by Henry, Sue
“Kinda out by yourself, aincha?” the other taunted.
Trouble, without a doubt. As Hampton waited and watched, saying nothing, they both eyed the neat waterproof bags in the front of his canoe.
“Whatcha got there?”
“Camping gear,” Hampton told him, shortly.
“Where ya headed?”
“Forty-Mile. My ride is waiting at the Clinton Creek road.” It wouldn’t hurt to let this pair of vultures know that someone expected him, knew where he was and when he should arrive.
As he spoke, he slid slowly back in the canoe until he felt the daypack and sat on it, his feet braced for more leverage, while, with the paddle, he reached to push himself away from the larger boat.
Before he could do so, the dark, bearded man suddenly raised his hands from the concealment of the side of the boat and leveled a shotgun at Hampton. “Wouldn’ do that if I was you,” he said in a conversational tone. “Just sit still. I think maybe we’ll have a look at that camping gear. You won’t mind, will ya?”
The younger man stepped forward with a boat hook. Reaching, he heaved the three bags one by one into their boat. The aim of the shotgun barrel did not waver from the center of Hampton’s chest.
“If you’re only going to Forty-Mile, ya won’t need this stuff, will ya?”
In addition to, and because of, his fear, Hampton was frustrated and outraged. He could feel that his face was hot and flushed, and he wanted more than anything to be able to get hold of one of them.
“You won’t get away with this,” he said furiously.
“Oh, I think we probly will.”
“Hey, Will. There’s something else. He’s sitting on something.”
“Yeah? Whatcha got there, man? Let’s have it. Maybe ya got a wallet, too, huh? Cash? Gimme.”
It was more than Hampton could tolerate. Keeping his eye carefully on the shotgun, he raised himself to his knees and reached behind him, as if to pick up the daypack. Then, with a sudden lurch, he threw himself sideways, away from their boat, expertly overturning the canoe while keeping a firm grip on the paddle.
As he went under, he heard the blast from the shotgun and knew, thankfully, he had not been hit. It was shockingly cold, from the glaciers of a thousand mountains, so cold he almost sucked water, caught himself just in time. And quiet—there was only the white sound of water against his ears, blocking whatever was going on above.
He did and didn’t want to know what was going on. They were undoubtedly waiting and, if he came up, would more than likely have another shot at him. He kicked strongly, let himself go as deep as possible and came up slowly, checking for the surface as he came, gripping the waterproof daypack that he had grabbed with the paddle as he went over. It tended to float with a small amount of air trapped inside, raising him gently. His roll into the icy water had been disorienting and the bag told him which direction was up. Near the surface, he saw the dark, canoe-shaped shadow over him and slid carefully up inside the upside-down craft, finding air without revealing himself to the two in the boat. Quietly, he clung to a strut with fingers rapidly growing numb, and listened, careful not to bobble the canoe. The paddle he allowed to float, confined with him in the shell of the canoe. He could faintly hear them talking somewhere beyond it.
“Where the hell’d he go? You hit him?”
“No. Goddammit. Missed. Hit the kayak.”
“Canoe. It’s a canoe.”
“Who gives a shit? Where is he? Can’t stay under this long. Is he fucking drowned?”
“Maybe. Wanna get the canoe?”
“Hell, no. It’s got a hole in it. Don’t want to explain that to the old man. Shoot a canoe? He’d laugh hisself silly.”
“He’s not coming up and he’d have to breathe by now. He’s drowned. Let’s get outta here.”
“Yeah. I’ll get the boat going. You get his stuff under cover.”
The engine roared out of idle. Hampton waited, holding to the bag with one hand, the strut with the other. If they had decided to ram and sink it as they left, he couldn’t have been in a worse place, but they were content to take off with their stolen goods.
When he could no longer hear the engine’s growl, he ducked from under the canoe on the side near the bank, into the fresh air, and looked both ways. Had they gone up or down the river? Who knew. But they were gone.
So cold he could hardly move, he knew he had to get out of the water immediately, before hypothermia set in. Ducking back under, he shoved the daypack under a strut along with the paddle and awkwardly rolled the canoe over. His body was moving stiffly and he could hear his teeth chatter, his jaw tense with the involuntary effort. Quickly rocking the canoe to splash out as much of the water as possible, he levered and half rolled himself in and lay, soaked, in what was left in the bottom. When he had caught his breath, he tried to use his wooden hands to bail, but quit when he realized water was running back in as fast as he scooped it out.
In the left side, about two feet from the stern and just at waterline, was a hole the size of his fist. Several smaller holes peppered the hull around it. When he moved, water washed in, enough so that it seemed he had a choice—paddle or bail. Alternating these, it took him ten minutes, around two bends and perhaps half a mile downriver, to reach the mouth of a small creek. A few feet up it, behind a wall of willow, was a place wide enough to build a fire. If the deadly duo decided to come back and check on him, he wanted the kind of cover this would provide.
By the time he stepped out of the canoe he was feeling no colder and shivering less, as a result of the exertion, but he knew he had to get warm and dry or he would be in real trouble. It was very likely he wouldn’t be able to go on to Forty Mile, and would have to overnight without his down jacket and sleeping bag. If so, it was imperative to have some dry clothes at least, and the ones he had on were all they had left him.
Quickly, he gathered the means for a small fire and got it started near a large log, with matches from a waterproof case in his pocket. Huddling close, he fed it twigs, small sticks, and finally, several pieces of dry driftwood. The heat brought his hands back to life and felt marvelous. He hung over it until his wet clothes began to steam.
Stripping off his boots, he poured the water out and took the laces off. Wringing out his wool socks, he used them to sponge out the inside of the boots, which he laid spread open toward the fire, but not too close. Once more he wrung out the socks and hung them on sticks he jammed into the ground near the heat. As he worked, he realized he was listening for the sound of an engine. Cover or not, if they decided to come back, the smoke from his fire could bring them directly to him. Still, there was no choice.
An experienced solo canoeist, Hampton never went unprepared into the wilderness. For this trip, knowing he could face any number of unexpected situations, far from assistance or rescue, he had packed with more care than usual. Besides the waterproof match case, he carried a multibladed knife in his pants pocket. His larger hunting knife hung from a wide belt with an inside pocket intended for cash. Instead, it contained a wire saw, two hooks, and fishing line. These he removed and laid the belt, with his jeans, near the heat.
The breeze off the river was cold on his bare legs, though the afternoon was still full of sunshine. Retrieving the daypack, he pulled the canoe over, nearer the heat of the fire, and examined the hole in its side. It was the size of a grapefruit, with ugly, ragged edges, and the sight of it brought anger roiling up again.
Wanting a traditional wooden canoe, he had built this craft himself: a winter’s labor and careful workmanship; hours of fitting, molding, sanding, and painting. The finished craft pleased him enormously and the violence done to it was a personal injury and insult. That it needed patching, and that repairs were impossible now, was obvious, but it was mendable. He already knew how he would go about it in his Colorado workshop. During the winters there, when construction slowed, he carefully crafted fine furniture and other projects; he had a good collection of tools and material, for
canoe building as well. For now, to get him on down the river, there was a roll of heavy duct tape in the daypack that would suffice when the hull of the canoe was dry enough. That meant tomorrow morning at the earliest, for he could not go in wet clothes. It would be a rough night, but not unendurable.
He shivered, grabbed the bag, and, turning to the fire, tossed on another piece of driftwood. Wood to last the night would have to be collected when he was warm. His hand ax had gone with the bags of gear. If he needed anything cut, the saw would have to do. For a few minutes he turned around by the fire, warming himself and coughing in the smoke. If he had been a salmon, by morning he would have been well preserved, he smiled.
The bag had leaked only a little through one small tear that had probably occurred when he overturned the canoe. Nothing in the daypack was soggy. The journal’s tin seemed dry. He would check it later. This wasn’t all bad. At least he’d have something to read while he waited for daylight. The skull and the bones in the boot were slightly damp, but they had often been wet before. He dumped the rest of the pack’s contents out on the ground and sorted through it. A pair of dry socks he pulled from a plastic bag and put on immediately.
All his fresh supplies had gone like his sleeping bag, but his emergency rations would get him through admirably: bouillon cubes, instant coffee, sugar, individual envelopes of hot chocolate, packets of Jell-O, a freeze-dried beef and rice dinner, two peanut-filled candy bars, a bag of dried fruit and nuts. It was all dry in the bottom of the pack, packed in plastic bags in a small kettle, along with a plastic bowl, spoon, and cup. Emptying the kettle, he filled it with stream water and put it on the fire to boil for a hot drink.
The first-aid kit he would not need, thank God. For the first time, he let himself consider the blast of the shotgun as he had thrown himself into the water, and shivered from something besides cold. The man behind it had shot at him, not the canoe, had meant to hit him, kill him if possible. It was incredible. If he had not lived through it he might have had trouble believing it. Muggers were supposed to live in cities, weren’t they? If he had been hit, they would without a doubt have left him to bleed or die in the river. He tossed the first-aid kit back and forth between his hands, laid it down, and was thankful he could do it.
Taking off his wet wool shirt, he wrung it out and laid it over the log by the heat. Wringing out his undershirt and shorts, he put them back on. They would dry faster on his body, but he fervently wished for his stolen long underwear. Unfolding the final item from the pack, he wrapped a Mylar survival blanket over his shoulders and sat down facing the fire, holding the rustling, metallic material open in front to gather the heat and reflect it onto his chilled body. The result was immediate and satisfactory. He would soon dry out, and would definitely survive. He hoped his ride would wait and not take off for Dawson without him. With good luck and the duct tape, he could reach the Forty-Mile by noon tomorrow. It was two-twenty-five. Thanks to a waterproof watch, he could tell time.
Who were the guys in the boat? How could they think they could just get away with stealing his gear and trying to kill him? They looked local, maybe lived out here somewhere. Had they done this before? Who was the old man they had mentioned? He could remember one name, Will, the dark, bearded one, but knew he could describe them both. Had the boat had a number, a name? He could remember none.
He made a cup of hot chocolate when the water boiled and sat sipping it, trying to remember what kind of boat it had been. Open powerboat, twenty-five feet maybe, outboard, no canopy, fast, lots of horsepower. Not much else. Had they stolen it too? What had been under the blue tarp? Had they robbed, perhaps killed someone else?
As he grew warmer, he grew sleepy. Nodding over the last of the hot chocolate, he realized it was probably a reaction to his icy bath, adrenaline pumping through his system and delayed shock from the whole experience. His body was saying, enough already. While he waited for his clothes to dry, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to recharge his own batteries, get some sleep before it got cold and he might not be able to. If they came back for any reason, the sound of the boat engine would wake him before they came close. Still sitting up, he let his eyes close and drifted off, rousing periodically to put more wood on the fire.
Just after five o’clock, he was still tired and sleepy, but awake enough to force himself to put on his damp-dry shirt and squishy boots, and gather a large pile of firewood, having already burned most of the readily available driftwood.
It took most of an hour of going back and forth and periodically pausing to warm himself, to carry dead branches down from under the trees above the beach. He had to walk quite a distance along the bank to find it, where the brush was thick and the ground uneven. With what he considered sufficient for the night stacked close to the fire, he put his boots and shirt back to finish drying, boiled more water, and reconstituted the chicken and rice dinner. He had meant to wait until after dark, knowing the night would be a long, cold one that dipped near freezing, but decided to pay attention when his stomach growled and he began to feel light-headed. When he had eaten, he made more hot chocolate, had a candy bar for dessert, and settled down to read another section of Addison Riser’s journal, recovered enough to enjoy the smell of the woodsmoke and the crackle of the flames near at hand.
Absorbed, he started when a log burned through, allowing another to crash into the ashes and roll, still flaming, out of the fire against one of his boots. Jumping to snatch it away, he inadvertently dropped the journal, which fell, striking the rocky surface of the ground.
Returning the runaway log to the fire, Hampton picked up the book and examined it gingerly. The edge of the photograph was marred and a little loose along one side, part of its ancient, dried adhesive cracked away from the front cover at the corner. Damn…and he had taken such care reading it. Opening the cover to assess the interior damage, he was relieved that it was minor and a bit of glue would cure the problem later. What seemed to have saved it was that between the photo and cover, Riser had inserted some paper padding as extra stiffening and protection for the treasured picture of his family. A ragged edge told Hampton it was probably made from the pages that had been torn from the back of the book.
Pleased that there was not more damage to the journal, disgusted at his own clumsiness, and determined to take more care, Hampton settled down to read, more curious about Riser than ever. What had made him leave Dawson for Forty-Mile? Hoping he would soon find out, he continued to read the extraordinary account from where he had stopped when the log fell from the fire.
By the time the sun went down, his clothes were dry enough to put back on, though still somewhat damp and chilly. They would warm and continue to dry from his body heat and that of the fire reflected from the survival blanket. His boots, however, were still too wet to wear.
It grew dark quickly and he was soon nodding sleepily again over the journal. Putting it back in its tin, along with the disintegrating pouch and gold nuggets, he shoved it into a protective space under the log, though it looked clear and rain was not expected. Adding a reasonable amount of wood to the fire and reminding himself to wake later to feed it more, he wrapped himself in the silver blanket again, curled up with his back against the log, and fell immediately into a heavy sleep, exhausted.
Sometime during the night, half awake behind his closed eyes, he was aware that it was dark, that his head ached desperately, and that if he moved, he would regret it immediately and unpleasantly. He also knew he would be sick. So he didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. Something was wrong. What was it? He didn’t want to know. It hurt to think. He should put wood on the fire, but he was warm, the sleeping bag snuggled close around his shoulders, and exceptionally tired. He let oblivion pull him back into its comforting void.
Chapter Four
ALASKA STATE TROOPER ALEX JENSEN WAS not unhappy to be outdoors and away from any office on this sun-washed morning in early September. He felt enlivened by crisp, clear fall nights that seemed to sharpen the lines of the
country, and the cool but brilliant days that followed them. Though the air in Alaska and the Yukon was always clean, unacquainted with smog, in the fall it almost seemed to sparkle. He felt more awake and aware of his surroundings as the far north was transformed into deep autumn golds that contrasted sharply with dark green spruce and the burgundies of shrubs and berry bushes on hillsides. So this location, on the Yukon River below Dawson City, did not displease him. The reason for his presence on this particular bend of that river, however, did.
A homicide detective for the State Troopers, Jensen had come to Canada on an assignment concerning a case of robbery and murder that involved both Alaska and the Yukon Territory, inseparably and amiably connected by the Alcan Highway that spanned their mutual international border. This morning’s unexpected and unrelated investigation had required the use of a jet boat, in which he had accompanied another officer, Inspector Charles Delafosse of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
Jensen was the taller of the two, longer of limb and slightly more casual in bearing than his Canadian counterpart. Out of uniform, he wore a sheepskin coat over civilian clothes, with a tan western hat settled familiarly above attentive, but not unkind, blue eyes and a full, red-blond mustache. Just now, the weight of his lanky frame relaxed onto one leg, he was kicking repetitiously at a medium-sized rock with the opposite boot but, from his demeanor, would miss none of what transpired, as he listened to the inspector’s inquiries.
Though he was not conspicuously muscled, there was an air about Canadian inspector Delafosse that hinted at physical strength and an ability to move quickly and with little effort, for he stood straight and confident, weight evenly balanced, shoulders square. Slightly shorter and of dark complexion, he wore a neat blue jacket, denim pants, and a pair of black, pull-on, waterproof boots. Face shaded by the wide brim of his hat, he looked down to read the driver’s license he had picked up from the log where it had rested next to some cash and other papers from a wallet that lay beside them. They had evidently been put there to dry, for the wallet and some of the documents unprotected by plastic lamination exhibited signs of a recent soaking and were still damp.