by Sue Henry
When he had come back into the stateroom, earlier that morning, Jessie had turned over and opened her eyes.
“Alex, it’s getting—no, is light already. Have you been up all night?”
“‘Fraid so. Ray McKimmey was hurt, fell down the engine room stairs after someone hit him in the head. He’s okay, though. The same someone let Carlson loose, and he’s hiding somewhere aboard. We searched the whole ship and found nothing except me rope he used to avoid us by going down the laundry chute. We’ve got people watching and waiting for him, if he attempts to leave the ship in Ketchikan. I’ll be up by men. We’ll get him.”
“The laundry chute? You almost have to give him credit for ingenuity. You know?”
“I give him credit for nothing, but keeping me up for hours of futile effort. The bright side is that now I know just about everything there is to learn about how this ship is put together, top to bottom. If you ever need to play hide and seek, just let me know. I can give you at least three places nobody would think to look for you.” He quickly named them off for her.
She laughed and propped herself up on one elbow. “I’ll remember those, when and if I ever need them.”
Jensen had pulled off his clothing and tossed it onto the chair, with no concern for how it fell. With an infinitely exhausted sigh, he dropped into the bed, tugged the blankets over himself, and closed his eyes.
“Got to sleep. Tell you about everything when I wake up, Jess, okay?”
“Sure. Shall I wake you when we’re almost to Ketchikan?”
“Please, love.”
And he was unconscious, like a candle blown out with the slightest of breaths.
Jessie had snuggled back into her own covers, thinking she would go back to sleep for a few minutes, but her mind was full of ideas that kept her awake. The film needed to be developed in Ketchikan, and she wanted to spend some time with Dallas and Rozie … Sitka had been so much fun in their company. Fifteen minutes later, she was stepping out of the shower, rubbing her hair with a towel, aimed at coffee in the lounge and breakfast in the dining room.
As Jensen was putting his wallet in his pants pocket and reaching for his jacket, the door opened, and Jessie came in with a cup of coffee.
“Oh, you’re up already. We’re almost to Ketchikan. Here, this’ll help.”
Gratefully, he accepted the coffee and sat down on the now-rumpled bed to drink it. While he did, he filled her in on the happenings of the night before.
“I talked to Ray,” she told him when he had finished. “He looks terrible, but seems to be doing okay. You’ve no idea who hit him?”
“None. But it has to have been someone on board. We may have back everything but the stolen cash, but there’s something else going on here. I’m going ashore to call Ivan in Anchorage. When I come back I want to have a chat with those two guards in the gold room. I’ll talk to McKimmey about Carlson, too. He thinks Carlson’s getting on the ship as a replacement engineer was a little strange and that the guy he replaced could have been put out of commission to allow Carlson the chance.”
Jessie’s eyes widened. “Nobody does that sort of thing just to steal a few personal belongings, Alex.”
“I don’t think so either. But we don’t know that was even close to the way it happened. I need to talk to Captain Kay and see if I can get in touch with the other assistant engineer.”
“Here’s an item that may be helpful. I heard at breakfast that, in Ketchikan, four people from the cruise company are coming aboard for the rest of the trip. That’s why the owner’s suite has been empty—saved for them. The man who started the company, Chuck West, is coming with his wife, his son, and a company public relations person, Gordon somebody. They can probably answer some of the questions without phone calls, don’t you think?”
“That’s great. Save some time.” He looked out the window once more. “We’re about to dock. Let’s get out on deck.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now docking in Ketchikan, last stop before we leave Alaska and, for that matter, before we reach our destination, Seattle. If you have things you wish to purchase for the rest of our journey, or treasures to take home, be sure to gel them now.
“We apologize for our late arrival, but we cannot extend your time ashore by more than half an hour. We will be departing Ketchikan at exactly two-thirty this afternoon.
“Soon after leaving Ketchikan, we will be cruising in Misty Fjords National Monument, with its incomparable scenery. Cliffs tower thousands of feet high, and an ancient volcanic plug. New Eddystone Rock, reaches up from the depths of Behm Canal. There are over two million acres of this incredible monument, wild and full of history, as well as deep channels and fjords. Captain George Vancouver explored here in 1794.
“So, enjoy your time in Ketchikan. We’ll see you this afternoon. Take an umbrella, if you have one. This is known as Alaska’s rain capital. The local weather forecast says that if you can’t see the top of Deer Mountain, it’s raining, and if you can see it, it’s about to.”
The Spirit tied up at the city dock, next to an enormous cruise ship. A behemoth, it made the Spirit look very small: the huge curve of its bow loomed over their ship as if it were examining this curiously diminutive cousin.
Except for Juneau to the north, Ketchikan is the main center of commerce for the people of the southern Alaska panhandle. Like all Southeastern Alaskan towns, it is steeped in the tradition of the native cultures that were there long before outsiders showed up to plunder the furs or search for gold. But, because of their arrival, visitors now find a cultural chowder: modern shopping malls, historic buildings from the gold rush era, and Native Alaskan totem poles, tribal houses, arts and crafts.
Built along the eastern side of the Tongass Narrows, on Revillagigedo Island (locals say “Revilla”—it’s easier), it is a long and very narrow town. People may jokingly say that Skagway has only four streets, one of them the airport, but they often say that Ketchikan is three miles long and three blocks wide.
The southern part of the town, just east of the dock, is a tangle of buildings on land and pilings, stairways that all seem to go uphill, and boardwalks that grow invisible slippery coatings in the rain (more than a hundred and fifty inches fall here each year) to toss the unwary on their backs. A sense of humor is requisite to live in Ketchikan, and that quality makes it especially appealing to tourists, because the people are friendly and helpful—and remind them, with buttons and posters, of the Rain Festival: January 1 to December 31.
It was raining lightly when passengers began to disembark from the Spirit. Down the long gangway this time, thought Alex, from Two Deck. Although the sights were tempting and varied, with many gift shops and galleries similar to those in Sitka, and in spite of the call of the Tongass Museum, the Totem Heritage Center, restaurants in historic hotels, bars on pilings over salt water, Jensen took a taxi waiting on the dock and headed directly for the Ketchikan State Troopers office.
He left Officer Torenson, McKimmey, and Sawyer keeping watch, along with two crew members minding the side away from the dock, so that Carlson couldn’t leave the ship without observation. Until he could have a couple of troopers or city police help him out, it would do.
In less than half an hour he was talking to his commander, Ivan Swift, in Anchorage.
Once again Alex repeated the tale of the last two days of bits and pieces, and the night spent chasing Carlson.
“Bad luck,” Swift commented.
“Yeah, he’s on there somewhere and we’ll get him. Here’s one for you, Ivan. Check on a passenger named Bill Prentice. I’m faxing his paperwork from this office. Supposedly comes from Vancouver. Okay?”
“Sure. Anything specific to look for?”
“No, just a hunch. He’s just around at interesting times. One other name?”
“Yes?”
“Judy Raymond. Seattle address. The background she’s provided just doesn’t make sense in light of her age. I can use anything you can get on her. Her paper’
s heading at you, too. And look for that body I sent up from Petersburg, along with the ax that killed Morrison.”
“They’re on their way from Juneau. Private pilot brought them from Petersburg in time for the morning plane. I’ll have the fingerprints from the ax for you very soon, if there are any. The autopsy will, of course, take a little longer.”
“Please tell … no, better ask John Timmons to put a rush on it. I’ve got a nasty hunch about this one, so I really need information on this ASAP. There’s also a piece of blue and pink rope on the body. It looks familiar, but I don’t know why. Have somebody find out if there’s anything special about it, would you?”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you on the boat as soon as I have anything about any of this. You already know everything we do concerning Morrison’s murder, and that her husband hasn’t left Phoenix anytime lately. We had a chat with that attorney your man gave us access to, and it doesn’t add up that Holden had any part of this personally. Just to be on the safe side, until this gets untangled, we contacted the police in Vancouver to put a regular drive-by and check on Morrison’s mother and child.”
“Thanks, Ivan. Good thinking. I’ll tell Sawyer. It will take some of the worry off his mind.”
“This is your last stop before you go into Canadian waters, right? Want to knock around that hunch?”
“No, not yet, it’s still coming together, and it’s nothing but a hunch and a distinctly uneasy feeling. I’ll catch you later with it. All the way down in two days. We’ll be into Seattle early Saturday morning. No more stops.”
“Okay. Let me know if there’s anything else.”
“I’ll holler if I need you. Thanks, Ivan.”
Alex made several more calls, to Seattle this time, and started the ball rolling on some of his ideas. Results would have to wait a couple of hours, or more, before he could even think of expecting answers.
Still, it was something positive and he had only to wait. He realized, suddenly, that he was starving.
25
30:30 A.M.
Wednesday, July 16, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Ketchikan, Inside Passage, Alaska
WHILE JENSEN WAS BUSY AT THE TROOPERS OFFICE, JESSIE went ashore with Dallas and Rozie, leaving them briefly to find a place to develop her roll of film. Conveniently, there was one. Straight across from the dock on Front Street, Schallerer’s Photo and Gift advertised one-hour photo processing. Assured that pictures and negatives really would be ready for her in an hour, she left the film and hurried to catch up with the other two women, who were window-shopping. They took a taxi to the Totem Heritage Center, a little ways from downtown. Though she watched closely, there was no indication of anyone following them.
They were impressed by the ancient totem poles that had been collected from abandoned Haida and Tlingit villages and were preserved in the center. Close to three dozen were displayed, some mere fragments of the beautiful wood carving done many years earlier. Five of the best, over a hundred years old, stood below a skylight, which showed off the designs of their worn and weathered surfaces to best advantage.
“Awesome,” Dallas commented, looking up at the complicated details, each telling a story. “You can smell the cedar.”
The rain had stopped when they came out of the Heritage Center, so they walked, pushing Dallas’s chair, several blocks toward the docks till they reached Creek Street. As its name suggested, this infamous historic red-light district was built in the early 1900s along the banks of Ketchikan Creek, its boardwalk located conveniently near the harbor, where ships and their crews docked regularly. Madams and customers long gone, the street was now colorfully filled with gift shops, art galleries, small restaurants, and a museum in No. 24, Dolly’s House, that captured the spirit of long-gone gold rush days.
They went to the railing of the boardwalk, looked down on the creek, and found it full of salmon heading upstream to spawn. Swimming strongly against the current, the large fish leaped and battled in their obsession to find the upper reaches of the waterway.
With a few minutes’ observation, it was fairly easy to pick out different kinds of fish—large king salmon and smaller ones with humps on their backs that another watcher told them were pinks.
“Want to adopt one?” he asked, with a grin.
“What?” Jessie grinned, and the other two turned to listen, attention more than caught. Adopt a fish? “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, you really can. The people at the hatchery have a fund-raising, adopt-a-salmon program. For a small fee you can call one of their baby cohos your very own. Must be a little hard to pick it out among all the rest, though.”
“Clever. Will they cook it for me, when it’s grown?” Dallas asked.
“Well …”
Laughing, they said good-bye to their informant and continued to the end of Creek Street and back into downtown Ketchikan. There they parted, Dallas and Rozie to do a little more shopping before heading back to the ship, Jessie to pick up and look over the pictures she had left to be developed.
“See you later,” Rozie called, as she wheeled Dallas toward a large tourist emporium. “I want one of those Tshirts with a salmon on the front. That I’m willing to adopt.”
When she reached Schallerer’s, the pictures were ready for her, as promised. She took them from the folder and quickly sorted through, until she came to three that she had taken in an attempt to get a shot of the man who had followed them in Sitka. Two of them were unworkable—he had either gone into a shop or around a corner when she turned with the camera. The second showed part of his back in a doorway. The third, however, showed a profile view of him in the process of turning away. It was very small and difficult to see, even with the shop’s magnifying loupe.
“Do you have an enlarger?” Jessie asked the clerk.
“Sure,” she said, pointing. A Kodak Create-A-Print machine stood across the room, ready for public use.
She dropped money and the correct negatives into the appropriate slots, found the picture she wanted, twisted dials to adjust the density and color, and zoomed in on the figure on the Sitka street, cropping the picture to include only about a third of it. She made several enlargements, each with more magnification than the last. One by one, they fell out of the machine, slightly grainy, as the enlargement increased, but reasonably good. One by one, they confirmed the identity of their Sitka follower; Glen Carlson, without a doubt. She stood holding one, staring at the unmistakable proof. Why? What would this possible thief have to do with her?
“Get what you wanted?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, thanks.”
She scarcely heard the question. Another thought had occurred to her, as she gathered the results of her half-hour’s work. Had he been following her, or could it have been Rozie?
As she looked again at the enlargement, side by side with the regular-sized copy of the same print, she suddenly stopped focusing on the man and saw the other people in the picture with him: someone else caught her eye. Just beyond Carlson, farther along the Sitka sidewalk, was another figure in the process of making the same kind of right-hand turn. It was not a profile—the person had turned too far for that—more of a three-quarter image from behind. If the two figures had been dancers, Jessie would have assumed they were inspired by the same music, performing the same movement. It was impossible to tell if the second figure was male or female, for it, too, wore a hat, slacks, and a jacket, green. But there was something familiar about it. It was someone Jessie felt she had seen before, and recently. She could almost reach a name.
Just in case, she made two enlargements of this second person, but they gave her no further clue to an identity. She found herself wishing she could turn the person back toward her, just a few inches. Damn. Maybe Alex would recognize whoever it was.
In frustration, she pushed the pictures and enlargements into a plastic bag and went out the door, her face in a frown of concentration. She did not notice a figure that hurried into a doorwa
y to watch her walk away from the photo shop, then carefully followed her down the street, passing several passengers and a crew member or two from the ship, all of whom said hello as they went by.
Almost two hours had passed since Jessie had left the ship. Carrying the pictures, enlargements, and negatives, she turned down a side street away from the docks, toward a small grocery she had noticed earlier. There she found several apples and oranges, a ham and cheese sandwich, a large bottle of mineral water, two Snickers bars, and the daily paper. She paid a young Vietnamese boy at the counter, who carefully counted the change into her hand coin by coin. When he finished, correctly, he grinned, proudly pleased at his success in what clearly was a fairly recent acquisition of foreign language and monetary skills. Jessie couldn’t help smiling back.
With a little time to spare, and on her own for the first time in several days, Jessie, relishing her independence, spent a few minutes wandering alone through the shops, admiring some of the local crafts and gagging at others. Why did some people go to so much trouble to make trash for sale, when it was possible to make lovely things? Even accounting for differences in taste, some of the things she saw were terrible. And, even more mystifying, why did tourists buy them? Then she forgot to wonder, as one of the lovely things caught her eye; a quilt in wonderful icy blue colors, with tiny silver stars and a delight of subtle, but glowing, colors that swept across it in a representation of the northern lights.
“O-oh,” she breathed in appreciation to the clerk, who had noticed her interest and come to ask if she needed assistance. “Did someone here in Ketchikan make this? It’s beautiful—one of the most wonderful pieces of patchwork I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks,” said the clerk, with a smile. “I made it myself.”
For the next few minutes they talked about quilting, which Jessie had done little of but was interested in learning. She bought a sweatshirt and excused herself to go back to the Spirit as it was getting late. She took the woman’s card, thinking of the quilt and her large brass bed at home in Knik.