Death Takes Passage #4

by Sue Henry

  Rather than dock at any of the city marinas, where they would be observable even in the mix of local and transient boats, Rod swung west, around the far side of small Pennock Island, half a mile across the water from downtown Ketchikan. As the city disappeared behind the island, he lowered the sails, started the engine, and motored slowly along the shore, looking for a quiet place to anchor. Halfway along the island, in a tiny space more depression than cove, he slid in close and anchored just deep enough to keep from going aground should the wind shift to blow from the west at low tide. Leaving the Doll to swing on its Danforth tether, he untied the inflated Zodiak dinghy from the cabin roof and slid it into the water. Tying it to the stern, he attached a small outboard motor, then turned to Nelson, who was watching from the cockpit.

  “Where’re we goin’?” he asked, with a frown.

  “Not we,” Rod told him. “Me. I’m going into town. We need some supplies, more eggs, for one thing, and if there were such a thing as unburnable bacon, I’d get that, too. It’s time for me to make a phone call.”

  “What about me?”

  “You stay here and keep an eye on the boat. That’s what about you.”

  “But …”

  “No buts. One of us in town is enough. I want to find out if this boat’s been reported stolen yet, and check with our contact.”

  “Who is he?”

  “No idea, but he’s obviously got something pretty solid going on, if he’s willing to pay good money just to get us down here.”

  “What do I do if somebody shows up—police—somebody—you know?”

  “Aw-w, they won’t. Don’t know we’re here, and aren’t looking for us. Bet on it. But just play dumb. You won’t see anyone.”

  He stepped from the stem of the Doll into the Zodiak, started the motor, and was off, leaving Nelson to watch the small inflatable grow smaller in the distance. The older man did not stay on deck for long, however, but once again vanished below in response to his personal paranoia.

  Rod left the dinghy tied up next to a launch that ferried passengers back and forth from cruise ships forced to anchor out when the dock was filled to capacity, though most of the huge floating hotels that visited Ketchikan moored at the long central dock, towering over the majority of its buildings, and allowing passengers to walk directly into the oldest part of the city. The streets were lined with a variety of stores designed to attract a tourist’s attention and interest—art galleries, T-shirt shops, restaurants, bars, bookstores, bakeries, and more.

  In a specified phone booth on the dock, Rod dialed a memorized long-distance number and waited while it rang several times, after which a recorded message spoke in a strange, distorted voice:

  “At five o’clock go into the Sourdough Bar next to this phone booth. On the farthest stool from the door a man in a blue shirt will be sitting with a newspaper on the seat next to him. Ask him if it is today’s paper. If he says it is, picks it up, and lays it on the bar, sit down on the stool and order a bourbon and water, which he will pay for. He will then give you the information you need to proceed. Don’t screw this up, Rod, or you’ll be sorry, and you won’t get paid.”

  He hung up with a frown on his face, crumpled the paper list of numbers, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. “If I choose to accept this assignment,” he muttered to himself, “the Goddamned message will probably self-destruct in five seconds. Right!”

  Stepping away from the telephone, he stood staring at the door to the Sourdough Bar. What had he gotten himself into? It had all sounded so simple on the telephone in Juneau. Steal a boat, take it to Ketchikan by Monday, make the phone call, and collect his money—or so he had anticipated. “Information you need to proceed.” What the hell did that mean? Proceed? He had proceeded as far as he intended to—right here to the dock to find out where to deliver the boat. Now what did this unknown guy want? This didn’t sound like it had anything to do with drugs, which he had half-suspected. Serves me right for taking a job when I don’t know who I’m working for and don’t get the money up front, he thought unhappily. Well, I’ll just have to make it clear that enough’s enough.

  He glanced at his watch—ten after five—and headed for the door to the bar.

  It was darker inside, with no windows but one beside the door, and he blinked for a minute as his vision adjusted. It was a small place, a couple of minuscule tables with a couple of chairs each, and the bar itself was against the west wall. The walls were covered with pictures of shipwrecks, unlucky vessels that had sunk in the Inside Passage, probably since the beginning of time.

  The bartender looked up and nodded. Rod nodded back, then looked past him and a couple of fishermen in working clothes and rubber boots, who perched on stools halfway down the bar. In the seat farthest from the door, as the message had indicated, a man was sitting, watching him. He wore a blue shirt.

  As he passed behind the fishermen, Rod could see a folded newspaper on the stool next to the man in the last seat. All right, he’d play along—for now.

  “That today’s paper?”

  The stranger nodded and, as expected, took it off the stool, allowing Rod to sit down. Then he laid the paper beside him on the bar.

  He was big. Because he was sitting down, Rod couldn’t tell if he was tall, but under the denim of the shirt his upper body was solidly muscled in a way that did not indicate a man who lifted weights to satisfy his vanity—fishing nets or the local lumber mill was more likely. He said nothing, but assessed Rod from under wiry gray brows, with eyes so dark it was impossible to distinguish iris from pupil. His hair was mostly gray, though he did not look much over forty.

  “What’ll you have?” The bartender waited, a towel in one hand.

  “Bourbon and water.” Rod tossed the words at him out of the corner of his mouth, still staring at the stranger. “Now. What the hell …”

  “Wait,” the man interrupted.

  When the drink was set up and the barkeep gone, he turned, abruptly accusing. “You’re late.”

  “Only a few minutes,” Rod shrugged. “Who’re you?”

  “No, damn it, I mean you were supposed to be here yesterday. Where the hell have you been?”

  “It took a little longer than I thought. So—we’re here today instead. What’s the big deal? Was that you on the phone, making weird with the voice?”

  “We’ve got a schedule to keep. That’s the big deal. And what do you mean we? You were supposed to come alone.”

  “I didn’t get it that way. I brought a boat and some company—an old partner. You won’t have to pay him, I’ll split my money. Listen! What the fuck is your problem? Who’s running this show?” Rod almost yelled.

  The bartender and both fishermen turned to stare.

  “Shut up. Keep your voice down, stupid. Let’s get out of here.” Blue shirt threw some money on the bar and walked out, newspaper in hand. Rod, caught off guard, half-ran along behind.

  As they cleared the door onto the dock and were beyond the window, the stranger turned, grabbed Rod by the collar, and slammed him backward into the wall next to the phone booth.

  “You listen to me, you worthless turd. You’re a day late, with someone else along. What else have you screwed up on your own? I’m Walt—just Walt—and I’m not the voice on the phone. Don’t know who it is any more than you do, but I’ve worked for him and his boss before, and he’s treated me right when I follow his instructions. Okay? I don’t want this deal blown. It’s the biggest one yet. He said you were okay. I don’t know who the fuck you are, or anything about you, except you were damned well supposed to have a powerboat down here from Juneau yesterday. Whatever he has in mind, he obviously wants it spread out from here to Canada, because from here he said for us to go on down to Prince Rupert on the boat you’ve brought. You have brought a boat, right?”

  “Right,” Rod agreed between gasps, as his collar was released, allowing him to breathe—and speak. He considered, with dread, what this guy’s reaction would be to the stolen sailboat�
��not, by any stretch of the imagination, a powerboat. It was obviously imperative that this … Walt … must never find out about the woman they had sunk in the depths of Tracy Arm. He’d have to warn Nelson to keep his damned mouth shut—if that was at all possible.

  “All right. Now, we start for Prince Rupert as soon as possible. Should have left this morning. You go over there while I make a phone call. And don’t you fuckin’ dare disappear on me either.”

  Rod shuddered, and wondered if there was any way he could abandon the Doll and steal another boat from somewhere in Ketchikan. This was not turning out the way he liked. Prince Rupert was Canada, for God sakes, too far from home, and not where he had any desire to go. But, if he wanted to be paid, it looked like they were headed south, and Walt intended to stick like glue until they got there. Goddamnit!

  13

  7:30 A.M.

  Tuesday, July 15, 1997

  Spirit of ‘98

  Stephens Passage, Inside Passage, Alaska

  “THE PARLOUR WAS FAIRLY BUSY LAST NIGHT,” DON SAW yer told Jensen and Captain Kay. “Those who didn’t want to join the sing-along in the upper lounge came down for a quieter drink or two after dinner. I had fifteen or twenty people wander in and out between eight and eleven, when the last couple left and I shut down. Why? What’s wrong? There wasn’t any trouble. Everyone was pretty low-key.”

  Summoned from the cabin he was sharing—when Jensen and Captain Kay had completed the officially required notifications of Morrison’s disappearance, along with their conclusions regarding its time and location, and initiated a discreet stateroom search—Sawyer had appeared in Kay’s office wearing jeans and a Red Onion sweatshirt, flip-flops on his feet. His hair was wet from a shower, and he had either been shaving when called, or he had shaved in a hurry, for Jensen noticed a small uneven triangle of whiskers that Sawyer had missed on the jawline below his ear. He came in, took a chair, and gratefully accepted a cup from the pot of coffee Kay had requested earlier from the galley.

  Alex politely glanced at the captain for permission and, at Kay’s nod, responded to Sawyer’s question.

  “Before I answer that, let me ask you a couple of things, Don. This was the first night that Soapy’s Parlour was open, right?”

  “Right. We didn’t open Sunday because there was already so much other celebrating.”

  “You know any of the Spirit’s crew before you came on for this trip?”

  “Sure. Probably a dozen of them to speak to and three or four pretty well. They come into the Red Onion when they’re in Skagway. We’re closest to the dock and have good pizza.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do I know, or who comes in?”

  “Who do you know?”

  “Well, Brad Francis, Gordy Hanners, Ellie Davidon, Jo Anne … ah … Don’t remember her last name. Steve Broughton—he’s not on this run—and Ray McKimmey come in pretty regular. There’s a couple more I don’t know names for … and what’s her name, starts with an H, the one who does the talking on the loudspeaker.”

  “Any of them in Soapy’s last night?”

  “Ray, for a couple of minutes, when I couldn’t get the cooler latch to work. I went to the engine room, and he came up to fix it.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, nine-thirty, ten?”

  “What was McKimmey doing in the engine room at that hour?”

  “Working on something on the engine. Have no idea what, really. I’m not much on mechanics.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Ah … no. All passengers in the Parlour last night.”

  Jensen noticed the slight hesitation. So did Kay, and he leaned forward, ready to ask a question that Alex forestalled with a lifted hand. Rather than ask one of his own, however, he simply stared at Sawyer … waiting to see what response silence would produce.

  Sawyer stared back, blinking rapidly, changing the direction of his gaze to the floor after a few seconds.

  “No one?” Jensen challenged.

  Sawyer shook his head. It was obvious from a slight uncontrollable flush that spread over his face that he was uncomfortable. He looked tired, discouraged, and somehow resigned.

  Again, Jensen waited.

  Again, nothing from Sawyer.

  “Julie Morrison?” Jensen asked softly.

  Sawyer’s attention whipped back to the trooper as swiftly as the color left his face. “What? What about her?”

  “You might as well tell us what you know about Morrison, Don, how you know her, and how well. Did you see her last night, for instance?”

  The bartender took a deep breath, then slowly nodded. “Yeah, I saw her, but not in Soapy’s. On the deck outside. Why?”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes, for a few minutes after I closed up.”

  “What about?”

  “Ask her. It’s her business. It’s not my practice to break a confidence.”

  Jensen turned his head to look at the captain again. Kay shrugged his shoulders. “You’d better tell him, I guess.”

  “What? Tell me what? Is she okay? Is Julie in some kind of trouble?” Anxiety rose as the look on Jensen’s face told him something was wrong.

  “Some reason you think she might be?”

  Sawyer said nothing, waiting in rigid attention for Jensen to answer his questions.

  Alex sighed and began.

  “Morrison’s missing. Since sometime last night. We found her hair ribbon and an earring on the deck outside the Parlour almost two hours ago now. We’ve searched the ship thoroughly, and she’s not on it. Her roommate saw her just after ten-thirty, when she came back for her cigarettes, headed for the stern. Her bed wasn’t slept in. You may have been the last to see her.”

  Sawyer’s reaction was, for a moment, shocked silence, then swift and unexpectedly virulent anger. “That fucking bastard! Goddamn him. He said he’d kill her. Damn him. Damn him. How could he know where she was? How did he find her? Who did he hire?”

  His fury astonished both the other men, as did the accusatory nature of his words. For a moment after Sawyer stopped speaking the only sound in the room was that of his rough breaming. Almost hyperventilating, he covered his face with his hands and groaned.

  Jensen waited for him to regain control, and, at last, he dropped his hands and looked up, his face wet with tears.

  “Don,” Alex asked gently, “what is Julie Morrison to you?”

  “My cousin,” he answered tonelessly. “My aunt—my mother’s sister—her girt. We grew up together when my mother died, and I went to live with her family when I was six. She was two years older. She took care of me. I thought I could take care of her.”

  “Who do you mean he? Who said he would kill her? Who was looking for her?” Jensen peppered him with questions.

  “Her husband—ex-husband—Gary. Gary Holden, the bastard.”

  “Why?”

  “She left him. He made her life a misery—beat her, intimidated and embarrassed her, threatened her. Said he’d kill her if she left—kill her—and Josh, if she took him. Oh, shit—Josh! I’ve got to call and see about Josh, warn Marie.” He leaped to his feet and stopped. “But I’ll have to tell her about Julie. God, how can I do that on the phone?”

  “Marie?”

  “Julie’s mother. She’s in Vancouver. She has him there. He’s only four. Julie sees … them …” He stumbled over the words. “… saw … them when she could. When she had days off, she’d take the train from Seattle, with care to make sure she wasn’t followed—that Gary, or someone he sent, hadn’t found her.”

  He sat down again and the rest of the story came pouring out.

  “Julie’s real name is Donna Lyons Holden—she was never able to get a divorce. My real last name’s Carpenter. Marie’s husband died ten years ago of a heart attack, so she didn’t have trouble disappearing with us. She took her grandmother’s maiden name, Roberts, and we left Josh his own first name and gave him hers as a last name, too, so it
was easier for her to take care of him when we weren’t around—if anybody asked questions.

  “Julie came to me for help, when she knew she had to get away. We all left Arizona together, spent a month traveling around, afraid Holden would track us. We didn’t tell anyone where we were, or where we were going. Bought, sold, and rented several different cars, took three different airplanes, finally split up and went into Canada three different ways. By then we all had fake IDs and had spent just about every dime. We hooked up in Vancouver, found a place for Marie and Josh, Julie went back to Seattle and found work on one of the Princess boats, and I came up to Skagway on the ferry. I was going on up to Anchorage, but they hired me at the Onion, so I stayed. That way I could see her every so often, when the boat came in. Then, she got the job on this boat that came in every two weeks, and when there was this chance to be on the same trip, I jumped at it.”

  He looked down at his hands and slowly made them into fists.

  “But Gary must have found out somehow where Julie—Donna—was. Someone on this boat pushed her overboard. She didn’t fall, didn’t jump. She had Josh. Somebody here did this, and he has to be behind it. I’ll find out who it is if it’s the last thing I do.” Sawyer—Alex found he couldn’t see him as Carpenter—jumped to his feet.

  “Whoa,” Jensen cautioned. “Let’s get our ducks in a row here, before we make mistakes that could cost us exactly what we need most. We need to figure out just how all this fits together. There are still some pretty awkward pieces to this puzzle, some we want to know and some that you haven’t considered, Don, because you don’t know about them. There’s more to it.”

  “What?”

  “Well, for one thing—not that I don’t believe you, but—I’ve got to find out just where Gary Holden, Julie’s ex-husband, is, though he’s still her husband, from what you’ve said, which could complicate things.”

  “He’s not on the ship or I’d have seen him … recognized him. So, whoever he sent has to be someone we don’t know. You’ll need to dig out just who it is.”