The wall on the side of the building was missing. Beyond that was a raging fireball of a car. And two bodies inside.
Adrenaline flooded her system. Vomit burned the back of her throat. Father Ivanov. Elin.
The woman—Murphy recognized her now as one of the kitchen workers—tugged her away from the inferno.
She shook off the woman’s hand and crept toward the destroyed car. Heat lapped at her face. The fire extended outside the car in an oval with a strong odor of gasoline. It was plainly evident the occupants were beyond saving.
Smoke billowed through the shattered glass. A smoke alarm started shrieking, then another.
A second woman, also wearing an apron and a hairnet, grabbed Murphy’s hand and led her to the kitchen. Vaguely she could hear a siren in the distance.
The women’s faces were the color of parchment. Tears streaked their faces.
The vomit returned to Murphy’s throat. She swallowed hard. Two more dead. The bomb had been placed in Ivanov’s car. He had to be the target. Poor, poor Elin.
Crackling and popping from the fire, plus the approaching sirens, confirmed her hearing was returning. The police would arrive soon.
The police. How would she explain how everyone around her kept dying? Vasily, Irina, her landlady, Zinkerton, and now Elin and Ivanov? She couldn’t. They’d probably take her into custody. And Clinton Hunter would find her neatly cornered and ready for the taking. He’d escaped twice. If he could break out of jail, why couldn’t he break into jail to get to her?
She needed to hide, lay low, and figure out her next move.
And do it quickly. Maybe Joshua could help.
A second explosion rocked the building. The two women screamed and fled through a rear door. Police and fire engine sirens wailed in unison with the smoke detectors.
She glanced around the kitchen, then raced to a coat tree where several sweaters, sweatshirts, and aprons hung. Grabbing an apron, she tied it on, then yanked on a torn gray sweater to hide the cuts on her arms. Several hairnets were in a box. She snatched one and stuffed her hair inside.
The sprinkler system kicked in. Black smoke burned her eyes. She pushed through the kitchen door just as a third explosion slammed into the building.
She kept her head down and raced toward the Walmart.
Two fire trucks and several police cars rocketed into the parking lot. An ambulance followed. Several EMTs jumped from the ambulance and raced to the fire.
Small groups of shoppers gathered, watching the excitement. She joined them. “What’s going on?” she asked a man in a yellow slicker.
“Don’t know. Looks like a fire, something blew up. Probably one of them terrorist things.”
Firefighters surrounded Christ’s Table, now partially engulfed in flames. She worked her way to the side of the strip mall away from the fire and where the thrift store was located.
Elin’s SUV was still parked there.
An officer corralled the small crowd gathering at that end of the lot, moving them away from the action or getting them to move their vehicles away from the building.
The crowd grew around her, many with grocery carts loaded with food. The women guarded their purses but tended to ignore jackets or scarves draped over the carts. She snagged a pale-blue scarf, then a dark-green jacket.
The purses gave her an idea.
It was crazy-bold and stupid. And it just might work. She casually wandered through the throng of people, occasionally pausing to ask a question or listen to someone. Removing the apron, she dropped it next to a car and kicked it under the wheel. The sweater was next, ending up in an empty cart. She twisted the scarf around her neck. Pulling the hairnet off, she ran her hands through her thick hair to make sure it would partially cover her face, then raced to the SUV, waving her arms. “Oh no! Someone help me!”
A firefighter grabbed her arm. “No closer, young lady.”
“That’s my SUV! It’s going to burn up! I have to move it!”
“Okay then, pull out and park over there.” He jerked his thumb at the corner of the lot.
“I can’t. I locked my purse in the back with the keys. I was waiting for the locksmith. Please help me.” Her heart pounded so loud she was afraid the firefighter would hear it.
The firefighter waved over a patrol officer. She was relieved it wasn’t Joshua. “Lady here says her purse is locked in her SUV. We need to move her rig.”
The officer, a young woman with black hair and a round face, immediately walked away, returning with a slim jim. She took only a moment to spring the door.
When Murphy moved toward the back of the SUV, the officer held up her hand. “Wait.” She popped the gate, then looked at her. “Describe your purse.”
“Brown, light-brown leather, shoulder strap, gold clasp—”
“Okay, okay, let’s get it moved. Did you see anything suspicious when you parked?”
Still keeping her face somewhat averted, Murphy snagged Elin’s purse. “No. Like I said, I locked my purse in the back accidentally—”
“Yeah, yeah. Let me see your driver’s license. Potential witness—”
The mic on the officer’s shoulder squawked. The officer listened for a moment, then looked around. “I see ya. Ten-four.” She glanced at Murphy. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Murphy didn’t wait. She fished the single key out of the bottom of Elin’s purse, jumped in the SUV, and drove away, not looking back. She was halfway to the lodge before she found a small pullout and stopped. Resting her head on the steering wheel, she let the tears come. Oh, Lord, what will happen now? Elin is dead. Father Ivanov is dead. Bertie is hurt. I’ve stolen an SUV and am fleeing both the police and a killer.
A killer who knew where she lived and worked.
She couldn’t return to the lodge as if nothing had happened.
Lord, please send a plan.
A fog was sliding around the trees, growing noticeably thicker. Fog. Hide. Invisible.
With her facial scar, she could hardly be invisible.
Maybe she could live in the woods . . . yeah, right. Just her and a few Kodiak brown bears, the largest bears on earth. Experts said they were not particularly aggressive, but they were the same species as a grizzly. Grizzlies were not opposed to eating humanburgers.
Soon enough that patrol officer would start looking for her. The longer she sat here, the more likely a casual observer might notice.
Where might she go?
She opened Elin’s purse, looking for ideas. Inside was Elin’s Glock. Great. If they put out an APB on her, they could add armed and dangerous. Elin’s wallet had forty-seven dollars. Armed, dangerous, and pathetically short on funds. The cash Ryan gave her was stashed in a sock in her room at the lodge.
Vesper Amason. The woman at the hospital with the screaming child. The woman had said she owed her a favor.
It was worth a try. No one knew they’d met. There’d be nothing to link them.
Murphy’s cell phone was nearly dead. This call had to go through. She slid down in her seat until she could barely see over the dashboard and dialed. The older woman answered on the second ring.
“Hi.” Murphy cleared her throat. “You probably don’t remember me, but we met the other day at the hospital—”
“Murphy. Murphy Andersen. How could I forget? How good to hear from you.”
“And it’s nice to speak to you again under less . . . trying circumstances. How’s your daughter doing?”
“She’s recovering just fine. The doctor said she was lucky, but I’d say blessed. Lord knows getting her car totaled like that, and with her insurance . . . goodness me. I’m just rambling on and on. From the sound of your voice, I don’t think that’s why you called. How can I help you, Ms. Andersen?”
“Call me Murphy. I need a place to stay, at least for a few days until . . . well, for a few days. Do you know of any rooms available to rent for a day or two?” Hopefully Elin had a credit card in her wallet.
Vesper wa
s silent for a few moments. “I see. Where are you now?”
“I’m in . . . my car. And I’m parked . . . um—”
“Never mind.” Another pause. “I have an extra bedroom. You are welcome to stay here.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Somehow I think I do.” Vesper gave directions to her home, located in Bells Flats, a settlement about ten miles from downtown Kodiak at the end of Womens Bay. The fog had grown thicker as she’d been on the phone, making the passing cars crawl by. She returned to the road and joined the vehicles moving at a snail’s pace.
She almost missed the turnoff to Rezanof Drive West and had to swerve at the last minute, making the truck behind her hit his horn. The fog had reached cotton-batting density, and she was reduced to stopping at each mailbox to read the numbers.
The house itself was all but invisible when she finally pulled into the driveway. She had a vague impression of a single-story rancher with a detached garage.
Vesper came outside as soon as she pulled up. She was accompanied by two young men in their late teens, though one appeared to be slightly older. Both had black hair, round faces, almond-shaped black eyes, and unsuccessful attempts at a mustache.
Vesper tucked Murphy’s arm in hers and ushered her to the door. Once inside, Vesper released her arm so she could kick off her shoes and add them to the impressive pile by the door.
“May I have the keys to your rig?” Vesper asked.
She bit her lip. “Um, why?”
Vesper just held out her hand.
Slowly she placed the key in Vesper’s palm. Vesper, in turn, handed it to one of the young men, who promptly left.
Oh, Lord, did I just make a big mistake? Murphy wiped her damp hands on her jeans.
Vesper pointed to the battered kitchen table. “Coffee?”
Caffeine was the last thing Murphy needed in her overstimulated state, but she didn’t want to be rude. After all, she could be spending the night huddled in the Walmart parking lot hoping that neither Hunter nor the police would find her. “I’d love a cup.”
The spotless kitchen smelled of Pine-Sol and fresh coffee. Vesper placed a thick white mug of the steaming brew in front of her, followed by a mismatched creamer and sugar bowl. Murphy clutched the mug. “Where are you taking the SUV?”
The woman’s broad, flat face creased in a smile, and she patted Murphy’s arm. “Your rig will be safe. We’re just making sure no one is unduly interested.”
The young man soon returned, nodded at the old woman, and joined the other youth in the living room. Although the television was on, neither looked at it. Instead, they bent over their cell phones with rapt attention, thumbs flying.
Murphy sipped the thick coffee, then quickly added cream and sugar.
“You were there when the car exploded,” Vesper said. It wasn’t a question. Vesper folded her hands on the table, waiting.
“How did you know about the car bomb?”
“It’s all over the news. They believe two people died. And you were there.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You reek of smoke and gasoline. You have a streak of soot on your chin. There’s a small cut on your neck, and I would venture to say you have more. And your eyes keep darting around the room as if someone might jump out at you at any moment.”
Murphy opened and closed her mouth, then mutely nodded.
“Take off your jacket.”
She did as she was told. Vesper seemed to be a woman who always got her way.
The blood on her arms had smeared and coagulated. Without speaking, Vesper stood and moved to the sink, where she wet some paper towels. She pulled a pair of tweezers from a drawer, a bottle of alcohol from a cupboard, a box of Band-Aids from her purse, and a tube of antibiotic from the bathroom. She placed everything on the table.
After sitting, Vesper grabbed her arm and started cleaning the wounds.
The alcohol stung like crazy and several of the glass shards were deeply embedded, but Murphy clenched her teeth and remained silent.
It seemed like eons passed as Vesper cleaned and bandaged her arms, but it was probably only an hour. When the older woman finished, she cleaned up the table and poured another cup of coffee. She sat once more, removed her glasses, and casually began to clean them. “Now, Murphy, who is trying to kill you?”
CHAPTER 23
Murphy hesitated only a moment before telling Vesper everything—about her mission to find out what happened to her sister, Clinton Hunter, the earring, the deaths of Vasily and his caretaker, the fire and murder of her landlady, Salmon Run Lodge, the messages, Ruuwaq Island, the skeleton, Operation Fair Cyan—everything tumbled out of her mouth. She was exhausted when she finished, and convinced Vesper would think she was crazy.
The woman listened to her without interruption, her gaze never leaving Murphy’s face.
When Murphy finally stopped talking, Vesper took an oversize tattered Bible off the kitchen counter.
“I’m not a religious person, Vesper.”
“Nor am I, child, nor am I. I am a believer, however.” She put her glasses on. “I bet you pray when things get bad, though.” She opened the Bible and found a passage. “In His grace, God has given us different gifts for doing certain things well. That’s from Romans 12:6. The Bible names about twenty spiritual gifts, but that’s not an exhaustive list. Some are talents we naturally have—”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Child, I’m trying to tell you something important. You have a special talent, a rare gift. People open up to you. They tell you their thoughts, dreams, hopes, and, most significantly, their secrets.” Her gaze drifted to the window, curtains open to the gauzy fog beyond. She stood and pulled the curtains closed, then remained standing with her back to Murphy. “My own grandmother had such a gift, as did other members of my family. She called it soul searcher.”
“But I don’t search anyone’s soul. I don’t know that I believe in a soul.”
Vesper turned around and smiled. “Whether you believe in your soul or not, you still have one, and you and I will need to talk about it one day soon.”
“But—”
Vesper held up a finger. “That’s not open to debate. If you’re going to offer up foxhole prayers, you need to know who’s listening. Where was I? Oh yes. The term soul searcher doesn’t refer to your ability to search inside another person. Only God can do that. You cause them to examine their own lives, to reveal the deepest, hidden reaches of their hearts. And they tell you. Different cultures call it by different names, but it’s acknowledged around the world. It was a powerful gift in my grandmother’s day. It’s a massive power today.”
Murphy took a sip of cold coffee to wet her dry mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Look there.” Vesper nodded toward the living room where the two young men were still bent over their devices. “Those are my grandsons. I love them to death, but we seldom have a conversation lasting more than a sentence or two a day. They’re always on their phones, checking for messages, texting someone. The cell phone is an extension of their hands. And it’s not just my grandsons. Go to an airport, bus station, or doctor’s office where people are waiting. How many are talking to each other? They’re not. They’re looking at some digital contraption. And the worst? Go to a restaurant. You’ll see entire tables where no one is even looking at the others, let alone talking. It’s as if that digital shorthand they’re getting from someplace else is more immediate, important, and fascinating than the person in front of them. Conversation is dead. Human interaction is all but extinct.”
Murphy nodded.
Vesper sat at the table and leaned forward. “But you . . . you look at people. Really look at them. And in your eyes, they see someone who is listening.”
“I try.”
“You do more than that. Your ability to hear what people—what strangers—are saying, and to let them know you care, is rare enough to be considered a gift. It’s almost ir
resistible to know someone who listens.”
She looked down. “I don’t consider it a gift.”
“But you know how to use it. Give me your glasses.”
She handed them to Vesper.
The woman peered through them. “Just as I thought. Plain glass.” She handed them back.
“They make things . . . easier.” She put the glasses on. “Your grandmother must have had terrific insight into herself.”
“No, that’s the strangest part of the gift. She could get anyone to talk, but she couldn’t use it on herself. She had no clue what made herself tick.” She rubbed her arms as if chilled. “And now I suspect others have recognized your gift and are using you. Some might even think you’re a liability and need to be silenced. You know too much.”
“But I don’t know anything! A bunch of people died on an island ten years ago. A dead Nazi had a connection to Denali Stewart’s dad over seven decades ago. It’s public information!”
“You have come here for a reason. You need to put the events into perspective, to get to the bottom of what’s been going on for over seventy years.”
“But—”
“No excuses. You’ll not be safe until you unravel the threads. The boys will help you.” Vesper glanced into the living room. “Lord only knows they need to do something besides stare at those little screens,” she muttered.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m just an old woman.” Vesper stood and started pulling food out of the refrigerator. “And I only went through the eighth grade at school, but I’d say you have to start at the beginning.” She piled the food next to the stove and picked up a spatula.
Murphy put her head in her hand. “The beginning. That would probably be the Quonset hut on Ruuwaq Island. Somewhere around 1941. It would really help to have my notes, and access to a computer.”
Vesper drummed her fingers on the counter. “I think I may have something better.” She raised her voice. “Boys? Andy? Adam?”
The two young men reluctantly put down their phones and entered the kitchen. “Yes, Grandma,” they said in unison.
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