Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  When he woke with a start and looked at his watch with the small flashlight he carried in one pocket, it was a quarter past four. Damn. Listening intently, he heard nothing. Not even Tobias snoring. Maybe he had rolled over.

  Getting up, he went to look, and came back to ungently shake Cas awake.

  “Hey, sorry. I nodded off, damn it. You better get up. Tobias is gone. Took off sometime in the last hour.”

  “Yeah…well. Thought he might,” Cas said, pulling on his boots and jacket.

  They went together to look and stood over the empty space where he had slept, or seemed to. He was definitely gone, as was the sleeping bag Cas had loaned him. He didn’t intend to be cold, wherever he was. It suggested that he, too, waited somewhere for the sun to come up, and it was already growing light.

  “Chelle?”

  “Still asleep.”

  “Better get her up. One way or another, we’ve got to stay away from whoever these guys are, at least until we get help at noon.”

  “I think we should move nearer where we left the planes,” Jensen suggested. “There’s more cover up beyond the ridge and we’d be closer when that someone shows up to fix the float. Besides, Tobias knows where we are, so we better not stay and take a chance on him bringing them back here, if he’s part of their game.”

  In a very short time the small ruined cabin was as abandoned and as peaceful as it had been before they came.

  21

  BY THE TIME THE MOUNTAINS ON THE EASTERN HORIZON were edged with gold from the rising sun, Alex, Cas, and Chelle had made a wide circle north of the lake and found a place from which to watch the section of the lakeshore that held Caswell’s disabled plane. In a stand of brush and trees about half a mile east along the ridge, they settled in quietly and used the binoculars to carefully examine the area. It didn’t take Jensen long to locate a half-hidden man with a rifle who was evidently tired and restless from his fruitless, all-night watch, for he revealed himself by carelessly shaking the concealing bushes when he stepped away from his ambush site to empty his bladder. Jensen surveyed the slope behind him leading to the top of the ridge and thought it might just be possible…

  “Bastards,” Chelle interrupted his assessment, distinctly angry and upset at the sight of the empty space where she had carefully secured her plane the day before. She said little more, but had a few choice names to call her brother.

  “Look,” Jensen said, when he was satisfied that there was only one man guarding their landing site. “If we’re careful, I think we could get the drop on that guy before he knew we were coming. He doesn’t know we’ve spotted him and won’t be expecting a surprise. What do you think, Cas?”

  After also studying the layout, Caswell nodded agreement. “From two directions, one from the top and one lower down. It’s worth a try. It’d be good to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to shoot our repair crew and we might get some information out of him.” He yawned, then grinned. “Besides, I’d like to see if they left him anything edible. My spine’s rubbing a hole in my empty belly.”

  “You okay to stay with this stuff, Chelle?” Alex asked, indicating the packs they had slipped off.

  “No problem,” she said, leaning back against the pack she had carried herself, stretching to relieve sore muscles and bruises that had tightened during the night. “I’d just as soon stay here, anyway. Yesterday was pretty hard on the bod.”

  It wasn’t difficult. The man on guard was absurdly lacking in alertness.

  “Police. Don’t do anything stupid,” Jensen calmly instructed him twenty minutes later, after a stealthy stalk along the ridge and down its slope to a spot ten feet behind the sleepy guard. “Toss out the gun, then come out of there with your hands on your head.”

  Following directions, the stranger soon stood facing the lake, with Jensen’s .45 semiautomatic against his ribs. Caswell rose from a covering position and moved quickly to join them. Searching through the scattered supplies and damaged equipment near his plane, he located a roll of duct tape and proceeded to securely fasten the ambusher’s wrists and elbows behind him, then taped his ankles and knees together.

  “There. He won’t be going anywhere soon. We’ll tape him to a tree and cover his mouth before we go.”

  “We going somewhere?”

  “We’ve got hours until anyone comes with help. There’s no sense in sitting around here waiting for them when we could head over and take a look at that camp on the other lake. Right?”

  Alex nodded agreement. “True. I’d rather know what we’re up against than stay here doing nothing. This one out of the way cuts the opposition down to four. Now”—turning to their prisoner on the ground—“who are you? And who’re you working for?”

  Though they questioned him for the next ten minutes, they got nothing. He said not a word, just sat, staring at them, stubborn and insolent, periodically spitting on the ground. Long, greasy hair held away from his face with a filthy strip of bandanna; small, piggy eyes narrowed to slits with incongruously long lashes; he kept his chapped lips tightly closed and wouldn’t even give them a name.

  Taking his rifle, they finally gave up in disgust. Cas wrapped a long strip of tape tightly around his mouth and head, including his long hair, so there was little chance of his rubbing it loose. He would not appreciate its removal later. Lifting him by the armpits, they sat him up against a tree surrounded by brush, where he would remain unseen, and used the rest of the tape to attach him to it, chest to waist. He glared and swallowed the saliva he would have expectorated had he been able.

  From the wreck of their belongings, Cas had sorted out three small cans of peaches, a box of pilot bread—mashed to crumbs by someone’s boot—and a crushed but still wrapped Butterfinger bar that had not been doused with the charcoal lighter. Searching the watchman’s hiding place, he came up with two ham sandwiches and a bottle of water.

  “You can’t eat them anyway,” he told the tape-imprisoned guard. “Hate to see them dry out and go to waste.”

  Trekking back to where Chelle waited, they divided the sandwiches and canned fruit three ways and washed their improvised breakfast down with water.

  In half an hour they were on their way to the lake on which Cas had spotted the other camp.

  “I want to know what Ed’s doing with this bunch,” Chelle stated, as they headed northeast off the ridge. “I don’t understand it at all.”

  Jensen let it pass, but considered and found himself wondering again about her motives for what happened the night before. Were both she and her brother involved? What did this have to do with Lewis? Or had they stumbled into something completely unrelated? It was all happening so fast there didn’t seem to be time to figure it all out, put the pieces together. Where was Tobias, and why? For that matter, who was Tobias? Were he and Cas the only people on the plateau not somehow connected to the Lewis case, which seemed to be expanding exponentially with very few useful clues. How did it all fit together—as it must, since every new piece to the puzzle seemed to be at least partly the same color as all the others, though they differed in shape, and none quite matched in configuration?

  Leaving the rain tarp, and several other heavy items hidden in the brush, along with the two sleeping bags they still had, they now traveled with more ease and speed. Cautious, Jensen insisted that they assess the route and stay near some kind of cover just in case they needed to escape the searching eyes of anyone flying over. For this reason they avoided the ridges and wide expanses of rock, and instead, also avoiding soggy sections, they picked their way across the uneven ground along a crooked course that eventually, over an hour later, brought them to a location directly across the lake from the camp. From this observation point, they could watch people moving purposely between planes and tents, and pulled out binoculars.

  “Sure wish I could hear what they’re saying,” Cas commented.

  “Yeah,” Alex agreed, glancing at Chelle. “They seem to be getting ready to go somewhere in your plane.”

&nb
sp; Pale and scowling, she was clearly infuriated to see her plane sitting half out of the water on the bank of the lake. Through her own glasses, she could see that the man she had pepper-sprayed the day before, now seemingly recovered, was filling the tanks of the Cessna from five-gallon cans of fuel. It took two, twice as much as she would have used flying to the lake from Anchorage. They must have flown the Cessna somewhere else since they had stolen it.

  As she was informing Alex of this fact, through the binoculars he saw Ed Landreth step out of one of the tents, followed by another man. Landreth was not answering his companion’s apparent questions, but stalked across to a fire that burned in the center of the camp, stubbornly shaking his head and refusing to engage in conversation. Picking up a metal cup, he poured coffee into it and stared at the lake as he raised it to his lips. With a quick, impatient motion, the man slapped the cup to the ground, grabbed Ed’s shoulder and shoved him around, yelling loud enough so that the sound, though not the words, could be heard faintly from where Jensen stood. For a minute, Jensen thought he was going to hit the younger man.

  Chelle caught her breath in a mixture of concern and irritation. “What the hell is Ed doing over there?” she questioned. “Where did he get a key to my plane? I’d like to smack him myself, but I’d rather not watch somebody else do it for me.”

  “Does he ever fly it for you? Could he have had a key made?”

  “Never. I don’t trust him. He can’t be bothered to learn the basic safety procedures…has no patience. After he wrecked my car I quit letting him borrow anything I’d have to pay for if he screwed up again, made sure he couldn’t get hold of my keys.”

  “Were there extra keys? Did Norm have one?”

  “Ye-e-s,” she said thoughtfully, “but it was on the same ring as his. It was with him last fall. How could Ed have it now?”

  “Well, he got a key somewhere, and if I’m right, these guys are about to use the Cessna for illegal hunting. Look, they’re loading tarps and a couple of rifles. He could lose the Cessna for you if they’re caught. Maybe that’s the idea—lose yours, not theirs.”

  “Damn it. I bet you’re right. But how would they get him to steal it?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s pretty obvious that he’s in on it with them some way, Chelle,” Cas told her frowning. “Nobody’s holding a gun to his head over there.”

  She turned back to peer across the water, trying to see. “What’s he doing, Alex?”

  Taking another look through the glasses, he answered her, slowly. “Still arguing. Looks like Ed wants to fly your plane and the other guy’s refusing to let him.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” The note of cynicism in her voice betrayed her irritation and disappointment.

  The confrontation across the lake was soon settled, it seemed, but not to Landreth’s liking. He turned away, kicked the cup that had been knocked from his hand, and disappeared into the tent.

  The man with whom he had argued, crossed to the plane, now evidently fueled, helped shove it into the water and climbed in, shouting something to his helper, who went back up the bank in a hurry and into another of the tents. In a couple of minutes, a fourth figure, carrying a rifle, came hurrying out to join the pilot in the plane. He appeared to be a client, from their attitude of deference and congeniality, and the look of him—expensive clothes and firearm. While Chelle and the troopers watched, the Cessna taxied and took off, disappearing to the east almost as soon as it was airborne.

  “Come on,” Jensen directed, lowering the binoculars and turning to head around the end of the lake. “Let’s get up on that ridge behind the camp. I want to see what’s going on. They’re after something.”

  Hustling to keep up with his long strides, Chelle and Caswell followed, taking less care to look for cover now that the plane had vanished and they couldn’t be seen from the lower level of the lake. It seemed to take a long time to gain the ridge above the camp, but, as they headed away from the lake, the vegetation thinned until they left behind the tangle of willow and alder that impeded progress. Once they reached the first ridge, the terrain on the other side swept eastward in a smoother, flatter slope, interrupted only by low rolling rises and scattered patches of scanty brush and bare rock—easier hiking, but almost none of it provided cover.

  Fifteen minutes later, moving quickly and carefully, they found limited shelter behind one such patch and saw the Cessna lifting off another small lake perhaps a mile away, where the hunter waved from the ground as it circled, gaining altitude.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Cas wondered aloud. “Why take that guy out there and dump him off?”

  “Wait,” said Rochelle. “Let me take a look.”

  He handed her the binoculars, but the plane, flying very low, had disappeared once more, beyond another low ridge.

  Waiting for it to reappear, none of them was prepared when, without warning, it suddenly rose up very close to them on the left, banked steeply back toward the hunter, and passed almost directly over them.

  “Get down,” Jensen barked. “Cover your faces and don’t move.”

  All three immediately threw themselves to the ground, all wishing they could dig a hole to crawl into. Caswell’s tan jacket blended well with the colors of the earth and Jensen’s dark green was fairly good camouflage, but the forgotten red bandanna around Chelle’s neck was an unmistakable contrast against the natural colors surrounding her.

  In less than a minute the plane swung back, completing a circle in the sky that brought it around in an angle that allowed the pilot to look directly down on the three still figures lying with their faces in the dirt.

  “Damn it,” Chelle heard Jensen mutter. “So much for them not knowing where or how many we are.”

  But, as she raised her head, the pilot straightened his path and once again headed east till the Cessna dropped behind a ridge.

  “He spotted us, didn’t he?” she said. “There’s not enough brush to hide in if we’d tried. Why did he leave?”

  “Don’t know, but he’s gone for now. Let’s get away from here and back over that hill. We can’t risk getting caught now and there’s two or three miles between us and the Maule. I don’t want any running gun battles.”

  Almost at a run, they started back the way they had come, covering ground quickly. When they had hiked three or four hundred yards and were nearing the crest of a small rise, they once again heard the sound of the plane and gained a small amount of cover in some brush before they looked back. It came into sight, but not flying a straight line. With dips and circles it seemed to be playing some kind of game in the air, swooping low over the ground, then rising to turn and swoop again.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Caswell asked.

  Quickly, Rochelle again retrieved her binoculars from the daypack and planted her feet solidly to look back toward the ground below the plane. Eyes wide with concern, she handed the pair to Caswell.

  “I’ve seen that maneuver before. Watch the brush where the plane comes closest to the ground.”

  “Da-amn. Take a look.” He handed the binoculars on to Jensen, who took his turn.

  For a few seconds Alex saw nothing, then a large, brown, furry animal, moving swiftly in a powerful, rolling gait, came into sight, headed fast in their direction.

  “God, a grizzly, and a big one.”

  Chelle nodded. “Yes, and by now it’s plenty mad. I’ve seen them stand up and reach, trying to snatch at a plane that’s harassing them. What he’s doing with those dips is drive it right to us, assuming we’ll be forced to move…try to get out of the way, or in position to fire at it. What the bear doesn’t get, he wants to be able to shoot. He saw us when he flew over, all right, and knows we’re here, between the bear and the lake.

  “It’s called hazing, a technique they use to make sure hunters get their trophies. Find a bear with the plane and herd it into range. If the hunter can’t kill it himself, one of them will even do that for him. These hunters get what they pay for, one wa
y or another, and another is usually faster and easier.”

  “We’d better pick our spot.” Jensen decided grimly. “We can’t possibly make it to the lake in time. That thing’s coming too fast.”

  Without a word, they turned and increased their pace toward the lake, looking for any place they could defend. Trees within reach were too small to climb, there only were rocky outcroppings and a few insufficient scattered shrubs. Picking the best of what little was available, they selected a depression surrounded by a pile of rocks and settled in as best they could, facing what they knew was coming that they could not escape.

  Very few minutes later, the bear that could outrun a horse in rough terrain and cover fifty feet a second in a charge, burst through the low scrub brush and over the top of the closest ridge, coming at them like a freight train. This one was huge, a mature animal, running full out, intent on escaping its airborne affliction.

  Though Rochelle and the two troopers lay perfectly still in their hollow behind the rocks, they had no real choice in position and the breeze blowing from behind them carried their human smell and anxiety straight to the bear. As it topped the ridge and caught the scent, it came to an almost sliding, complete halt and paused, its head weaving back and forth as it attempted to determine the location of this new threat, the distinctive hump of muscle over its shoulders clearly visible. From forty yards away, they could distinctly hear the rumbling growl reverberate in its throat and massive chest.

  Without further hesitation, it rose on its hind legs for a better view and stood, close to seven feet tall and just over a thousand pounds of awesome, angry Ursus arctos horribilis, Alaskan grizzly. It was golden brown in color with darker brown fur on the feet, legs, and exposed underparts. The swaying head was lighter brown and well over a foot across, so broad its eyes appeared small and piggish in relation to the rest of the slightly dished face. Six-or seven-inch-long, curved claws on the forefeet hung, wickedly sharp and yellowed, before its gigantic body, ready for instant, tearing action. Opening its jaws, it exhibited a mouth full of teeth capable of crushing rifle barrels. Then it roared, a sound that was a tactile sensation, so loud it almost drowned out the sound of the plane passing overhead and Jensen thought he could feel it in the rock he lay against to aim his .45.