Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  From the gun cabinet in the hall, she had taken her big .375 Weatherby Magnum, carried it to the bedroom and leaned it against the wall by the bed. It was her usual go-along gun: the rifle she took most often in the plane, especially in bear country, which included most of the state, and much preferred over handguns that took up less space. Intending to take it with her the next morning, she felt safer with it close at hand, though it was considerably more firepower than she would ever need on a housebreaker. Used competently, it could stop a Kodiak brown, a charging moose, probably an elephant.

  Even knowing the rifle was loaded and within easy reach, there had been only interrupted naps during the hours of darkness. She had found herself waking to check each sound she couldn’t immediately identify, indoors or out. Twice she had seen an APD squad car pass the house. Once she had peered out a rear window to watch the shadowy bulk of a large bull moose amble across the backyard in surprising silence.

  She had not noticed a motionless but watchful shadow within a shadow next to a small garden shed at the back of the property, and went back to bed unaware that it remained watchful most of the night. Regardless of the lack of sleep, now that she was in the air on the first stage of her mission, she felt alert and more energetic than she had in weeks.

  There seemed to be a thin hint of reddish-yellow in the alders on south-facing slopes near Alexander Creek at the foot of Mount Susitna on the eastern side. It was only a hint, but it pleased her to think that bursting energy would soon spread to everything that still looked gray and tired. With extra hours of spring daylight, trees in the north seemed to virtually explode with leaves between one day and the next, then grow as fast as possible. Wilderness Alaska might display a wealth of pearl, diamond, and opal in the snow, ice, and aurora borealis of her winters, but during the warmer half of each year, she wantonly lavished a thousand hues of jade, emerald, and sapphire in munificent extravagance over her forests, tundra, lakes, rivers, and coastal waters. It was good to anticipate.

  Except for an Alaska Airlines 737 completing a wide turn south toward Seattle from the runway at Anchorage International, the sky was momentarily empty at almost seven o’clock in the morning. Its brightening blue looked scrubbed clean and the air was so clear she could plainly see four of the volcanoes that formed part of the Alaskan edge of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Spurr, Redoubt, and Illiamna on the mainland, and Augustine, on its island at the outer edge of Kamishak Bay, rose in a majestic line at the upper end of the long mountain range that fell far beyond her sight to the south and west, sweeping into the scimitar of Aleutian Islands that divided the Bering Sea from the North Pacific.

  In a few minutes, Mount Susitna fell behind her on the right and she was floating back over the plateau where she had been only two days before. As she silenced the music on her radio, she frowned, suddenly recalling the glitch in her usual takeoff routine that morning. The radio had been set on the wrong frequency.

  All pilots had their own idiosyncrasies and habits in performing the necessary flying chores. One of hers was almost automatically setting the radio to the frequency she would initially use on the next flight. After completing her landing communications with the tower, she always switched to the frequency that carried all the details on weather and conditions important to pilots: “Information Alpha.”

  This morning the radio has still been turned to tower frequency, an annoyance that suggested to her that perhaps she had been more upset over the discovery of Norm’s plane and irritated with Ed than she had realized. It annoyed her to lose track of her normal routine, especially in connection with her plane. Consistency was, after all, the key to safe flying. An easily altered radio frequency was no threat, but what else might she have forgotten or missed that could make an important difference? And it was not the first time since Norm disappeared that it had happened. Twice before the winter had set in she had neglected to make the change and been just as bothered by the mistake.

  But she had let her concern slip away as, less than an hour from takeoff, she had dropped out of the sky and was drifting in for a landing on the narrow, nameless lake where Norm’s plane had gone down. Not a breath of breeze so much as rippled its mirror surface, so still it reflected like a piece of sky fallen between the hills, making it impossible to see where air stopped and water began. Confident that the surit and let the Cessna slowly lose altitude until, at last, the floats brushed and revealed it with twin wakes of visible disturbance.

  Pleased with the perfect smoothness of the landing, she was powering down when the shadow of something in the water ahead made her instinctively swing the rudder hard to the left. The Cessna responded decently, like a boat in the water, and there was only a small bump she could hardly feel as the right float nudged against a heavy log suspended and almost invisible just below the surface.

  Chelle heaved a sigh of relief at just how close she had come to disaster. A punctured float would fill quickly, destroying buoyancy, possibly making it impossible to take off, depending on the size of the hole. The bump had, thankfully, not been hard enough to create such a hole. She would have no trouble remembering to locate this particular hazard and avoid it when she left.

  Taxiing to the shore, she pulled up near the empty spot where Norm’s plane had rested. The helicopter had lifted it out, swinging on a strong cable, and flown it back to the lab in Anchorage. Only a few scrapes remained where it had initially been dragged out of the water by the winch. In the mud around these were the footprints of what looked like an army. Had there been as many people as there were prints, she thought, they could have picked up the plane and walked away with it.

  Floats resting against the bank, Chelle cut the engine and automatically reset the radio as usual. From this location, she was too low to receive radio signals from Anchorage, but setting the radio anyway made her feel she was wiping out her earlier error. Half smiling, she opened the door and sat looking around her for a long minute before climbing out. In the sudden silence she heard a raven’s raucous call and saw it swoop from the branches of one of the stunted evergreens on the ridge, inky-black wing tips feathering the air like fingers. The big ravens looked blacker than black, noisy holes in the world where light seemed to disappear. Ripples caused by the plane dispersed on the lake, leaving it flat and still once again. Somewhere, unseen, a fish jumped with a distant splash. A squirrel’s alarmed tic…tic…tic betrayed its presence in the brush and she imagined its fluffy tail twitching in time to that warning sound.

  It was cool in the early sunshine, so she pulled on a down vest over her turtleneck sweater before walking the float and hopping off with an armload of equipment. Her waders over wool socks squished in the mud near the water’s edge, but farther up the ground was bare and drier, where she expertly fastened a come-along to a tree and ran a cable back to the plane. In just a few minutes, she had reversed the Cessna’s direction and pulled the back third of the floats out of the water and onto the bank. Around two other trees, she looped additional cables that ended in safety slip-hooks, tethering the hooks back onto the cables through their spring latches, securing the plane solidly to the shore. Later, it would be relatively easy to loosen and push it down the bank’s gentle incline into the water again.

  Satisfied with the results of this chore, before unloading her gear, she climbed back into the plane, pulled a handful of USGS maps from the door pocket and sorted through them till she located the one she wanted: Tyonic B-4, Alaska. Tucking the rest away, she spread it out on the passenger seat, leaning to examine it in the sunlight that fell through the window.

  The rolling hills of the plateau it pictured around this small lake rose and fell in topographic lines between five hundred and a thousand feet above sea level. One of the lowest and largest of dozens of unnamed lakes and ponds in the area, it was easy to identify, in the lower right quadrant, by its slightly more than mile length and elongated shape. Approximately seven miles away to the southeast, the plateau ended and fell steeply away to flatland near the Coo
k Inlet.

  Four miles west, Lower Beluga Lake widened the Beluga River, giving it the appearance of a snake that had swallowed a particularly large dinner. It was this direction Chelle felt Norm would have chosen if he had tried for the coast. Following Olson Creek, which began just over a ridge east of the crash scene, would have been shorter, but essentially more difficult, as it swept through a narrow, heavily forested ravine that fell off to the flats below. Beluga River was large enough to float a raft, even a log, over parts of it, reducing the required walking time and effort. Olson Creek was too small for this possibility.

  The area between the two lakes was an obstacle course of rocky ridges between patches of low, swampy ground, also rough hiking at best, but more open, less tangled with trees and brush. Looking closely, she found that a nameless creek drained from the west end of this lake to the shores of Lower Beluga, between fairly low and consistent ridges. Its north side looked most passable, and there would be no creeks to cross, though some low spots would be swampy.

  Chelle knew that surrounding most of the lakes and rivers was a wild quarter-mile tangle of alder, willow, and spruce so thick it would be a nightmare to fight her way through. Avoiding as much of this as possible made sense, not only for her own ease of travel, but because Norm would also have chosen the path of least resistance. She determined to climb the ridge above the lake and head west on higher ground, parallel to the creek and away from the worst of the trees and brush. Since there was no trail to follow, she would pick her own path.

  Satisfied, she folded the map to fit into a waterproof envelope, tucked it into a pocket of her jacket, and turned to transfer her remaining gear to the bank. Climbing from the plane, she walked the float with three loads before locking it up and double checking the cables that secured it. On top of the instrument panel inside the cockpit, she left a note, printed in large letters that could be read through the windshield. It included the date and that she had headed west to Beluga River expecting to return in four or five days. No one would report her plane abandoned and initiate an unnecessary search.

  Before shouldering the pack she had prepared the day before, she changed into hiking boots and fastened her waders to the back of it. There was some water to cross and she would rather carry them than suffer wet boots that would be difficult, if not impossible to dry.

  In one jacket pocket, she stashed a large can of pepper spray where she could reach it quickly. Bears this time of year were hungry and sometimes ill-tempered after a winter of hibernation. They were also mostly the larger, fiercer males, since females, especially those with new cubs, stayed in their dens till later in the spring. Chelle respected them and would rather drive one away, if possible, than kill it. Making enough noise to avoid coming upon one by accident was her first line of defense. She knew enough not to whistle—which could sound like a cub crying, to a bear—and had learned to talk or sing to herself as she hiked.

  A lightweight, 25mm flare gun from the plane hung from her belt, along with two extra charges. In case of an accident, it would let a rescuer know where she was. Also, discharged between herself and an interested bruin, it would put out a lot of smoke and fire, and would at least discourage a charging one if fired into its fur.

  The .375 Weatherby she hung by its sling from the pack behind her right arm as last-resort insurance. Like many other bush pilots, Norm habitually carried a model 600 Remington 350 Magnum, a smaller rifle, just over a yard long and weighing only six and a half pounds, as opposed to the more-than-ten-pound Weatherby. He thought it too heavy for her, but it had been a gift from the friend who had taught her to shoot it well, and she felt its weight compensated for upper-body strength, though it had a wicked recoil that had set her on her fanny more than once and still sent her home from the practice range bruised and aching. She didn’t usually tote it for miles across the tundra, she had argued to Norm. It was strictly a defensive weapon that could put an aggressive grizzly in its place, on the ground, if necessary. Except for practice, she seldom had it out of its case, but she was very good with it.

  Now she considered the extra weight worth the secure feeling it gave her as she climbed away from the lake to the ridge and headed along it in the direction of Beluga River. An hour later, out of sight of the small lake in a stand of evergreen that muffled sound, she did not see or hear the plane that came in low from the east without circling, landed, and taxied toward her plane, or the man who discovered and read the note she had left in the cockpit.

  14

  JENSEN AND CASWELL ALSO GOT AN EARLY START, but it didn’t last long. Some days just don’t configure themselves helpfully, and some seem to conspire to make it as difficult as possible to accomplish much. If Alex had thought Chelle really intended to go looking for Norm so soon, it would have taken them less time to discover she had gone. If he had known what awaited him at the Palmer detachment office, he would have at least considered going straight to Lake Hood and heading out immediately with Cas for somewhere…anywhere else.

  The federal agent he encountered in Commander Ivan Swift’s office was unknown, unexpected, and it was soon apparent, not inclined to be forthcoming with information, assistance, or courtesy. Keith Progers was enough a stereotype to make Alex wonder if the agency recruited by looks, then did its best to erase them, for he was the epitome of the average invisible man: of average height, weight, and appearance, wearing a dark, off-the-rack suit and a nondescript gray tie. His only memorable feature was a pair of ears that stuck out from the sides of his head like handles on a trophy cup, making his eyes look closer together than they really were. Still, he was so ultimately forgettable that anyone he met would have been hard-pressed to describe anything but his averageness the minute he passed from sight.

  He did not rise or offer a hand when introduced to the tall trooper, but nodded once and remained seated next to a half-empty coffee mug on the corner of Swift’s desk, staring at Jensen as if he expected little of worth from any law enforcement agency or individual so far out of the real world.

  The frown on his commander’s face, and the narrowing of his eyes at the discourtesy, told Alex that Swift was less than impressed with his visitor, and made him wonder what kind of conversation had preceded him.

  “So, you finally found Randolph,” Progers stated with obvious condescension.

  Before answering, Jensen strode across the room to lean against a windowsill, determined to make his height a subtle point in retaining control and dignity in the situation. The only empty seat in the room was a low chair that would have put the knees of his long legs higher than his hips, and he refused to allow himself to be made to look like an awkward teenager. As he turned, he caught a gleam of recognition and amusement in Swift’s eyes and the almost undetectable twitch of his lips.

  Refusing to be nettled by Progers, he simply agreed with him, casually, in as few words as possible.

  “Yeah, we found her.”

  “Took long enough.”

  “It was a long winter.”

  “Well…if you say so. In the United States, we work year-round. Just give me everything you’ve got and I’ll get on with it.”

  Turning his head to look at Swift, who was sitting up very straight, and whose face had assumed a hue that indicated his blood pressure was rising, Jensen—wisely—swallowed hard and left the response to his superior.

  “I…don’t think so, Mr. Rogers.”

  “Progers,” the agent corrected, with a frown that let it be known his name was mispronounced often enough to be a sore point and, unknowingly, gave the commander a bruise to prod. “Federal agent murdered…federal investigation indicated. Don’t need assistance. I’ll take over from here.”

  Swift leaned back in his chair to look down his thin nose at Progers and spoke precisely in what was for him a controlled and dangerous voice, but which hung in the air like the resound of a pistol shot.

  “You may think you will, Mr. Rogers, but there’s more than just one person involved in this case. The oth
er probable homicide is an Alaskan resident. That puts this investigation squarely on our caseload and I don’t intend to rely on an outsider for it. We know our own territory and people. We’ll take the lead here. If you want to assist, we may be able to accommodate you, Mr. Rogers. I said, may. If you ask nicely and treat my people with the respect they deserve.”

  Progers, furious and fuming, shot to his feet as if his chair had suddenly turned red-hot. He opened his mouth to protest, but the commander cut him off short.

  “Yes, I know. You’ll make sure I regret this. You’ll take it back to all those influential contacts you supposedly have back East and they will teach me all kinds of lessons, et cetera, et cetera. Don’t bother with the threats, Mr. Rogers. Either get your act together with a little cooperative, interagency courtesy, or do your damnedest. By the time you round up all that support you seem to think you have, we’ll most likely have this wrapped up for you anyhow. Now…unless you have something constructive to contribute, I have important things to do. Get out of my office.”

  Agent Progers had a number of things to say as he left, none of them constructive, or courteous, and he slammed the door.

  Alex dropped into the low chair, letting his elevated knees remind Swift of a grasshopper’s, and grinned as he shook his head.

  “Run out of hot water at home, Ivan?”

  “Naw. Self-satisfied bastard just pushed my Patriot Missile button. Hate that attitude.”

  “Half expected you to sing about how wonderful it is in the neighborhood. If you’d called him Mr. Rogers one more time, I might have.”

  Swift grinned with satisfaction, his eyes wide in the feigned innocence of an apprehended henhouse invader.

  “Oh. Did I mistake his name? Well, you—with your my-head’s-higher-than-your-head windowsill perching—shouldn’t criticize my manners. If you see a cat with feathers around his mouth, never say canary, or he’ll take offense.”

  As Jensen groaned at the pun, Swift grew serious.