by Janet Dailey
Emma’s hands shook, blurring the pad in her vision. The pen clattered to the floor. Nausea crept up her throat. She’d never had a panic attack in her life, but right now she couldn’t do this.
“Excuse me, I’m not feeling well,” she muttered, and fled the dining room.
Pearl found her a few minutes later in the employee rest-room. She was splashing cold water on her face. “Are you all right, honey?” Pearl asked.
At the sound of a friendly voice, Emma shut off the water and turned around. She still felt unsteady, but the worst was over. “Sorry, this isn’t like me at all,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Never mind. I know that man. He’s a real scumbag. Did he say what it sounded like he said—that you were married to Boone Swenson?”
“I’m afraid so. But it’s a lie. It’s a long story, Pearl, and you don’t have time to hear it. We both need to get back to work.”
“It’s all right. David’s there. He can fill water glasses and bring orders for a few minutes. But I think it might help you to talk—and as your supervisor, it would help me to know what you’re dealing with.”
Emma gave her the briefest possible version. Even so, her story was longer and more wrenching than she’d expected it to be. By the time she’d finished, she was drained of words and emotion.
Pearl wiped away a sympathetic tear. “You poor baby, you’ve really been through it.”
“The thing is, I mustn’t feel sorry for myself,” Emma said. “If I do, I’ll never be able to move on. I thought I had moved on until that horrible man came in today. When he looked up at me and smiled, the whole nightmare came crashing in on me. And when he called me Mrs. Boone Swenson, I wanted to die of shame. The worst of it was, I could tell he was enjoying himself.”
“Well, don’t worry, dear.” Pearl squeezed Emma’s shoulders. “Whatever happens out there, I’ll have your back. And I’ll wait on that slimeball myself—even though I might be tempted to slip a good, strong dose of laxative in his beer.”
“Do you think David heard what he said?”
“I’m pretty sure he was in the kitchen. But don’t worry. If he did hear, I’ll make sure he knows the truth. Now what d’you say we go out there and show ’em what we’re made of?”
Heartened by Pearl’s support, Emma followed her back to the dining room. After what had just happened, all she could do was hold her head up and go back to work. But a new fear had taken root inside her, and she could feel it growing.
Since Philpot knew she was working here, it would only be a matter of time before word got back to Boone.
She cast a furtive glance toward his table, hoping she wouldn’t catch him looking back at her.
The table was empty.
* * *
It was late afternoon, the sun already low in the sky, when John arrived back in Ketchikan. He thought about calling Emma, but since he knew she’d be working, he went straight to the police station.
Traverton was just leaving to go home, but when he saw the photos on John’s phone, he called his wife and asked her to hold dinner. After they’d transferred the photos to the police database, they brought up the shots of the glasses on Traverton’s computer.
“They’re just like Philpot described,” John said. “Boone’s first so-called bride wore big glasses with thick lenses. If they were anything like this pair, she was probably too nearsighted to get by without them. She would never have gone off on her own and left them behind.”
“You’re saying Boone might have killed her?”
“I didn’t say that. But something must’ve happened to the woman. I hope you’ll agree that this justifies a search of the area—maybe with a cadaver dog.”
“Yes, but the decision to search would be up to the state troopers. It would involve their men and equipment.”
“You could recommend it, based on the evidence.”
“True. But before that I’d like to get a positive ID on those glasses. Let’s go see Philpot.”
Waste of time, John thought as he and Traverton pulled up to the shabby blue house in Traverton’s police vehicle. Those glasses hadn’t dropped out of the sky and crawled under that blackberry bush by themselves. The only explanation for their being there was the obvious one. But Sam Traverton was a methodical man, and this caution was typical of him.
John had hesitated to come along on this errand. The last time he’d spoken with Philpot, he’d come here under the guise of friendship. This time, Philpot would know that he was aligned with the enemy. But that couldn’t be helped. John knew he’d be needed to back up the account of where the glasses had been found, and to keep Philpot from denying his earlier story.
Their timing was good. They arrived at the house just as Philpot was pulling up on his motorcycle. The look on his horsey face made words unnecessary.
They stood next to the porch while John showed the pictures on his phone and Traverton asked the questions.
“You told John that Boone’s so-called bride was wearing glasses when you performed the ceremony. Are these the glasses you saw?”
Philpot scratched behind his ear. “Can’t say for certain. Maybe, maybe not. The woman wasn’t much of a looker, that’s for sure. As I recollect, her glasses had black frames, or maybe gold. It was a while ago, and my memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be.”
“I don’t suppose you remember her name, do you?”
Philpot shrugged. “Mary Frances or somethin’. Maybe Mary Josephine. Anyway, it sounded Catholic.”
“Any last name?”
“Boone never told me that.”
“Thanks for your time. If your memory improves, give us a call.” Traverton motioned to John, and they walked back toward the car.
“You know he’s lying about the glasses, don’t you?” John said as they climbed inside and drove away.
“Maybe. But why would he lie?”
“Boone’s his friend. He’s protecting him—and maybe protecting himself. Glasses like that, with those lenses, there’s no way they’d be there unless that poor woman had lost them. You are going to recommend a search, aren’t you?”
“Probably. But I want to check the missing persons database first. Narrow the search down to women of a certain age, maybe named Mary, maybe a teacher or librarian, gone missing last spring. She might be there. There might even be a photo of her wearing those glasses.”
John suppressed the urge to grind his teeth. It was commonly known that Sam Traverton would rather lose an arm than be proven wrong because he took action before all the facts were in. As Sam himself was fond of saying, he didn’t like playing his hand until he knew how the deck was stacked.
“It’s possible that no one reported her,” John said. “Emma had no family and lived alone. I’m guessing that Boone looked for women who might not be missed.”
“Maybe so,” Traverton said. “But we’ll have time to look. There’s a storm moving in tomorrow. Nobody will be going out to search until it clears.”
John had checked the forecast for tomorrow’s mail run, so he knew about the storm. He’d flown in bad weather plenty of times, and this patch of rain and sleet didn’t look serious enough to alter his plans. But Traverton was right. The troopers would need decent weather to search the trailer site.
They drove back to the police station. Traverton let John out at the Jeep with a promise to pass on anything he learned. Alone now, John got out his phone to call Emma. She’d be working now, and might have the ringer on silent. But at least he could leave her a message or send her a text before he went home and lost service.
Damn! John stared at the dead phone. He must’ve been too distracted to charge it last night. Now it was useless, and the charger was in the cabin.
He didn’t want to go into the restaurant with David there. But at least he could drive by and make sure Emma was all right.
He drove down Front Street, parked by the docks, and walked across the street. By now it was almost dark. The wind, blowing in from t
he west, felt dense and moist, the prelude to a storm.
The lights were on in the restaurant. He could see Emma carrying a tray of meals to a table—a feat of strength and balance that amazed him. Nearby, David was stacking plates on another table.
From a safe distance on the sidewalk John watched them—the two most precious people in his life. Then, knowing he mustn’t stay, he crossed the street again and drove home.
CHAPTER 11
John picked up the mail pouch at the Ward Cove post office, then drove the short distance to Refuge Cove. The wind was brisk and cold. As he climbed out of his Jeep in the parking lot, he paused to turn up the collar of the sheepskin coat.
He’d meant to call Emma this morning. But he’d decided to leave at first light, ahead of the storm. He knew she’d be tired from work, and he didn’t want to wake her. Taking his charged phone out of his pocket, he brought up her number and sent her a simple text.
Leaving early. Back tonight. Talk then. Stay safe.
After stowing the mail in the Beaver and doing the customary preflight check, he climbed into the pilot’s seat, started the engine, and taxied out of the cove.
The waves were whitecapped in the main channel. The plane pitched slightly as John turned into the wind, set the flaps to takeoff position, and opened the throttle. The Beaver shot forward and roared into the air.
Wind rocked the wings and battered the fuselage as the plane climbed to cruising altitude of ten thousand feet. He’d hoped to fly above the storm, but even here, the air was rough. He might have postponed the mail flight for a day or two, until the weather cleared, but this was the day when many folks in the villages received their assistance and dividend checks. For some, even a short delay would be a hardship.
The main storm front had yet to move in. If it proved to be too dangerous, John knew he could set down on some lake or inlet to wait out the worst of it. But he wasn’t worried. The sturdy Beaver was built to take a beating. It had survived plenty of storms. So had he. This one would be no different.
* * *
Emma woke to the clatter of hail against the windowpane. According to the bedside clock, it was almost eight. But the room was barely light.
She swung her legs off the bed and pattered barefoot to the window. Roiling soot-black clouds filled the sky outside. The wind howled, blowing the hail in a wild tattoo against the glass. The storm had struck in full fury. She could only hope that John had cancelled his flight. Surely he wouldn’t go up in weather like this. But John was a determined man.
Had he left her a message? Rushing back across the room she snatched up her phone. Dread jerked a knot in her stomach as she read his text from earlier this morning. Just as she’d feared, John had taken the plane up in the storm.
There was no TV in her room, but there was one mounted over the bar downstairs. She dressed in jeans and a sweater, splashed her face, finger-combed her hair, and hurried downstairs.
The TV in the bar was already on, tuned to a local news and weather broadcast. A half dozen people were watching it. Most of them appeared to be guests who were worried about their airline flights. Luggage was stacked in the lobby, but clearly no one was going anywhere this morning.
Too nervous to sample the breakfast buffet, Emma pulled out a stool and sat at the bar to watch the images on TV. What she saw only heightened her fear for John. The storm was a big one, with rain, hail, and sleet pounding the Alaskan coast from Ketchikan to Skagway and beyond. Emma saw news shots of flooded streets, highway wrecks, beached fishing boats, and airports with grounded planes and cancelled flights.
Where was John in all this? He must’ve set down somewhere. What was it he’d said when she’d asked him about flying in bad storms? Something about landing and waiting out the weather. Surely that’s what he would do.
Turning away from the TV, she rose, walked to the front of the restaurant, and looked over the low curtain that shielded seated patrons from sidewalk traffic. Beyond the glass, sleet and hail flew past the window, blown almost horizontal by the keening wind. The docks and water were a blur, glimpsed through streaking daggers of icy white. A few vehicles, their drivers accustomed to storms, moved along Front Street at a crawl. Here and there, people, caught unaware or driven by some urgent errand, staggered into the wind, clutching their parkas and ponchos around them.
The tall figure of a man emerged like a wraith from the swirling whiteness. Walking along the docks at a leisurely stroll, almost as if the storm didn’t exist, he paused opposite the hotel and stood looking across Front Street, toward the window where Emma stood. Although it didn’t make sense that he could see her through the sleet-blasted window, she took an instinctive step back from the glass. A chill passed through her body.
She could still see him, but not his face. He was wearing a storm poncho over a dark hoodie that was drawn down and over his forehead and cheeks, leaving little more than his eyes and mouth visible.
Even without a clear look at the man, Emma knew it was Boone. No one else could trigger the gut-clenching dread she felt when he stepped into the street, walking at an even pace toward the window, as if he wanted to prolong her fear. Emma knew she should get away and hide where he couldn’t find her, in case he dared to come inside. But since he’d likely heard from Philpot, he would already know she was here. Something compelled her to face him, to look him in the eye and let him know she was strong enough to stand up to him.
She moved forward again, next to the glass.
He stepped from the street onto the curb and came across the sidewalk to stand under the scant shelter of the overhang. They were face to face now, separated only by the glass. She looked into those cold blue eyes and felt the paralyzing fear that flowed down into her limbs. She willed her features to freeze, betraying nothing.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached up with his gloved hands and pulled back the poncho and hoodie that covered his head. Emma stifled a gasp as she saw the blistered, hairless patch that ran down the left side from crown to jaw, barely missing his eye.
This was her doing.
Slowly, the same way he’d unmasked himself, Boone covered his head again. With the same cold smile on his face, he turned away and walked into the storm. He had wanted to show himself. And he’d wanted her to know that because of what she’d done to him, he would make her suffer. If he had to chase her to the ends of the earth, he would never let her go.
* * *
John had made stops at Wrangell, Petersburg, and a couple of tiny settlements between. He was twenty minutes from Sitka, cruising at seven hundred feet, when the storm front hit with force that rocked the Beaver like a child’s paper toy. Sleet splattered the windows. Clouds swept in around him, cutting off his vision. Even with the wipers working, he was flying almost blind.
John swore, knowing he’d pressed his luck too far. Trying to climb over the storm now would be an almost suicidal risk. There was no place to go but down.
He knew he was over water. But the convolutions of the coast, with its inlets, islands, and reefs, could be treacherous. The simplest miscalculation might be enough to crash the plane into a mountainside, a rock, or even a tree.
He radioed his position and plan to anybody who might be listening. Then, with an eye on the altimeter, he began a careful descent. Howling wind battered the Beaver, shaking it back and forth like an animal with prey in its jaws. As the plane dropped, John struggled to see through the roiling clouds. His eyes strained for the slightest glimpse of the landscape below.
At two hundred feet he broke out below the clouds. A sleety rain was falling, drops splattering the plane like machine gun fire. Near the ground the wind was even stronger. But at least he could see. He was flying low over a narrow channel dotted with rocky islands. Landing the plane would be tricky, but he’d been in tighter spots—like the lake he’d landed on to rescue Emma.
Engine slowed to idle, flaps down, nose slightly up to slow the descent, he picked an open passage and glided in for a landing. Th
e storm was beating the waves to a froth, which was likely why he failed to see the massive rock looming just below the surface. The left float shattered as the plane skidded across it, careened partway onto its side and crashed to a stop.
Dazed and shaken, John opened his eyes. His head felt like somebody had broken a brick over it. Reaching up, he felt a swollen, tender bruise, so sore he could barely touch it. The headset he’d been wearing was nowhere to be seen. What the hell had happened?
In a flash, it all came back—the storm, the descent through the clouds, and the landing he’d expected to go fine—except that it hadn’t. His head must’ve struck something when the plane crashed to a stop. Whatever it was, it had hit hard. He felt dizzy and mildly nauseous. Probably had a concussion. Never mind, he needed to see about the plane, which was undoubtedly in even worse shape than he was.
After unfastening his safety harness, he pushed open the door, and jumped to the ground. The jar to his head as he landed elicited a grunt of pain.
The storm howled around him, wet and icy cold, as he inspected his plane. It had come to a stop on a stretch of rocky beach. The float on the pilot’s side was destroyed, the struts holding it bent out of shape. The tip of the wing, where the plane had scraped along the beach and come to rest was crumpled. With time, money, and spare parts, the Beaver could be towed back to civilization and repaired. But there was no way he could take off and fly it out—especially in this godforsaken place.
Damn!
When he didn’t show up in Sitka, the mail flight would be reported missing. Rescuers who’d received his last radio message would be out looking for him. But nothing was going to happen until the storm cleared. If the wind and rain hung around, he could be stuck here for days—and if he had a concussion, the one thing he mustn’t do was sleep. If he did, there was a danger he might not wake up.
Still cursing himself for taking a chance on the weather, he climbed back into the cockpit and assessed his situation. He had a thermos of coffee, a couple of water bottles, and a few snacks. There was no telling how long they would have to last. The thing to do now was get on the radio and let his colleagues know that he’d survived a crash landing and was waiting to be picked up.