by Henry, Sue
If you get this letter, then there is one thing I’m asking you to do for me—for us—and you are the only one I can trust to do it, Chelle. These are the notes I made about everything, every detail I could, and Karen’s notes too, so they will have her side of it. Take them to Fish and Wildlife and let them use them however they can to nail these bastards to the wall. I’ve put in all the names and places and everything I know about it and she put in the rest.
If all goes well, as planned, we’ll be able to do it ourselves, but if not, you must please do it for us. I’ve done everything I could to make sure the notes survive. I’d leave you my ace for luck, but I’m taking it because right now I need it more than you do.
If anything happens to me, don’t be angry or bitter. It isn’t your fault any more than it is mine. I won’t ever leave you, not really, you know.
I love you,
Norm
She didn’t read the notes, but carefully put the pages of Norm’s letter back in order, lined them up neatly, smoothed them carefully back into their folds around the notebooks, and put it all back into the envelope. Then she sat, unmoving, staring at nothing beyond and through the water. Seeing, hearing, feeling…nothing. She frowned a little, but there were no tears, just a total emptiness where her heart had been such a short period of time before.
Then she stood up, stiff from sitting, closed the shed door, walked across to where she had noticed that the space beyond Norm’s was empty, and sat down on the log to wait for Jeff, as she felt she should.
In a little while, a raven swooped down to land a few feet away, strutted around, cocking its head this way and that, inspecting her, commenting with a series of quarks. But there was only silence and nothing to eat, so he soon flew away.
25
IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING when Jensen turned off Knik Road into Jessie’s long driveway, now almost dry of the mud and water that had filled the potholes. Still, they would be back with more spring rain; it was a rough, uneven two hundred feet to the space in front of her cabin, and would soon create billows of dust. As he pulled in next to the empty space that Jessie’s blue pickup should have occupied, he decided that a load of gravel would be a good thing before much longer.
Without going to the door, he knew the sturdy, two-room log cabin was empty, and felt disappointment draw his brows together. Where was she? It hadn’t crossed his mind that she might not be there to meet him.
Stepping out of the cab, he stood for a minute, comparing his feelings to the pleasure and anticipation he had felt a few days earlier, and remembered her standing at the top of the steps, smiling down, drying her hands on a dish towel, the yeasty scent of drunk roast floating from inside out into the cool evening air. He had been reluctant, that evening, to have to tell her about finding the Lewis plane. Now, he knew he was reluctant to go into the cabin, empty and silent of Jessie’s vitality and presence, having looked forward to sharing the end of this case.
Procrastinating, he extracted his briar pipe from the pocket of his wool shirt, packed and lit it with a usual kitchen match, puffing till the taste of tobacco filled his mouth and smoke rose in a cloud around his head.
Looking down, he saw that Tank again stood in silent confidence, patiently waiting to be recognized and petted. Again, this attention earned Alex an affectionate face washing.
“Well, old man,” he told the husky, “it’s just you and me. Where’s your musher friend? Huh?”
Tank’s tail beat a tattoo in the air, but gave no clue to Jessie’s absence. So, unfolding himself from a crouch, Jensen went resignedly up the stairs and opened the front door.
The room he entered was comfortably warm from the potbellied stove softly glowing on the other side of it, but no appetizing smell of dinner cooking greeted him. A light, however, was on over Jessie’s large, cluttered desk. Removing his boots and hanging up his coat, he crossed to it, but no note lay waiting for him in the spot she often left one, nor was there a scrap of paper on the dining table.
Feeling slightly abandoned, and a little depressed, Jensen found a bottle of Killian’s in the refrigerator, opened it to take a long, satisfying swallow, and stretched his lanky frame out on the sofa, without switching on another light. He remembered that he wanted a shower, felt grubby from clambering through hills and swamps in the bush for two days, but hadn’t the energy to do more than lift the lager to his mouth and feel the tension begin to melt away from his neck and shoulders. Vaguely, he wished he had thought to turn on the radio before lying down. This, too, seemed beyond his ability to accomplish, and he forgot it as he emptied the bottle, set it on the floor beside the sofa, and closed his eyes, hands folded over his chest.
The dogs in the yard had stopped barking. It was totally still…and…lonesome. It was, he imagined, what Chelle Lewis had experienced all winter and would, now, every day—unless she found someone to replace Norm…sometime…later, maybe. Unexpectedly, the idea of Ernie Tobias slipped into his mind. Big, inherently gentle, dependable Ernie, single and attracted to strong women. Interesting…and premature, he was sure. Still…
He liked Tobias, was glad to find him on the right side after all. There was a cold, unexpected, deadly streak in the agent—surprisingly exhibited in his cold fury at the poacher’s treatment of Karen Randolph. But what had highly impressed Alex was the man’s unconditional, absolutely unbreakable loyalty. Cas had a lot of the same quality, he knew, but Ernie’s was expressed in a much more physical manner—no more effective, perhaps, but more immediate. It, or the threat of it, if you were a criminal, would certainly get attention—results.
He thought of the expression on Caswell’s face as he handed over the evidence he had located on the way back to the lake to meet the repair crew. Revulsion had been part of it. So had pity, and anger. Particularly anger. It took a lot to inspire that kind of anger in Ben.
“What is it?” Alex had asked.
“I found something you need to see.”
“On the ridge.”
“Not exactly. Farther east, in a gully that cuts south from it.” Silently, stiffly, he had handed Jensen one of two evidence bags. The remnants of the stained clothing he had found showed up unmistakably through the clear plastic.
He had explained, quickly and in detail, under what conditions and where he had found them, describing the bear trail and cache, as well.
Jensen had examined both closely and nodded. “It’s got to be Lewis. You think a bear got him?”
“Might…if it weren’t for this, and another, similar, still at the scene.” He had handed over the other bag containing the broken thigh bone with its damning slug.
Jensen had turned it over and examined it through the bag, and his reaction had been what Cas had expected, knowing the tall trooper well, his whole attitude one growing outrage. He had said nothing, until he had pulled his pipe from his pocket and was puffing anger into the air in a fragrant cloud. Then he had taken it from between his clenched teeth and hissed, “God damn the miserable bastards straight to hell.”
“My feelings exactly,” Cas had agreed. “It seems pretty clear that they shot his legs from under him and left him to the grizzly.”
“I’ll bet they didn’t just hope the bear would show up—leave it to chance,” Alex had growled. “No more than they did for us this afternoon. Whoever did this undoubtedly drove the bear onto him.” He tapped the slug in the bone with one long finger. “This made sure he couldn’t get away and the smell of his blood would be as good as bait.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that, too. Ever since I found it this afternoon. Any bets on which one of the Stoffel gang’s rifles this slug would fit? What do we do about Rochelle?”
Jensen had thought about it for a minute or two before answering. With the stem of his pipe, he had rubbed at the full blond mustache on his upper lip and looked up at Caswell wearily.
“She’s got to know. If she doesn’t, she won’t give up on this idea that she’s going to find him.”
“Just show her the piece of shirt. It’s the easiest to identify. She doesn’t need to see, or know about, his legs, just that a bear got him.”
Jensen had disagreed. “No. She’ll have to know it all. I promised and…no matter how hard it is. She doesn’t need to see it, but I’m going to tell her.”
Caswell had slowly nodded. “Okay. Your call.”
And Chelle had looked at him warily, waiting in silence, intuition telling her that what he had to say would not be pleasant.
Silent for a minute, Alex had cleared his throat and given her a long, level look, filled with sympathy. “You don’t have to go on looking for Norm,” he had told her quietly. “Cas found his body this afternoon. I’m sorry, Chelle, but we’ve all expected it…even you.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he had removed the evidence bag containing the stained shirt and handed it to her.
“Was this Norm’s?”
She had said nothing at first, made no sound, had just stared at the bag with wide eyes that slowly filled with tears that spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Raising her eyes, she had swallowed hard, clenched her teeth, then had taken a deep breath before she nodded.
“Yes. So he really is here. Didn’t…Where? Where is he?”
She had started to rise from the log she was sitting on, looking at Jensen, but he had waved her down.
“Up along the ridge in a ravine of some sort. That direction.” He had pointed east with the stem of the pipe. “You can’t…don’t want to…”
“Tell me, Alex. Just tell me. Was he hurt bad in the crash?”
She had handed back the evidence bag, which Jensen had repocketed.
“I don’t know. Ben wasn’t able to tell. Chelle…a bear got him…last fall. A grizzly, from the look of it.”
“Jesus!” Her face had twisted with repulsion and horror. “How—?”
But he had cut her off before she could ask more than he wanted to tell her, and she had watched closely as he told the rest.
“Someone…one of them…shot him and he couldn’t get away when…”
“Oh…God…no.”
Her reaction had startled him into silence as she abruptly stood up, staring blankly, her face a kaleidoscope of shifting emotions—aversion, grief, anger, refusal, a few others he couldn’t separately identify…guilt and resignation, perhaps—then she had turned and faced the lake, trembling. “My fault,” she had said. “My fault.”
“Chelle.” Jensen remembered how frustrated he had felt with her insistence on guilt. “Damn it. It was not your fault. You had nothing to do with it. One of these guys shot him along with Karen Randolph, and it won’t be long till they admit it. There’s no reason for them not to. But even if they don’t, we know, and we’ve got enough evidence to convict them. Let it go. He never meant to leave you. You must know that now.”
Her face a mask, she had listened and finally nodded once.
“Can…can I go up there to see?”
He had hesitated. “You don’t want to do that, Chelle. Will you take my word for it this time.”
There had been quiet for a few seconds while she thought about it, ending with a sigh. “Yes. I think I will…this time. I don’t really need to go, because…I already knew he was dead, Alex…before, without seeing. It’s like something just stopped. You know when you hear a bell ring, then it stops and there’re vibrations in the air that seem to go on for a while? It’s like that. Like the winter was sort of vibrations for me. Now they’re gone—he’s gone. I know.”
She had looked up at him, the need for confirmation clear on her face. “But, you’re right, he didn’t mean to leave me, did he?”
“No,” he had said, wanting very much to reassure her. “No, I’m sure he didn’t, Chelle.” Not intentionally, he had thought, but that doesn’t make him any less gone, the space he filled any less empty.
And now, in Jessie’s small, quiet house, lying on her big sofa, he thought about all the empty space and days that had made and would make up Chelle’s life for a long time.
When she moved, she had walked as if her legs felt strange, as if she had been ill and wasn’t quite well yet. She had walked away with a nod of thanks in his direction, and he had watched her go toward her plane, beyond which the Kenai Service repairmen were patching up Caswell’s Maule. Twice, she had glanced around as if it seemed odd that everything was so normal—lake water lapping softly at the bank, the damp mud smelling slightly musty, a thousand sparkles from sunshine on the wavelets, a cool breeze ruffling a few blades of new, brilliant green grass at her feet. She had frowned a little, but there were no more tears, just an empty, slightly haunted look on her face.
He had no way of knowing that, as she went and reached into a pocket, she found the ace, among other things, and that she was holding it as she climbed into the pilot seat to start the engine of the Cessna that, recovered, was ready for her to fly it home.
Where the hell was Jessie? he wondered, and immediately felt ashamed of his irrational irritation. She was not, after all, his personal chief cook and bottle washer, nor would he want her to be, would he? There were dozens of things she could be doing, places she could be. She might share his life, but had her own to live as well.
Yes, he thought, as he drifted off, but, oh, how well she fits into mine.
There was the fresh smell of soap and outside air, just before Jessie kissed him softly awake, before he opened his eyes to find her on her knees by the sofa.
“Hi, trooper. Where ya been for days at a time?”
He didn’t say anything, just reached to pull her up with him, knocking over the empty Killian’s bottle in the process, and held her close for a long time.
She was dressed in denim pants and one of his own soft, old, flannel shirts that he could get his hands under to feel the warm, smooth skin of her back, and he couldn’t get enough of the smell of her honey-blond hair. He wanted to tell her a hundred things, but couldn’t find the words for one, could only feel the tears behind his eyelids and the lump in his throat.
Finally, she raised her face from the hollow of his shoulder to say, “Hey. It’s really only been two…” Then she saw his expression and stopped, losing her smile.
“What, Alex? What is it? You’re scaring me.”
And he could move again, speak to reassure her.
“Nothing. It’s all okay. I just missed you. I love you, Jessie.”
She sat up, turned on the reading lamp at the end of the sofa, above their heads, and looked at his face for a long, still minute, seriously assessing what she found there.
“Yes,” she said, at last. “Yes, I think you really do.”
“I…ah…haven’t been very…”
“If you mean only part of you’s been coming home at night lately. It’s okay. All of you’s here now. You get that way when you’re focused and working a case sometimes.”
“Yes, but this was different. I…”
She paused to give him a searching look.
“I know,” she said slowly. “But was is the operative word now. Right?”
“Right. But I want you to know…”
“It’s okay, Alex. Really. You don’t need—”
He interrupted her flow of words with a finger against her mouth.
“No, Jess. It’s not quite okay until we talk. I want to talk about it. Want you to know…”
“And maybe I don’t want to.” She almost leapt from the sofa to stand, looking down at him. “Maybe I don’t want to hear it—help you clear your conscience by listening and feeling hurt. Don’t be selfish, Alex.”
“No. It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
He remembered the night in the dark with Rochelle Lewis, and was silent, trying to decide. Was she right? Was he trying to share, or assuage some guilt of his own?
“No.”
“Does what we’re not talking about here have anything to do with trust, Alex?”
“Trust?”
�
�Yes. The word does keep coming to mind.”
He stared at her, startled wordless. It had not come to his mind.
“I’ve had a fair bit of it to do lately, Alex. And, just so you know, it hasn’t been easy.”
He could see she was close to tears. Things were happening—fast—that he did not understand.
Standing up, he went to turn on the lights so he could see her clearly, try to learn whatever it was she was feeling that he needed to know. What he learned was that it was a lot.
“Come.”
Taking her hand, he walked to the table and pulled out two chairs. She sat in one while he continued to the kitchen and put on the kettle. While the water heated, he took out mugs, tea, milk, and sugar, and when it was hot, made them each a cup. Jessie watched in silence.
“Now,” he said, sitting down to face her across the table. “Tell me.”
“I think…” she started, then stopped. “No. I’ve got to preface this right, get it in perspective. We’re coming from two completely different places, Alex.”
“What places?”
“Well, to start, I don’t think you’ve ever been in a position to lose trust in the painful way I did. Losing is different than losing trust in. Do you see?”
“Yes,” Alex said thoughtfully. “I do. You had it the other way around, you mean.”
“Yeah. I’ve told you what happened with Grant. I didn’t lose Grant, I lost trust in Grant. He knowingly stole it by lying to me. He meant one thing and let me think he meant another. What scares me is I know how much it costs. For the better part of a week you’ve come home either talking or thinking about Chelle Lewis in a way that has scared me to death…afraid it would cost me…you—but, worse, everything else. Now you want to talk about it.”