by Henry, Sue
“I’ll scan your dogs for chips when you go out,” the vet called after her.
“HERE—‘ESPECIALLY THE POLICE.’ HE SAYS POLICE. Wouldn’t a Canadian say constable or the RCMP? And the phrasing. I think this person’s an Alaskan—at least an American.”
Leland shook his head at her suggestion. “You can’t know that, Jessie.”
“Read it out loud and guess, Jake. It sounds more Alaskan than Canadian. ‘Keep your mouth shut…don’t do anything stupid…police…or else.’”
He did as she said, read it aloud, slowly, and finally agreed.
“You could be right. But where does that get us? Doesn’t tell us which Alaskan, or if they’re all Alaskan. Just that whoever wrote this damned thing is probably Alaskan.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s a start. Whatever happens, they can’t just be allowed to get away with this. Listen, Jake. I really think we need some professional help here. I know some people—”
“No!”
Leland responded as she had expected he would, with absolute and utter refusal, to the idea of any assistance.
“I told you. I won’t do anything that might jeopardize Debbie’s chances. I’m scared enough for her already.”
“Jake. We don’t even know what those chances are. It may be worse to do nothing—to do just what they tell us. They’re probably keeping us both busy worrying to complicate the matter—you trying to get the money, me out of touch with just about everything for two hundred and fifty miles between here and Dawson. How can we just go meekly along? We need someone to be doing something else—looking for Debbie, figuring out what happened and where they may have taken her.”
Stubbornly, he shook his head. “Absolutely not, Jessie. No. Not.”
She stared at him, understanding his obstinate attitude, feeling helpless against it, feeling he was wrong in action, right in sentiment.
“Okay, Jake, okay. I just hope we’re doing the right thing by doing nothing.”
“Believe me, finding that much money on short notice is not nothing.”
She had all but promised silence. So much for Cas. But if Alex had been available, she knew she wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him, whether Leland agreed or not. And Alex wouldn’t have been willing to follow the guidelines they had laid down. He would have done something—would have contacted…Delafosse!
He would have immediately contacted his Canadian friend, RCMP Inspector Charles “Del” Delafosse. She knew without a doubt that it would have been his first move—and that she could do the same with assurance of discretion, but should she?
Wisely, Jessie kept this particular insight to herself. She needed to think it over and it was definitely not something she wanted Leland to veto before she had the chance to do so. What he didn’t know couldn’t upset him.
“I’ll see you before you leave, okay? I’ll let you know…well, whatever, but don’t go without seeing me,” he was saying.
She agreed.
Turning to go back to her team, where the water she had left was probably hot by now, she saw the racer who had been following her for the last day or so pulling into the checkpoint in his blue and yellow parka. She kept seeing him. Was he following, not just keeping pace with her? Could he be part of this? Who the hell was he anyway? Was she just paranoid? It was time to find out.
“Rick Roney. Rookie in his second year, because he didn’t make it to Dawson last year, but he’s run enough middle-distance races to qualify,” the checker told her.
“But who is he? What does he do? Does he have his own kennel? Work with someone who does? What?”
“Don’t know. I just do the checking here. The Quest committee would know. They registered him. Find Ned Bishop. He’s around here somewhere managing the race, unless he’s already taken off for Stepping Stone. He’ll know. Why’d you want to know all this stuff anyway, Jessie? He’s just another young musher.”
“Oh, just curious. I keep seeing him and wondered.”
“Well, Ned’s the best one here to ask.”
“Thanks.”
Jessie found Ned Bishop, race marshal, by an incoming sled and team that were involved in a penalty dispute because the racer had lost his ax somewhere on the trail between Carmacks and Pelly Crossing.
“I don’t have time to argue with you, Charlie. You know the rule on mandatory gear. You have it, fine. You lose it, there’s a thirty-minute penalty in Angel Creek. I’d suggest that you stop griping and go find another one, or you’re going to catch hell from checkers from here to Fairbanks. That saw you’ve got won’t cut it, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“But I hardly ever use an ax. Don’t see why it should be so damned important.”
“I don’t make the rules. You can protest if you want. I’ll give you the paperwork to fill out. But I can tell you that if it’s on the list you gotta have it, just like everybody else. You know that. Sorry.”
The musher turned away, frowning and shaking his head. Bishop turned to Jessie.
“Ned, there was a driver came in just before Charlie. He had on a blue and yellow parka. You know anything about him?”
“Ah…hold on.” Bishop turned to call out to the checker, who was walking away toward the dog yard. “Hey, Bob. Who came in before Charlie?”
“Rick Roney.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
“Rick Roney,” he repeated for Jessie. “Rookie from Atlin.”
“You know anything about him?”
“Not really. He’s pretty new. Moved up there a couple of years ago—maybe five. Just got his first team together last year and ran some smaller races, but hasn’t won any. Met him a time or two. Pretty quiet…keeps to himself. Why?”
“He’s been behind me almost all the way from the start. I just wondered who he was and why he’s following me—a little information.”
“Well, that’s about all I can tell you. Probably likes your speed and doesn’t have anyone specific to run with. Your reputation precedes you, Jessie. There’s some rumors flying about that you’ve got a good team ahead of you. That you’re one to watch.”
“Oh, really? Anything makes good gossip, I guess.” She had to smile. Through her worry, it was good to know that people—other mushers—respected her ability enough to consider her a contender in a race she had never run before. “You’re probably right that Roney’s just playing follow the leader. I’ll just have to make sure I stay in front of him. Thanks, Ned.”
“Hey, no problem. Sorry I don’t know more. He’s kind of a standoffish sort. Anyway, glad to have you in the race, Jessie.”
Paranoia, she told herself, walking away. Just paranoia.
But something about it wasn’t that simple to explain and still made her uneasy. She shrugged her shoulders to alleviate a shiver that ran down her back, and headed back to her dogs.
Now the decision had to be made—should she, or should she not try to get in touch with Delafosse?
“Dammit, Alex Jensen. Where are you when I really need you?” she muttered, frowning.
Without warning a new reality swept into her mind, stopping her in the middle of the busy Pelly Crossing checkpoint to stare at nothing with a painfully sick feeling.
He’s not coming back, she thought. He’s going to stay in Idaho and not come back at all.
And, without question, she knew that she believed it.
“Get that thing down quick before someone drives by or another musher shows up. The trail crosses the highway here and we’re really exposed. I wanna get away fast.”
“I’m moving as fast as I can, goddammit. This thing’s heavy as hell.”
“Full of fancy trimmings and expensive food. She’s a rookie—has no idea what to take, so she takes everything. Must weigh three hundred pounds. Just get it far enough off the truck so I can reach it.”
“How the hell’d we get it up here?”
“There were four of us, remember?”
“Oh, yeah—well, we should have known we’d have to get it down. Ouc
h. Shit. Got my thumb under the runner.”
The two men were struggling to move a racing sled from the top of a dog box on the back of a pickup. Fully loaded, the sled was unwieldy and all but impossible to handle. As they wrestled with it, another truck rounded a bend in the road and drove toward them.
“Dammit to hell. Here comes someone, and there’s a box on that truck—it’s some racer’s support.”
“There’s only one guy.”
Seeing the difficulty the two were having with the sled, the driver of the approaching truck pulled up and stopped behind the parked pickup, climbed out, and came to do a friendly good deed.
“Looks like you guys need a hand.”
“Ah…oh, shit…sure. Thanks.”
Behind the newcomer’s back the two men gave each other long significant looks. One frowned and shook his head. The other shrugged.
Together, the three managed to move the sled far enough so that it finally overbalanced, began to slide from the top of the dog box so fast that all they could do was try to break its fall to the snow at the side of the road.
“Is it broke?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. Lucky, I guess.”
“Good thing nobody was under it. Heavy enough to mash you.”
“Yeah, thanks for the help.”
“No problem. Glad to. Whose sled is it?”
The newcomer frowned slightly, beginning to assess what he was seeing and confused by the irregularity of it. Why were these two removing a sled from a truck anyway? Assistance was not allowed in this part of the race. And where was the driver? Neither of these two was dressed for distance racing. Were they waiting for a racer? Did they intend to switch sleds—another racing no-no?
“Hey, I know you, don’t I?” he suddenly said to the man nearest him.
“Don’t think so. Who’re you?”
“B. J. Lowery. I handle for Rick Roney. Yeah, I do know you. You ran this race back a few years. You’re…ah…Wait a minute—I’ll get it. You’re…”
“Shit.”
Another meaningful glance between the first two men. Then the near one took a handgun from under his jacket and trained it on their volunteer helper.
“Move,” he said. “Over there, off the road.”
Stunned, Lowery hesitated, trying to comprehend what was happening.
“You deaf? I said move—now. Hold your hands away from yourself and get over there.” He gestured threateningly with the gun.
Slowly, Lowery, hands carefully held up in front of him, casting anxious glances behind him, walked off the road into the snow, the two following close behind him.
“Aw, you’re not gonna—” began the gunman’s partner.
“He can recognize us. What the hell do you think I should do?”
As the three approached the tree to which the dog team was tethered, Lowery suddenly threw himself to the right in an attempt to put the tree between himself and the other two. The man with the gun instantly fired, hitting him high in the center of his back. He crashed forward, sprawling face-first into the snow, injured but not dead. Still trying for the tree, he thrashed one arm—the other seemed paralyzed—striving to reach some kind of protection.
The dogs went crazy, barking and scrambling nervously at the startling sound of the gun and the metallic scent of fresh blood, knowing something was wrong.
The second bullet hit Lowery in the head from close range and he was abruptly motionless, bright red soaking into the frozen white beside him in a shocking contrast.
A dog howled, starting a chain reaction among the others that were now repeatedly hurling themselves against their restraints.
“Fuck. Now what’re we gonna do? Did you have to—”
“Yeah, I had to. He knew me. Would have got my name in another couple of minutes. Come on, let’s get him back into that brush before he bleeds any more. Help me, you shit. Don’t just stand there whining.”
Between the two of them, they dragged Lowery’s body farther from the road and buried it with snow. Carefully they kicked more snow over the stains that had left a crimson trail to the place where they had left him.
When they had finished their hurried cover-up, climbed in their truck, and gone, the team was still howling—the mournful, unsettling sound floating on the wind to the ears of a racer approaching the highway from the east, raising the hair on the back of his neck and setting his own dogs howling in instinctive sympathetic response.
10
“There is a magic in the Northland night which steals in on one like fevers from malarial marches. You are clutched and downed before you are aware.
”—Jack London, “A Relic of the Pliocene”
JESSIE WAS VERY CAREFUL—SO CAREFUL THAT SHE ALMOST, but not quite, felt ridiculous in the extent of her own caution. But she reasoned that if the kidnappers were watching Jake Leland, they could just as easily and anonymously be watching her and would know if she made any attempt to locate RCMP Inspector Delafosse.
With painstaking prudence, she considered her options.
Billy Steward, she felt, was too young and inexperienced to entirely understand and respect the seriousness of the situation. Afraid he might already be suspicious of her distracted attitude, she feared that Cas would be sure something was up and demand more of an explanation than she was willing to give, considering her unspoken promise of silence to Jake Leland. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Cas. She did. He had proved himself more than once when her life was a stake, and Alex trusted him like a brother. But she couldn’t be sure that the people he would feel obliged to trust with the information would be as cautious with it. So, shoving aside her small guilt, she went instead to Don Graham for help.
“I need you to do something for me, Don, and to not ask me any questions about it. And, whatever you do, you must not tell anyone—not anyone. It’s not about me, and I can’t tell you any more, except that if you so much as mention what I want you to do, it could be disastrous—very dangerous for someone else. Will you promise? Will you do what I ask you to do, the way I ask you to do it?”
“Of course, Jessie.” The big man stared at her, eyes wide, seeing how serious and intense she was. “You know I will. But if something’s wrong, can’t you tell me—”
“No, Don. I can’t. You have to trust me on this—I can’t.”
There was a long moment of silence as he considered this, with no real possibility of refusal, only concern to do the right thing.
He’s very loyal, Jessie thought.
“Okay,” he agreed. “What do you want me to do?” She told him.
Jessie’s dogs were reenergized and ready for the run to Dawson when she and Jim Ryan left Pelly Crossing that night, but she was tired and irritable, having had no rest and little to eat. She was also tense, worried, and so angry she could hardly speak until they’d been on the trail for more than half an hour.
The vet had showed up as promised to scan her dogs at the checkpoint when she pulled up with her heavy sled filled with supplies and equipment she had shipped to Pelly for this long section of the race. Running the monitor over each dog in turn, he had paused at Sunny and Wart, harnessed across the gang line from each other in the middle of the team. Four or five times he ran the scanner over the shoulders of the two dogs, read the result, then tried again. Flipping through the records of identification numbers he carried in his other mittened hand, he had finally turned to Jessie with an apologetic frown.
“Arnold, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well—these aren’t your dogs.”
She stared at him, confounded. “Say that again.”
“They’re not yours—have different numbers. This one dog’s supposed to be in Debbie Todd’s team—name of Royal. The other one’s not on the list at all.”
“That’s not possible. Don’t you think I know my own dogs? That dog’s name is Sunny and he’s been in my kennel since he was born. The other one’s Wart and he’s definitely on the list—you must have a
n incomplete list. I don’t make those kinds of mistakes.”
“Well, that’s what the chips say.”
“Let me see that board.”
He showed her the number for Sunny that the scanner revealed, then laid his finger on the same number on the pages of his list. The name of the dog it belonged to was Jake Leland’s Royal. The number by Sunny’s name was totally different. Flipping through the rest of the list, Jessie couldn’t find Wart’s number anywhere.
“This is wrong. You’ve got the numbers mixed somehow. Read their collars. See? This one says his name is Sunny and that one’s Wart and they’re mine.”
“But the chips say—”
“Look. This is crazy. Both these dogs’ chips were scanned at the start and again in Carmacks. Both times they checked out fine. Bob Spenser did it himself, both times.”
“I don’t know, Ms. Arnold. All I know is that they’re not right here.”
“Jessie. It’s Jessie, please. Let me get Jake Leland. He’ll know Sunny’s not his dog.”
He did.
“Not a chance. I know Royal and that dog’s not him,” Leland told the vet in no uncertain terms. “I don’t care what your damned scanner reads, it’s wrong.”
“Okay?” Jessie asked. “Satisfied?”
The vet bit his lip, shook his head, and frowned stubbornly. “Can’t just say it’s okay. The numbers are wrong. Both dogs.”
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Jim Ryan, who had pulled his team up behind Jessie’s, set his snow hook and trotted up to see what was causing the furious, determined expression he could see developing like a thundercloud on her face.
“He says Sunny and Wart are not my dogs,” she snapped.
The vet turned red to his ears and began to equivocate. “Now, I didn’t say that. I said the numbers of the chips—”
“What? Oh, hell. I’ll get Ned Bishop.”
Ryan stomped off through the snow in search of the race marshal.
But Bishop, regretful and sympathetic, was no more help than the vet, though he was obviously uncomfortable with the decision he felt forced to make.