by Henry, Sue
A short, husky man in a pair of greasy mechanic’s coveralls, a bandanna knotted around his forehead to hold dark, stringy hair away from his eyes, climbed out, slammed the door to make it stay shut, and hurried into the bar. Just inside the door, he hesitated to let his sight adjust to the dim level of light that always seemed to be some uncertain hour of the night, due to the complete lack of windows. Searching the room, he spotted the man he wanted. Resting on his forearms, baseball cap pushed back on his otherwise bald head, a Budweiser bottle in front of him, he sat alone on the far side of the large horseshoe-shaped bar, casually aware of those around him, making eye contact with few.
The rest of the space was taken up with a mismatched collection of tables and chairs, a pool table, and a dartboard that hung on the back wall, possible peril for anyone injudicious enough to head for the rest rooms without first assessing the skill of whoever was pitching darts at it. Perhaps twenty people—a number that would swell to over fifty later in the evening—mostly men, sat at the bar or tables, several watching an ongoing pool game, or waiting to play the winner. A sports announcer, enthusiastically mouthing something no one cared about, filled the screen of a television set with the sound turned off. The murmur of conversation was augmented by a jukebox pulsing last year’s country and western hits.
The man in coveralls walked around the bar, slowing once to grin and punch the shoulder of a friend who turned to greet him with an insult, nodding confirmation to the bartender’s question of “the usual?” and slid onto an empty stool next to the man with the cap.
“Tom.”
“Darryl.”
Not until the bartender had drawn his draft and left change from the twenty he laid out, did he turn his shoulders toward the man he had come to see and speak intently and privately, in a low voice.
“They found Ace’s plane this morning.”
A frown. “Shit. Who?”
“Couple of guys from Kenai out for black bear. Water’s still low enough in the lake to expose the tail section.”
“Law go out?”
“Yeah. That trooper with the Maule and another guy. Had it hauled into town with a chopper late this afternoon.”
A short silence ensued as the bartender moved to work at a sink near them and they waited for him to move away. Then, “Hear anything else?”
“There was a body in it.”
“The bitch.”
“Yeah.”
“Then they didn’t…”
“Guess not. Listen, you think maybe we should—”
“No.” Tom interrupted. “We stay the hell away from it. Let it go on looking like an accident. Nothing to say it wasn’t.”
“They said the plane was shot down.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Right. But that’s the rumor. Maybe we should—”
“I said no. Let it ride.”
“Okay. Fuck, it was just a thought.”
“A shitty one. I’ll do a flyover day after tomorrow, when we run that guy from Dallas out to the camp. Just to check.”
“Jesus, Tom. You still gonna take that guy out there?”
A savage look from under the baseball cap. “Shut up, stupid. Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry. Just—”
“Just nothing. Haven’t got the brains God gave a goose. You want to join Dale?”
“I said sorry.”
“Then listen up. We sit tight. Already filed for that hunt. Got all the gear stashed at the lower lake site. Switching now would look funny. See?”
“Oh…yeah. Well, I just thought—”
“Just let me do the thinking. You hear. Keep your trap shut.”
He shook his head in disgust and they sat in silence for a minute. Darryl drank half his draft and lit a cigarette, looking chastened.
“Anything else useful?”
“Ahh…Landreth went out there with his sister this afternoon. Came back a couple of hours later.”
“Shit. She’s nothing but trouble, that one. You talk to him?”
“Nope. Thought he might come in here.”
“Hope he does. I wanna have a word. Going back to work?”
“Yeah. Got an engine to tune up for George before morning.”
“Keep your ears open.”
“Sure thing.”
Ed Landreth showed up at nine o’clock with a red-haired woman wearing eye makeup to match a green dress that clung to her the way she clung to his arm. Perching on a tall stool at the bar, she tossed her hair, arched her back to thrust out an impressive chest, and ordered a strawberry daiquiri. Landreth sat beside her and it was clear from the wadded up handful of bills and change he pulled from a pocket to drop on the bar that the Cockpit wasn’t their first stop of the night, and he didn’t intend it to be the last.
When their drinks were almost empty, the man in the cap bought them another and, as Landreth looked across to nod his thanks, beckoned him over with a jerk of his chin. Landreth left his lady friend reluctantly, with a warning glance that told those sitting closest to her that he considered them a flock of vultures.
“Hey, Tom. How’s it going?”
The two men moved to a table far enough away to avoid being overheard.
“Hear they found your brother-in-law’s plane.”
“Yeah. Out the other side of Susitna. Some woman in the cockpit who’d been there all winter. Fuckin’ sick.” An expression of extreme distaste crossed his face.
“You go out?”
“Yeah. My sister’s obsessed with finding out what happened to that bastard she married. Didn’t help that he wasn’t in the pilot’s seat.”
“Any idea what happened to him?”
“Naw. Must have got out—took off would be my guess.”
Tom frowned, watching Ed’s face closely as he considered.
“You know we got things going on out there.”
“How would I know?”
The eyes under the bill of the cap turned cold as he stared at Landreth for a few silent moments. “The law have any more plans, or are they through digging around?”
“Hell. They don’t tell me anything. They were still at it when we came back. All I know is that my fuckin’ sister is convinced that since he wasn’t in the plane, he may have tried to walk out of there. Says she’s gonna go to look for him.”
To make the conversation appear casual to anyone watching, the man in the cap had been listening from a relaxed position in his chair. Now he sat up sharply, inclined himself toward Ed Landreth, and made his voice as hard as his look. “Not a smart idea, Landreth. Make sure she doesn’t try it. Not now.”
“Yeah…right. And she listens to me?”
“I suggest you make her listen. The next few days won’t be a good time for her to be wandering around the Beluga Lakes area. I got this deal going with a lot riding on it. Keep her out of there. You hear me? I wouldn’t like to have her get hurt.”
The implied threat filled the silence that hung in the air between them. Landreth scowled and shook his head, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I don’t know if I can stop her, Tom. Really. What can I do?”
A pause, while the man in the cap stared at him with narrowed eyes. Disgust and resignation were evident in his expression and the sarcasm in his voice when he answered. “Baby brother, huh? Jesus H. Christ, Landreth. Grow up. You’re pitiful.”
Another pause for thought.
“All right. If you can’t stop her, you can let me know if she decides to take off. And I want to hear the minute she goes. Got it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Tom. I can do that. Right.”
“Screw it up, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Got that?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Don’t forget you owe me, Ed. Big time, you owe me.”
“I know. I won’t.”
Without another word, the man in the cap went back to his barstool, leaving Landreth with a concerned expression that deepened when he returned to find his lady friend in an animated co
nversation with the man next to her.
Collecting his bills, he left the change—two quarters—on the bar, earning a disgusted glance from the bartender. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”
“Hey, honey,” she objected, “we just sat down.”
Grabbing her arm, Landreth pulled her from the stool to her feet, knocking over what was left of her drink in the process.
“Tough. We’ll go to the Trophy. This place is dead.”
“All right. All right. Don’t get rough. I’m coming.”
With something unpleasantly resembling a smile, the man in the cap watched them cross the room, stopping once to speak to a man holding a pool cue, before sliding his empty glass toward the bartender for a refill.
5
AFTER SIX O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, AN HOUR’S drive northeast of Anchorage, Jensen had swung off Knik Road and negotiated Jessie Arnold’s long drive—full at the moment of potholes and the melt of breakup. Rocking and rolling over two hundred feet of uneven track to the open space in front of her cabin, he pulled his mud-splashed truck to a halt beside her blue pickup. A homemade dog box carrier filled the pickup’s bed with transport for twenty sled dogs in neat, straw-lined compartments in two layers, a portable doggie motel. From a door at the rear, a narrow space between the two sections of condo-kennel provided storage for harness and other equipment. A light sled for sprint racing was secured to the top.
The sturdy two-room log cabin he had parked in front of had been planned by Jessie and built with help from friends a couple of years before she and Alex had met. Already it felt like home to Jensen, who had moved in with her less than six months before. Now he stepped out of the cab and stood for a minute, assessing his own feelings at arriving: pleasure and relief combined, with a bit of reluctance thrown in at knowing he would have to tell her about the day’s activities.
The relief resulted from being temporarily away from his job. He liked his work, but time to move away from it and relax gave him a better perspective on whatever case was currently occupying his mind. These days he was finding it equally important to spend time with Jessie, even sharing parts of his cases with her.
But his pleasure in coming home wasn’t all due to their relationship. The cabin itself was satisfying to him, secure and comfortable. Its walls were slowly weathering from the naked yellow-white of stripped logs to a pleasant grayish-tan which softened its appearance and gave it a natural look against the white trunks of a small grove of birch—branches still bare of leaves—and the few dark spruce scattered among them. It was a good place to live, four miles from the nearest neighbor, though the cabin was a little small for the two of them—especially with the sled dogs and puppies Jessie rotated in and out on a regular basis. Another room or two would have been nice, but, for now, it suited them well enough, with the assistance of a sizable shed behind it that was half nursery for puppies, half storage for their excess belongings and her mushing equipment.
Alex pulled a briar pipe from the pocket of his wool shirt, packed it, and held a kitchen match over the bowl till the tobacco glowed and a fragrant cloud of smoke filled the air around his head.
Tank, the lead dog for Jessie’s distance-racing team stood as close to the truck as the cable that tethered him to his kennel would allow. Several of the forty-some other dogs in the lot yelped a welcome from their individual kennels, but Tank stood waiting in silent dignity for this man to acknowledge his attention. Closing the truck door, a file of papers in one hand, Alex knelt beside the husky, rubbed his ears and murmured affectionate appreciation for the worth of such a handsome, intelligent canine, which earned him a sloppy lick that wet half his full mustache and the lobe of one ear.
Chuckling at Tank’s enthusiasm and wiping his face, he was rising to his feet when the door flew open and Jessie stepped out to stand at the top of the steps, smiling down, drying her hands on a dish towel. An appetizing yeasty scent swept from inside and floated out into the still air.
“Hi, trooper. Short-legged member of the welcoming committee got you first, I see.”
“Hope you don’t have similar greetings in mind,” he said, going up to sweep her into a hug. “If you do, aim for the left side. The right’s already clean, thanks.”
“Wash your own face,” she told him, then warmly returned the kiss he gave her. “Hey, I missed you. Hungry? There’s drunk pot roast just about ready.”
Jessie’s drunk roasts, simmered for hours in Killian’s Red Lager and carefully selected herbs, came close to eliciting genuflection from Alex. Shutting the door behind him, he took off his coat and boots, crossed the room, and stood wiggling his toes in front of a potbellied stove. A cast-iron kettle with a cover the shape of a dragon sat atop it, puffing humidifying steam from its nostrils into the room.
He glanced around the cabin, with satisfaction as always. It was full of warm colors and furniture chosen more for comfort than appearance. The log walls were relieved with a few pictures and a bulletin board that hung above a large desk in one corner. Like the desk, it was cluttered with papers that related to Jessie’s racing and kennel business. Near the door, parkas, scarves, mittens, and other assorted cold-weather clothing hung on hooks. Under them, boots and mukluks rested on rubber mats to protect the wood floor. Here and there among the coats hung bits of harness and line for the sleds and dogs she drove.
Besides the heating stove, a deep sofa and a couple of easy chairs, worn with much use, a reclaimed dining table and brightly painted, mismatched chairs filled most of the space unoccupied by the shelves, cupboards, refrigerator, sink, and cookstove of the kitchen corner. Through an open door to the next room he could see one end of the large brass bed covered with a colorful patchwork quilt. Beyond his line of sight was a wall completely covered with shelves of books and his collection of mustache mugs. Another wall was lined with pegs, hooks, and shelves for hanging and holding clothes.
Glad to be home, he closed his eyes and appreciatively breathed in deeply the scent of the roast.
“The smells in here are good enough to eat, and I’m starved. Missed lunch when we had to fly out to Beluga Lakes this morning.” Thoughtfully frowning, he contemplated the shape of his toes in the wool socks.
Jessie caught his expression and stopped halfway to the kitchen corner of the cabin. “What?”
He looked up to meet her question and shook his head. “Bad day,” he told her. “Found Norm Lewis’s plane the other side of Mount Susitna. Spent the day getting in and out with Caswell and the lab crew.”
Her look changed to sympathy and she paused before asking, “Rochelle? Ah-h-h…I’ll have to call her. Well, at least she knows now.”
“’Fraid not. Norm wasn’t in it. A woman’s body with a bullet wound…a passenger. But no sign of Lewis.”
“A bullet wound?”
“And another that someone with very good aim put into the engine. No question the plane was shot down.”
“Good Lord, Alex. Who’d want to kill Norm Lewis?”
“No idea. Don’t know that he was hit, just the woman. There was no sign of blood in the plane, but it would have washed away before freeze-up last fall.”
“Who was she?”
“Don’t know that either. The autopsy may help. Rochelle said she didn’t recognize her.”
“She was there?”
Jensen shrugged. “You know how she is. Couldn’t very well stop her from flying in with Landreth after he told her. She insisted on seeing it all.”
“Including a body that’s been out all winter? Yech!”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And she didn’t make an identification.” He sighed and stuck the pipe that had died during the conversation back in his pocket. With the long fingers of one hand he rubbed the back of his neck and stretched to relieve the tension he still carried there. Besides the stress of an investigation, folding his long-legged form into Caswell’s smallish plane was always anything but relaxing for the tall trooper. As usual, after
flying with Cas, his spine felt permanently curved.
Now he recalled Rochelle’s slight hesitation before she claimed not to know the woman in the plane. It bothered him again, as it had bothered him at the time. Had she merely been repulsed by what she had seen, or was it something else? He realized he was still holding the file he had carried into the house and tossed it into a rocking chair that stood near the stove.
Jessie came across to stand behind him, reached up and took over the massage of his neck and shoulders. “Oh, Alex. What a rotten day. For both of you.”
“Well, Chelle seemed okay, considering. Made some pretty good suggestions, actually. If he’d been in the plane, I’d never have let her see it. She didn’t say so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she intends to go back and hike from the site on down to the gas field by the inlet. Says that’s where he would have gone…if he was able. She had that kind of look in her eyes.”
“And you’re going to let her?”
“Let her?” Jensen wheeled to face her. “Let her? Just what do you suggest I do to stop her? It’s a free country and you know Rochelle as well…probably better than I do. I can’t tie her up or arrest her, you know. I don’t like it either, but….”
As he vented his concern and frustration, Jessie wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her forehead against the chest of his wool shirt. He sputtered into silence and held her close.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Alex. That wasn’t a very smart question. I’m just worried, that’s all. How much more can she take?”
“Well, get in line, Jess,” he half laughed, without humor. “Rochelle Lewis is almost as stubborn as you are, and a pretty tough lady, too. But I’m not sure of her balance right now, after brooding over it all winter. It makes me wonder.” Holding her at arm’s length, he yawned. “What do you say we get some of that pot roast before I weaken and succumb to starvation. Feed me, woman!”
Spinning her around to face the cookstove, he held her shoulders and marched her, laughing, across the room toward the origin of the tantalizing smell of the drunk roast.