She rose until she could just see out the window. A river filled with fishermen ran parallel to the road. Beyond that, a spit of land faced Pasagshak Bay. Houses with million-dollar views of the ocean perched on the slice of land. Craggy snowcapped mountains rose in the distance. The mountains lining the road were dense with trees.
Uncle signaled a turn. They bumped across a bridge, then turned right. He pulled in front of a small white house with a brown metal roof. A car was already parked in front. Vesper flew outside. “I was terrified when you weren’t here! What kept you? Get inside, get inside.” She hustled Murphy up a wooden walk and into the house.
“I’m so sorry, Vesper. I needed to check one or two things out.”
“We went to Subway. And McDonald’s.” Uncle gave her a toothless grin. “And KFC! It was okay.”
Vesper slumped onto a white sofa covered with nautical-themed, light-turquoise throw pillows. “Thank the Lord. I’d convinced myself that they found you.”
“We were careful,” Murphy said.
Vesper rubbed her broad face. “Uncle, would you park her rig in the garage? I’ve already put the groceries away.” He left.
“Thank you,” Murphy said. “It seems I owe you—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t fret. Did Uncle tell you about the rats?”
“Not quite. He talked about the submarine and supplies.”
“He needs to tell you the whole story. While he’s taking care of the car, let me give you the tour.” The owners had decorated the house in a beach theme. Thick sea-grass area rugs covered gray tile that resembled aged driftwood. The walls were mint green with a white-painted cathedral ceiling. The eat-in kitchen featured white cabinets and a Caribbean-green granite counter. One bedroom with a king-size bed had French doors opening to the ocean.
Vesper waved her arms around the room. “You have internet. The computer is over there.” She indicated an iMac on a built-in white desk. “There’s pretty good cell service out here.” She pulled open the Roman shade on the nearest window. “The house next door is for sale. The folks in the one beyond that are gone this time of year. You shouldn’t be disturbed, but stay out of sight anyway.”
“Where does this road go?” Murphy indicated the route they’d used that continued beyond the beach house.
“More homes, but it dead-ends.”
Murphy wasn’t sure she liked being in a place with only one way out.
Uncle came in through a door in the kitchen carrying Murphy’s sack of clothes, Elin’s purse, and the remnants of the chicken tenders.
“Uncle, finish your story.”
He dumped the sack and purse on the table, kept the chicken, and strolled to the living room. “Where was I?” He settled on a seashell-patterned, padded wicker chair. Vesper and Murphy took a seat on the sofa.
“Ruuwaq,” Murphy said.
He took a bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully. “After dey deliver da supplies to Ruuwaq, da navy want to get da Japanese off da other islands. First dey send in two Cutthroats, my father and another one. Dey send them to Kiska in da submarine. Dey deliver a box there. My father not told what was in da box, but he know it was something alive. There were air holes, you see.”
“Rats, maybe?” Murphy guessed.
“Yah. This be early July 1942. Dey were to go on da submarine, then get in da rubber boat and take da box to Kiska. Secret. Dey were to open it and get away quick.” He shook his head. “But when dey opened da box, da rats were dead. Six of them.”
Murphy looked at Vesper. “Why would they send rats?” Vesper shrugged.
“There are already a lot of rats on da islands,” Uncle said. “Seems silly to me.”
“Uncle, why were the rats dead?”
“Father did not know. He said dey have plenty of food and water. My father did not want to be blamed. When dey ask him about the box later, he say everything fine. So dey bombed Kiska for three weeks, to be sure all were dead. But the Japanese got da last laugh. Dey left da island in da fog weeks before da bombing.”
“How many got off the island?”
“Over five thousand soldiers. Only da dogs were left. My father tell dis story once. I tell dis story once. Now rat story is done.”
“Where did your father get the rats?”
“Ruuwaq.”
CHAPTER 28
Vesper stood, helped Uncle to his feet, and moved to the door. “We have to get going.” She opened the door. “Stay in touch.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then ushered Uncle through, closing the door behind them.
Alone. She took a quick inventory of food. Vesper had brought enough to feed not only herself but both grandsons and Uncle.
Moving to the porch off the bedroom, she sat for a few moments. She’d been on just such a beach with her sister so very long ago.
Dallas held up her long skirt as she waded in the softly lapping water of the ocean. Her sandals were in her hand, and her hair was tucked behind her ears. She wore the earrings Murphy had purchased for her.
“Sis.” Dallas moved closer to the shore so Murphy could hear. “Did you get a chance to do what I asked?”
“Not yet. I’ve been slammed at work.”
“Well, if you get a chance . . .”
“Sure. What are sisters for?” She smiled at Dallas.
Murphy entered the house, took the sack of clothing to the bedroom, and dropped it on the bed. She removed the spiral notebook and library book on legends. Time to link everything together. After plugging in her phone and turning on the computer, she strolled from the windows to the doors, locking everything. House secure, she sat with the books at the kitchen table.
She scanned the table of contents, not knowing if anything would be useful. Ravens, origins of the wind, bears, black whale. Which one was about Ruuwaq? Opening the book, she skimmed the stories. She paused at the one about the black whale.
When I was a little girl about five years old in Old Harbor, my father was off hunting on Ruuwaq. Mother said we could play. I was walking along the shore with my little brother. The fog clung to the water so I could not see very far. All of a sudden the fog lifted in one area and I saw a big black whale. The whale had a hat on his head and on that hat was another hat, but much smaller. I waved and said, ‘Hi, Mr. Whale.’ It did not answer but went away. My brother saw it too.
A black whale with two hats? She moved to the computer and typed in WWII submarine images. One photograph in particular showed a sub with a conning tower. To a five-year-old child, seeing part of a sub in the fog might make her think of a whale, something she knew. Could she have seen the submarine Uncle mentioned, the one that the navy hid? The one doing things in secret? Old Harbor was not terribly far from Ruuwaq.
Murphy’s computer inquiry on missing submarines from WWII brought up fifty-two names. One name jumped out. Grunion. Missing off Kiska. Cause unknown.
A prickling sensation occurred between her shoulder blades. So far the story was falling into place.
She opened the notebook and found the page where she’d originally circled the name Leif B. She now had a full name for the man . . . and a mystery. The man Frances identified as Leif Berg had to be Denali’s father. His resemblance to the young Denali was startling.
And if her photographic superimposition was accurate, the skull in the Quonset hut belonged to the blond man in the photo, identified by both Frances and Denali as Paul Stewart. Denali had commented on the awkward composition of the photo, claiming his mother had cut the damaged part away.
So either Denali’s mother had an affair with the dark-haired Leif Berg, or Leif Berg was the blond man, and Paul Stewart had taken his identity. Murphy was inclined to go with the latter possibility. The name Leif Berg indicated Scandinavian heritage.
The sun had set and the long twilight had started. How safe would it be for her to turn on the lights? After opening a few drawers, she found a flashlight that worked. She made sure the kitchen blinds were tight, sat, and turned it on. Murp
hy turned to a clean page, then picked up her pen. She had a lot of suppositions, guesses, and assumptions, not a lot of facts.
Bertie’s voice played in her head. Hey, Murph, you’re not looking to make a case. You’re looking to stay alive.
“This is all coming together.”
What is? her sister asked.
“Leif and Paul were colleagues on Ruuwaq during the war. Leif died on Ruuwaq Island on April 1, 1946, when an earthquake brought the mountain down on his Quonset hut and a tsunami flooded the island.”
Can you prove that?
“The skull and facial superimposition fit. If I’d taken a photo of the image Frances had . . . Wait!”
What did you just remember?
“I took a second photograph on the island—the metal piece on the skeleton’s body.”
Show me, her sister’s voice whispered in her mind.
Murphy turned on the phone and quickly found the image she sought.
The metal was eight-sided with a loop at the top. Whatever had been on the surface was too worn to see. Metal. Medal. A military medal? She moved to the computer and typed in octagonal medal. The answer came quickly. The Navy and Marine Corps Medal, awarded for heroism. At the bottom of the page was a list of recipients by war.
She found Leif Berg’s name.
“There it is, Dallas. Confirmation.”
So the real Leif Berg died in the Quonset hut.
“Right. Paul must have gone when the tsunami struck.”
He could have been washed away.
“Then who is the dark-haired man in the photo, the man Frances knew as Leif? I think at some point, Paul found out about Leif. He returned to Ruuwaq, maybe even found his body.” She stood and paced. “Paul decided to take his identity . . . but he needed to ‘die’ so his family wouldn’t look for him. The body found on Afognak had been dead for two months . . . badly decomposed. All Paul had to do was place his dog tags on the body. No one would look for him. Free as a bird.”
I don’t know, sis. Wouldn’t anyone recognize Paul and know who he was? Can you draw a timeline?
“Good idea.” She drew a table on the tablet. “Since Leif won that medal, there should be more information on him.” She typed his name into the computer search engine. If he died nine years ago in Kodiak, he should have had an obituary in the paper. She found it. “Okay, this says Leif Havelock Berg was born in 1918.” She started filling out the chart.
Date
Event
1918
Real Leif born.
1946
April 1, real Leif dies. Age 28.
“Now I need to get Denali’s birth in here.” She typed his name. Impressive. He was on Wikipedia.
Date
Event
1918
Real Leif born.
1946
March 23, Denali born.
April 1, real Leif dies. Age 28.
“That would mean the real Paul was with his wife the summer before Denali was born.”
And the only description and photo of Denali’s father came from his mother.
“Right. Denali said his mother cut the photo because of mildew. But I bet she knew, or suspected, Paul had skipped out on the family.”
Lucas told you Denali’s mother wasn’t buried near Paul because she was mad at him. Maybe during his last visit they had a fight?
“In either case, Paul decided to ditch his family, or at least his wife. According to Leif Berg’s obit—which would have been Paul—he worked for the government until he retired to Kodiak Island.”
Date
Event
1918
Real Leif born.
1946
March 23, Denali born.
April 1, real Leif dies. Age 28. Paul assumes identity.
1946–1985
“Leif” works at Fort Detrick, later at Deseret Test Center
“Paul Stewart, 1918–1946. His wife died in . . . 1971. So if he came back to Kodiak, no one would know what he looked like. But if Olga was correct, he did return. She mentioned Leif became like a father figure to Denali.”
Ironic.
“No kidding.”
Date
Event
1918
Real Leif born.
1946
March 23, Denali born.
April 1, real Leif dies. Age 28. Paul assumes identity.
1946–1985
“Leif” works at Fort Detrick, later Deseret at Test Center.
After 1985
“Leif” moves to Kodiak, befriends his son.
She thought for a moment. “I wonder if he was the one who remade the family headstones. More irony in marking the resting places of the family he abandoned.” Denali had mentioned something from the past was found in the family cemetery.
He could have returned for something. Or someone.
“Or to do something. Whatever the reason, ten years ago five bodies turn up on Ruuwaq. Denali’s daughter and son-in-law die. He has the accident that kills his wife and puts him into a wheelchair. And Leif and Denali have a falling out. That’s a whole lot of coincidences.”
Dallas had nothing to say to that. Murphy glanced around the empty kitchen, then rubbed her arms.
Maybe she could call someone. Hear a friendly voice. She picked up her phone.
Joshua had left more messages. She couldn’t help herself. She played the last one.
“Hey, Murphy, listen, I know you’re scared. Please call me. I can help you.”
She stopped the message, then clutched the phone to her chest and rocked back and forth. “Joshua, Joshua,” she whispered. “I’m in so deep. I do need help.”
Her sister pushed into her brain. You can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone. Look what happened to me.
“What did happen?” she whispered.
You have to get rid of Clinton Hunter.
“What do you mean?”
You know. You have Elin’s Glock. You have a mission.
Murphy woke on the floor, clutching her necklace. The cold tile had seeped into her side. She shivered and stood, wincing at her stiff muscles. She must have slipped.
A scratching came at the front door.
She froze.
More scratching.
Silently she padded to the window overlooking the front porch. A springer spaniel scratched at the door again. In the distance, a voice called, “Here, Riley! Come on, girl.”
A woman holding a flashlight walked toward the house, still calling the dog.
Murphy spun around. Blinds were open in the bedroom. If the woman peeked in . . . She dashed to the room. She could see the woman clearly now. Murphy dropped to her knees and crawled to the backside of the bed. Reaching up, she snatched the sack of her clothes and pulled them to the floor.
“Bad dog, Riley! You need to come when I call.” Clump, clump, clump. The woman was on the wooden porch just outside the window. The dog whined.
“What is it, girl? No one is home. At least I don’t think . . .” Clump, clump, clump. Footsteps moved down the porch toward the garage.
Murphy shoved the sack under the bed, then scurried to the kitchen. A quick peek gave her the bad news. The woman’s flashlight was penetrating a window in the garage.
The dog barked. It could hear her moving in the house.
She pressed against the wall.
A knock sounded at the door. “Hello? Arlene? Are you home?” More knocking.
Murphy remained motionless.
“How odd,” the woman said. The footsteps crossed the porch to the bedroom again.
Was there a mark on the perfectly made bed to show where the sack had been? She could barely catch her breath.
“Come on, Riley, let’s go home.”
Had she gone? More importantly, would she return?
Murphy crept to a window and looked out. The woman was strolling down the beach, dog now in tow. She exited the front door as quietly as possible and hurried to the edge of the garage, where
she could see the woman’s progress.
Murphy counted the houses. One. Two. Three.
The woman turned into the fourth house.
Had she seen Elin’s vehicle in the garage? Was she now calling the police? Murphy moved to the same window the woman had looked into. She couldn’t see anything. Blackness.
But the woman had a flashlight.
She sprinted into the house, snatched the flashlight, and returned to the garage window. The light illuminated the back side of a shelving unit filled with boxes.
Disaster averted. For now.
Her cell phone was vibrating across the counter when she returned. She picked it up and checked the caller ID.
Bertie Fisher.
CHAPTER 29
Murphy swallowed and stared at the screen. Bertie was dead. Wasn’t she? She’d heard the woman die.
What if she was wrong and Bertie had merely dropped the phone? Or she was right and the killer now had Bertie’s phone? She’d never know unless she answered. She reached for it.
The vibration stopped.
Murphy snatched it up, answered, then listened for a moment. Dial tone.
Slowly she placed it down.
It rang again. She grabbed the cell and connected. “Bertie?”
A woman answered. “No. I’m sorry. This is Nurse Johnson. Bertie suffered a stroke. She’s . . . not doing well.”
“I thought . . . I thought she was dead.”
“No. She’s a fighter, but she’s in and out of consciousness. I’m calling because prior to the stroke, she asked me to mail an envelope to you, which I’ve done. You should have it tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Thank you. Would I be able to speak with Bertie?”
“I’m afraid not. Maybe in a few days.”
“Where did you send the envelope?”
“The address was for a Salmon Run Lodge.” The nurse disconnected.
Murphy reached for a chair and dropped heavily into it. Bertie was alive! And the envelope would have to be information about Dallas. She’d have to go to the lodge to get it.
Formula of Deception Page 19