“Go invite Uncle to dinner.”
Andy—or was it Adam?—threw up his hands. “Ah, Grandma, you know he’s gonna talk our ears off—”
“Scoot!” Vesper pointed the spatula at the door.
They headed for the front door.
“Uncle has trouble with short-term memory. He’s hard-pressed to recall if he brushed his teeth, although he never forgets to eat.” Vesper went back to cooking. “But his long-term memory is amazing, especially about the war.”
“Excellent. Do you need help with dinner?” Murphy asked.
“No. I need you to take a shower and get into some clean clothes. You’re a skinny little thing. If you don’t mind boys’ clothes, I’ll find something for you to wear.”
Murphy followed the woman across the living room and down a hallway to a bathroom decorated in shades of pink with a selection of Avon and Mary Kay products.
Vesper grinned wickedly. “Keeps the boys from using it instead of their own. If they’re even tempted, I dry my underwear on the shower pole. A few old-lady bras dangling in front of them works far better than any sign I might post. Towels in that cabinet. Help yourself.”
The shower felt wonderful, although the soap stung her sliced arms. She washed her hair in cucumber-scented shampoo, scrubbed her face with melon-infused soap, and liberally cleansed herself with pomegranate shower gel. She felt like a salad.
Her own clothes were gone when she stepped out, replaced with a pair of boys’ slate-green cargo pants, black T-shirt, and dark-red zip-up sweatshirt. She left her hair down to dry.
Vesper stopped stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce when she entered. “That’s better. You look like you’re twelve, but a clean twelve. You can set the table. There’ll be five of us.” She pointed to the kitchen table, then to a cupboard full of mismatched dishes.
Set the table. If she survived all this, she’d be well qualified for a job as a waitress.
Table set, she stepped into the living room.
An old man wearing Coke-bottle glasses, a light-blue dress shirt, navy vest, and khaki pants sat in a teal-green recliner speaking to the boys in Alutiiq. His sparse gray hair was combed back. He stopped speaking when she entered.
“Uncle,” one of the boys said, “this is . . . um . . .”
“Murphy,” she said. “How do you do?”
“Cama’i. Hello.” His singsong voice was guttural.
“You speak Alutiiq.” Murphy took a seat on the sofa.
“Not many of us left dat do.” He gestured at the boys with his hand. “We have ta hold on ta what is left, to pass it on to da young people. I remember—”
“Uncle.” Vesper poked her head into the room. “Tell Murphy about the war.” She winked at her. “Tell Murphy about your father. Tell her about Castner’s Cutthroats.”
CHAPTER 24
The old man leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “You are a young girl. Maybe dey no longer teach dis in school. Do you remember da date of da Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor?”
“Of course. December 7, 1941.”
“Dat’s very good, um . . .”
“Murphy.”
“Just six months later to da very day, June 7, 1942, da Japanese invade Alaska. But just three days later, the United States Navy said it no happen. The government buried da truth of da Aleutian occupation and da battles for Kiska and Attu for long time.” His gaze drifted from the ceiling and rested on her face. “Are you sure, little girl, you want ta look at dat dark time?”
“I think I have to.”
He resumed his study of the ceiling. Vesper softly hummed in the kitchen while the fragrance of garlic toast drifted in the air. The boys were once again absorbed by their cell phones.
“Dis generation”—he nodded at the boys—“no seem ta want ta know. Dey do not care about their culture, their heritage, da sacrifices of their ancestors. You seem to care . . . but I am ramblin’ now. You see, where was I?”
“Kiska and Attu.”
“Yes. Attu is da westernmost island of da Aleutian chain. Kiska is in da same area. Da Japanese planned ta bomb Dutch Harbor, farther up da Aleutian chain, where da army and naval base was located. Dey would then occupy Kiska and Attu. Dey figure America would rush to defend da territory, leaving Midway Atoll open ta invasion. Midway was a very important place, halfway tween Asia and North America. But America knew da plan. Dey had already broken da code, you see. The Japanese secret code. They no go to Alaska. They rushed ta Midway instead. Dat battle was considered da turning point in da war in da Pacific.”
“Dinner is ready,” Vesper called from the kitchen.
Adam and Andy shot to their feet and raced out of the room. Murphy stood, moved to Uncle’s chair, and held out her hand.
He grunted and took it. “Dat is a good girl.” He was probably no more than five feet tall. He slowly limped to the kitchen and took a seat at the head of the table.
A huge steaming pot of spaghetti, an overflowing bowl of tossed salad, and a loaf of garlic bread rested on the surface. It looked to be enough food to feed a small village.
Her mouth watered. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
Vesper reached for her hand, as did one of the boys sitting next to her. They bowed their heads.
She quickly did the same.
“Lord,” Vesper said, “bless this home, this meal, these people. Guard and keep Murphy safe and lead her to the answers she needs. In Jesus’s name, amen.” They all let go of hands and reached for the meal.
No one spoke while an amazing amount of food was consumed, mostly by the grandsons.
“Uncle.” Vesper broke the silence. “I have been listening to you. I need you to tell Murphy about your father.”
He nodded. “What you want ta know?”
Vesper sighed and turned to Murphy. “Have you ever heard of the Alaskan Combat Intelligence Platoon, also known as Alaskan Scouts and Castner’s Cutthroats?”
“You mentioned Castner’s Cutthroats. But no.”
“They were a special commando unit made up of Eskimos, Aleuts, American Indians, trappers, fishermen, even prospectors. They were handpicked for their ability to survive the Alaskan wilderness. And they were trained to kill. Hand-to-hand combat.”
“Da, and my dad was one of dem.” Uncle beamed. “He sneak into Japanese camp, spy on dem. Dey go by submarine, come up from da water, and go to land on rubber boats.”
Murphy tried to hide her impatience. This background wasn’t helping. “And this relates how to Ruuwaq—”
“Ruuwaq? Ruuwaq!” Uncle pushed back from the table, his brow furrowed.
Vesper reached for him. “Tell her about Ruuwaq, Uncle. Tell her about the rats.”
A low gasp left Murphy’s lips.
Uncle stood. “Thank you for da meal, Vesper.”
“But, Uncle—”
“I want ta think about it.” He gave a slight bow and limped out of sight to the front of the house. Vesper followed him, and Murphy heard them speak quietly for a few moments. The front door opened and closed.
Vesper returned. “I’m afraid that’s all he’s willing to share tonight. I’ve only heard the rat story once, when I was very little, from his dad. I was hoping he’d repeat it because it involves Ruuwaq Island.”
“Will he come again?”
Vesper barked a laugh. “He’ll come as long as there’s food involved. Come, child, let’s get you to bed. We’ll tackle this beast in the morning.”
She wanted to argue, to point out she was wide-awake, but the hot shower and a big meal, combined with the horrors of the day, had finally caught up with her. “Sounds good.”
“Boys, clean up the kitchen.” Vesper led her down the same hall, this time opening a door opposite the pink bathroom. “It’s my office. I’m afraid all I have is a futon . . .”
Murphy waved away the comment. “I’m grateful for any kind of bed.”
Vesper nodded and quietly closed the door.
“And a friend
,” she whispered.
The house loomed ahead of her, the rusty truck on her right. She picked her way forward through the garbage-strewn, overgrown yard. She held something in her hand. A pistol.
The pale-yellow light from the window bobbed and twisted with the moving foliage. Her movements were clumsy, sluggish.
Cries came from the house. Strident, grating, abrasive cries. The cries grew louder.
Murphy opened her eyes. Her pulse hammered in her ears. The screams of the seagulls continued. It took a moment to figure out where she was. At Vesper’s house. Hiding.
Her watch said it was 5:00 a.m.
Sleep was out of the question. Silently she dressed and crept down the hall to the kitchen. Gentle snores came from behind one door. Wallpaper-ripping stereo snores from behind another.
Vesper had left a note taped to the coffeepot. Coffee set up. Push the bottom left button.
She wondered if Vesper would consider adopting her.
A quick search of the kitchen turned up a spiral notebook and a pencil. She hoped her hostess wouldn’t mind her using them. Vesper’s words floated in her head. You know too much.
What did she know that would make her a liability?
And who was aware of her soul-searcher ability and could be using her?
The second question was the easy one to answer. Ryan Wallace. The so-called journalist. The one who talked to her about Reinhard Heydrich and Operation Fair Cyan. She wrote Ryan’s name at the top of a page, then Heydrich and Fair Cyan. He’d also mentioned a date, July thirty-first. From seven thirty-one to today. She circled the date. They were only in June, so this had to refer to something from a previous year. She could follow up on that.
The coffee finished perking. She poured a cup, added cream and sugar, and resumed her list.
Her sister’s voice in the back of her mind piped up, Don’t forget Bertie. Bertie had recognized her ability—her gift, as Vesper had called it.
“No,” Murphy whispered. “Bertie is in the clear. She isn’t using me.”
But she was using you. Admit it. Bertie wanted you to report on Zinkerton. She wanted information on the case even after Zinkerton was dead.
Bertie couldn’t be involved. She was in a hospital bed in Anchorage.
Right next to a phone. She could communicate with anyone she needed to.
Murphy wrote down Bertie’s name and added call her today.
What about Butch? She jotted down the pilot’s name. What had he said about Ruuwaq? She concentrated until she could hear his voice again. I don’t often hear the name of Ruuwaq. There’s a small book of legends. A skinny little thing. She underlined Library. What was the author’s name? Wallace? No, that was Ryan. “Jonathan Wilson,” she said aloud as she wrote it down.
Denali was possibly aware of her ability to get people to talk. He’d commented on it. But with his disability, he could easily be ruled out of planting bombs, shooting Vasily and Irina, stabbing Zinkerton, blowing up the Quonset hut, blowing up Elin and the priest . . .
Wait. He had said something strange when they were looking at the photos on the wall. I blame myself that they’re gone. Why would he blame himself for a fishing accident that killed his daughter and son-in-law? Survivor’s remorse, or something more sinister?
She wrote his name.
The torn photo that she’d copied implied a link between Denali and Ruuwaq. And what about the name Olga had mentioned? Leif B. Murphy circled that name.
The sweet scent of strawberries and vanilla preceded Vesper. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Much. By any chance do you have a charger that would fit my phone?”
“Let’s see.” Vesper checked the connection, rummaged around in a junk drawer, and pulled out a match.
“Now I’m in business.” Murphy plugged in her phone. She had seven missed calls, all from Joshua. Checking to see if she was safe, or to arrest her?
“You could use my cell.” Vesper poured a cup of coffee, then wiggled the pot at her.
Murphy held up her cup for a refill. “It’s not safe to use your phone. Your name would come up.”
“True.” Vesper sat at the table, cupping her mug. “I have to start thinking like . . . like the killers.”
“Speaking of which, I’ll need to find someplace else to stay. I’m endangering you and your family.”
“Let’s jump off that bridge when we get to it.” Vesper tilted the spiral notebook until she could read what Murphy had written. “Looks like a trip to the library, a phone call, and an internet search are in order. Don’t know what to do with that name.”
“Really, Vesper, please don’t get involved. I was wrong to come here and drag your family into it. I—”
“Murphy, I don’t know if you set something in motion or if you just fell into this mess, but whatever you’re involved in, I have a very bad feeling that the truth of it is bigger than anyone realizes.”
Murphy cleared her throat. “Why do you think that?”
Andy and Adam sauntered in and immediately raided the refrigerator. They each grabbed a Mountain Dew, popped the tab, took a gulp, and trudged into the living room. She didn’t need to look to know they were busy on their phones.
Vesper waited until they were out of earshot. She tapped Murphy’s list. “Reinhard Heydrich, Operation Fair Cyan, Quonset hut on Ruuwaq? This looks like World War II. The operative words there are world war.”
CHAPTER 25
Boys, I need your help,” Vesper called into the living room. The two young men with matching frowns ambled into the kitchen. “Murphy here needs you to do an internet search.”
The frowns became smiles. “All right!” Andy—or was it Adam?—said.
“Murphy, what do you want them to look up?”
Both took seats at the kitchen table, fingers poised over their cell phones.
“Some important event that occurred on July thirty-first,” she said. “Year doesn’t matter.”
Two heads bent over their phones. The younger one spoke first. “In the year 432—”
“Well . . .” She smiled. “Let’s start more recent. Say the start of World War II. Around 1941.”
The answers came quickly. She wrote them down.
“German U-boats sink or damage twenty-one Allied ships that month.”
“Germans kill a thousand Jews in Minsk, Belorussia.”
“The last train out of Mechelen heads out to Auschwitz.”
“Brigadoon closes at Ziegfeld Theater.”
She set down her pen. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what I’m looking for.”
“How about this?” the older one said. “In 1948, President Truman dedicated Idlewild Airport in New York.”
“Nope,” she said.
“An anti-Chinese uprising in Tibet?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Ah, this has got to be the answer.” The younger one grinned. “The first exhibit of bongos at the Cleveland Metropark Zoo.” He began pounding the table as if it were a drum.
“Bongos are also a deerlike animal,” Vesper said dryly. “Keep looking.”
“In 1964, the Rolling Stones concert in Ireland stopped after only twelve minutes because of a riot.”
Murphy just stared at him.
“The Guns N’ Roses song ‘Appetite for Destruction’ was released?”
“Thank you both,” she said. “I think I’ve exhausted that lead.”
The young men stood, helped themselves to the refrigerator again, and strolled to the living room. Vesper sighed. “They make up in enthusiasm what they lack in common sense.” She checked her watch. “The library won’t open until ten. You keep working while I make breakfast. I’ll have the boys drive you over and get that book you need.”
“I can drive over—”
“Nope.” Vesper grabbed an oversized carton of eggs from the refrigerator. “I heard your name on the news this morning. The police are looking for you. You didn’t tell me a detective and Father Ivanov died
in the car explosion.”
“I didn’t? I guess I thought you knew.”
“I do now.” Vesper broke some eggs into a bowl. “They didn’t show your picture, so there’s some good news, but . . . well, you might need to turn yourself in. You didn’t do anything wrong, so I’m guessing they just want to talk to you about what you saw.”
Murphy thought of Hunter. He’d be watching the police station, hoping she’d do just that. “Let me call my friend Bertie. She’s in law enforcement. She can maybe put in a good word for me.” And tell her what to do about Hunter. One thing for sure, Murphy needed to move on from Vesper’s place. If the police decided she was a suspect, Vesper could be charged with harboring a fugitive.
Her phone had enough charge for a short call. She unplugged it and stepped out the kitchen door. The backyard of the house faced the woods with no other houses in view. The day was cool with weak sunshine and a slight breeze.
She dialed Bertie’s direct line. “Hey, Bertie.”
“Thank heavens you’re all right! The car bomb must have exploded when you were on the phone with me. It was all over the news. Is it true both Father Ivanov and Elin were in the car?”
Murphy clutched the phone tighter. “They were beyond help. There were three separate explosions.”
“Are you safe? I don’t think you should be at Salmon Run Lodge anymore.”
“I’m not. I’m with . . . a friend.”
“Hello?”
“I’m right here, Bertie.”
“No, not you, Murphy. Someone is in my room. Behind this silly curtain. Hello?”
A chill went down Murphy’s spine. “Bertie, ring for the nurse.”
“Hello? Hello?”
“Ring for the nurse, Bertie!”
“You!”
Clang.
The phone must have fallen. Murphy heard distant heavy breathing. A dull thumping sound. Silence.
“Bertie?” Her voice trembled. She disconnected, then scrolled through her call list until she came to the number of the hospital. It took a full minute to reach the switchboard operator.
“I . . . um . . .” She gulped air and started again. “I was on the phone with Bertie Fisher. Something happened, um, something went wrong.”
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