why was there only one photograph of his father? She moved closer to the old print. Time had lightened the black-and-white image to shades of pale gray. The oddly framed man faced the camera, smiling, arms folded. The edge of a flat surface was just behind him.
She sucked in a quick breath. Could it be? Was that the table-shaped rock from Ruuwaq? And could the tiny, faint lines be the corrugated wall of a Quonset hut?
A floor squeaked somewhere in the house.
She froze. The sound didn’t reoccur.
Do it now. After a swift check around her, she pulled the framed photograph from the wall. She thought for a moment, then grabbed the photo of Denali’s daughter and son-in-law and scurried to the office. She opened the door.
Creeeak!
She winced, left the door open, and switched on the light. Inside the small room was a desk holding a computer, an all-in-one printer-copier, and a chair. With trembling fingers, she opened the top of the printer, placed the framed photograph of the man facedown, and pushed the copy button.
Click, click, buzzzzzz, clack.
The copy slowly printed. It was almost white, all the details washed out. She’d have to take the photos out of the frames. Her hands were now shaking so hard she could barely remove the back of the frame.
The pattering rain had grown to a drumming roar. The sound would hide any approaching footsteps.
She pulled out the image. It had been torn rather than cut, explaining the odd placement. A hint of an arm, originally hidden by the frame, was beside the man. She placed it facedown on the copier.
Click, click, buzzzzzz, clack.
After snatching the printout, she prepared the second photo to copy.
Click, click, buzzzzzz, clack.
While the second photo reproduced, she returned the first to the frame.
Thump, thump, thump. Footsteps overhead.
Grabbing the second photo, she jammed it into the frame. She took the copies, folded them, and stuffed them into her back pocket.
Thump, thump, thump. Someone had reached the top of the stairs.
Sweat broke out on her brow. She clicked off the light, stepped out, and shut the door.
Creeeak!
The sound was like fingernails on a blackboard. The footsteps paused.
She hung the photos on the wall, then raced to the kitchen. She just had time to open the refrigerator and grab a container of creamer when Ryan stepped in.
“Oh. It’s you.” He glanced around the room. “I thought I heard a door opening or closing.”
“Really?” She returned the creamer. “I didn’t hear anything. I was just finishing up.” She closed the refrigerator. “May I get you anything, Ryan?”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “When I can’t sleep I rummage around in the kitchen. Denali gave me his blessing as long as I don’t eat anythin
g scheduled for tomorrow.” He picked up the next day’s menu from the counter. “How about you, Murphy? Can I fix anything for you?”
“Thank you, no. I’m bushed.”
“By any chance did you find out anything since our little agreement?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted several bills.
“I’m following up on the rockslide that covered the Quonset hut.” Should she tell him about the torn photograph? No. Not until she had time to study it.
“Good start.” He grabbed her hand and stuffed the money into it.
“I haven’t given you anything—”
“Think of it as a down payment.” He smiled.
“I’m heading for bed.” She turned and left the kitchen. She glanced at the office. Through the glass she could see the printer’s power light.
She hesitated. Did he see that?
Ryan’s measured steps moved behind her toward the dining room.
She raced toward the stairs. Once in her room with the door locked, she opened her hand and counted the money. Five hundred dollars.
She paced. That was a hefty down payment for virtually no information. Even though she needed the cash, was there a chance that Ryan might think it was buying more than information?
She should just return his money and tell him no in the morning.
Smoothing out the bills carefully on her dresser, she sighed. He was right. He did pay well.
But if that was just a down payment, how valuable was the information she was supposed to discover?
CHAPTER 20
She was in front of the house. Beside her, a rusted truck, windows shattered, sat up on blocks on the overgrown lawn. The yard was strewn with garbage. The house was barely discernible in the overgrown trees surrounding it. A weak light shone through the foliage from a window.
Closer now, her legs moving as if through sludge, heart pounding, breath coming in harsh gasps. Her hand reached for the rotting door.
Her hand covered in blood.
She screamed, but only air came out. She tried again, forcing a guttural cry.
Murphy woke bathed in sweat. The dream lingered in her brain like a dim photograph. A prayer formed unbidden in her mind. Oh, Lord, oh, sweet Jesus, release me from this punishment.
“Enough.” She pushed from the bed. The clock said 3:30 a.m. There’d be no way she could go back to sleep now. She picked up her work jeans lying across the dresser and pulled out the two copies of the photographs. After turning on the desk lamp, she sat and studied them. The flat shape behind Denali’s father did look like the table-shaped rock, and the lines could be a Quonset hut. She wished she had the ability to scan the images and run them through a photo editor.
Ha! Who was she kidding? She’d be lucky if she wasn’t discovered for making copies.
She moved the light closer to the copy, staring at Paul, Denali’s father. I’m supposed to be a forensic artist. Just what can the artistic version of Sherlock Holmes do with an old photograph?
She pulled out her phone and Googled forensic art. She found a website by an artist in Montana.
Forensic art is any art pertaining to law enforcement or legal proceedings. Types of forensic art are composite drawings, facial reconstruction, unknown remains, image modification or enhancement, courtroom drawings, demonstrative evidence, photographic superimposition . . .
Photographic superimposition. She clicked on that link.
Photographic superimposition is a technique where the photograph of a missing or wanted person is overlaid over the skull of an unknown person. The skull is rotated to create a positional relationship to the facial features until an orientation is achieved. Developed in the 1930s, the original technique used transparent film . . .
She scanned farther down the page.
Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death of the Auschwitz concentration camp, escaped after World War II to South America. Although relentlessly pursued, he was never caught but eventually drowned while swimming in the ocean. He was buried under an assumed name. His body was exhumed, and he was tentatively identified through photographic superimposition. Investigators placed an image of the skull they dug up over Mengele’s photograph. The teeth are the only exposed bones in the body, which proved, in the Mengele case, to be a near optimal fit.
Maybe she could try the same technique. In the photo, Denali’s dad was smiling.
She found the photograph she’d taken of the skull in the Quonset hut. The light from the cell phone screen might be enough to work as a light table. Placing the photograph over her cell, she manipulated the size of the phone image until they lined up.
The eyes of Paul stared out through the eye sockets of the skull; the nose appeared in the nasal aperture. Paul’s lips stretched across the skull’s teeth.
She shivered. This was creepy in the extreme. Assuming she had done this right, there seemed to be a match.
The next thought made her lurch to her feet. If the body on Ruuwaq is Paul Stewart, who is buried in the grave here on Kodiak . . . if anyone?
She paced across the small room before sitting at the desk. Clicking on her cell’s internet icon, she typed in Paul Stewart, Kodiak, and 1946, the year of his death according to the monument.
A short article came up. “The body of Paul James Stewart, formerly of Kodiak, was found today on Afognak Island. He was reported missing two months ago and presumed drowned. He will be buried in the family cemetery. No services are planned.”
She leaned back in her chair and did a little more research. Afognak Island lay slightly over three miles north of Kodiak Island. The tsunami from the 1964 Good Friday earthquake, the most powerful earthquake in North American history, caused the residents of the island to be permanently relocated to Kodiak. In 1946, however, Paul could have been working there.
But if Paul Stewart’s body was found on Afognak, why did the skull in the Quonset hut match the photo of Paul Stewart?
Nothing made any sense.
She went to the door and peeked down the hall. The lodge was silent. Olga would be arriving soon to start breakfast. Murphy tiptoed over to the mounted print and retrieved her notebook. Opening the page to where she’d written Paul Stewart, Reinhard Heydrich, Operation Anthropoid, Distinguished Service Medal, doctor/scientist, she added possible skull match between photo of Paul and Quonset hut body. Paul’s body found on Afognak.
Maybe Olga would have more information. Or even Denali.
Had she and Bertie found the body of the real Paul Stewart, entombed in that Quonset hut since 1946?
She reread the article. The date was June 9. Missing for two months meant that he’d disappeared in April. Were there any large earthquakes in April of 1946?
The internet provided a likely candidate. An earthquake occurred April 1, 1946, launching a massive tsunami that reached Hawaii, wiped out a lighthouse in Unimak Island in the Aleutians, killed over 165 people, and caused millions of dollars in damage. Such a quake would certainly be enough to bring the rocks down on the Quonset hut, and a tsunami would explain why the man died.
She jotted the date of the earthquake with a question mark.
That left the body found on Afognak. It would have been badly decomposed.
She grimaced at the thought.
What would have been available to investigators at the time for identification? Dental records and possibly X-rays. The discovery of DNA wouldn’t be for another eight years or so. Maybe they thought it was Paul Stewart because Stewart had gone missing around that time and place.
If it was Paul Stewart in that Quonset hut, the troopers or crime lab or some other official law-enforcement entity would be able to recover the skeleton and determine a definitive answer.
Certainly a lowly barmaid, as Richard had put it, shouldn’t be the one to question who was buried in the grave on the family property.
She folded the copied images into the notebook, made sure the hallway was clear, and placed it into its hiding place behind the canvas.
&
nbsp; She’d update Ryan on her work. Maybe he’d slip her another five hundred dollars. The faster she had funds, the faster she could get a gun and make a run for it. After brushing her teeth, she ran a brush through her hair and clipped it up, then headed downstairs to prepare for breakfast. She couldn’t help glancing at the whiteboard.
Olga was already busy mixing some kind of coffee cake. “I had a note that Father Ivanov is joining us, and Elin is coming to pick you up. Knowing her, she’ll probably arrive in time for breakfast.” Olga beamed. “Figure we’ll have five. Put everyone at the big table.”
Murphy went out into the dining room. Through the office’s glass door, she could see the copier’s light was off. Had the machine gone into hibernation, or had someone noticed it and turned it off? She tried not to stare at the wall with all the photographs.
How much more information could she get from Olga? And would any of it be useful?
Olga was humming to herself as Murphy returned to the kitchen.
She casually removed her glasses and cleaned them with a paper towel. “Olga?”
The other woman looked up from her cooking.
“You mentioned someone who was like a father figure to Denali, a man who Denali had a falling-out with a number of years ago. What was his name?”
“Oh my, it’s been a long time. I’m not sure I remember.” She pursed her lips. “Lonnie? Larry? Leif? I think that’s it. Leif something. Last name started with a B.” She tapped a wooden spoon on the edge of the pot. “A distinguished-looking man. I had a bit of a crush on him at the time, even though he was quite a bit older. He didn’t seem to even notice me.” She shook her head as if waking. “He was obsessed with security, I remember that. Put in the security system, which was a problem when they had the falling-out. Denali finally had someone dismantle it. How strange that I remembered that now.” She picked up the spoon again and continued cooking.
Leif B. Not a promising lead, but something.
“I almost forgot.” Olga pulled out some serving plates. “A letter or something was left for you. It’s in the living room on the small table by the door.”
A letter? A wave of dizziness came over her and she clutched the counter. She left the kitchen on unsteady legs and made her way to the living room. The white, legal-size envelope was propped against a candy dish. It didn’t have a postmark. With shaking hands, she opened it.
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