by Jim Craig
I heard something and my eyelids fluttered open. It was still dark. No, wait. I was inside a sleeping bag. I pushed the heavy cloth away from my face and saw gray morning light. Where the hell was I? I listened but all I could hear was early morning in a forest sounds.
I pushed myself to sit up, but it was a struggle. Bloodshot tinged flashes of agony pulsed from my neck. I winced with one eye closed from the effort and tried not to moan out loud. My back was stiff and tight too. I closed my eyes again and just sat there moving carefully, stretching and groaning to myself. A rock had spent the night in the middle of my lower back, and spruce needles had worked their way inside my shirt.
When all the pains began to subside a little, I opened my eyes again and looked around. I couldn’t see much through all the brush and trees around me. Then I started to remember. The troopers, the road through the woods, the lodge, a strange person with a candle, that flickering flashlight beam, gunshots in the trees. Daniels. Oh, crap.
I groped around until I found my shoes and socks, then my hat. Then I fought my way out of the sleeping bag as quietly as I could, rolled it into a ball and pushed it out of my way. I pulled on the socks. There were still wet and cold, and the shoes were slimy and hard with caked mud. I could see my breath as I dressed. I shuddered and started thinking that early morning thought I got all too often.
There has to be an easier way to make a living.
What the hell was I doing out here anyway? And where in hell were those cops? Or at least Daniels? The uneasy feeling of the night before crept back into my gut like a dead whale beached on a black gravel shore. I spotted the tow bar and picked it up hefting the weight and thinking about how to use it like a club if I needed to.
I stood up carefully and looked around. I couldn’t see much so I pushed through the bushes around me toward the clearing. It seemed like a thousand drops of rain water leapt at me from where I'd disturbed them on the leaves.
The fog hadn’t changed. If anything, the cold of the night had helped thicken the airborne mist. I looked down the runway but couldn’t even see the water less than a hundred yards away.
Claustrophobia gripped me and caught my breath for a second. I looked the other direction and saw the airplane where I'd left it. My escape. My magic carpet. My way out. Grounded.
It was six a.m. and cold. The fog was as dense as a closed mind. The thick gray cloud laying on the earth’s surface barely let through any of the sunshine above it, and the light around me was dim and sullen. At my feet, the brown gravel of the airstrip sulked in wet discomfort. I could see colors now compared to the night before when everything was shades of gray and black. There were flashes of red along the edges of the runway, the late season remains of the summer's fireweed. And mottled greens of rye grass and sedge. Even the spruce trees were offset by splashes of yellow and orange from oak, cedar and elms.
I looked around and wondered what the hell to do. There was still no way to fly anywhere. I thought about calling Moose Pass or Willie, but then remembered the dead battery and Daniel's look of disgust. I was busy kicking myself for that when I recalled that my boss didn't even know I'd taken his airplane and left Seward.
Would Willie call him when he realized I hadn't come back? Maybe. I thought about the ass chewing I would have to endure from Phil when I got back. I glanced at my watch and then toward the sky again. If the ceiling would lift just a little I could get out and back to Seward before Phil learned I was missing. But the fog was so thick I felt a sharp twinge of panic realizing there was no way I was going to avoid his wrath.
Then I heard something. I ducked back and down to get out of sight. It had sounded like a boot scraping on the gravel and not far away. I fumbled in my coat for my glasses case and pulled on my regular lenses. They fogged over immediately from my breath, and I couldn’t see a thing. I pulled them off and used my shirt sleeve to dry off the lenses, but it didn't help much. I gradually rose back up to peek out through the branches, but low hanging mist enveloped everything.
Maybe it was Daniels coming back. I hunched my shoulders, hugged myself against the chill and waited, staring and straining my ears.
After a few moments, I heard footsteps moving toward the plane. The sound grew louder, and then I saw him. A large figure loomed out of the mist. It was a tall man by himself. No hat, but a dark hooded sweatshirt that blended so well against the trees behind him, I had to blink a few times to make sure I was really seeing him. His massive shoulders swung with an odd lurching stride. His face was in the shadow of the hood, but the rest of him came into clear view as he approached. He wore faded blue jeans and knee high fishermen’s boots. In one of his beefy fists he was carrying something. When he got close enough I recognized it as a green metal thermos.
My heart started to pound, and I felt an odd mixture of terror and at the same time, nervous relief. Things were about to get a lot worse or a lot better. Who was this guy? Friend or foe? All of a sudden I thought about how vulnerable I was. Unarmed, unaware and unable to fly away. Bush pilot’s hell.
As he came closer he pulled back his hood and I noticed his glasses. They had thick black frames with thick lenses that distorted the large round eyes behind them. He had a full head of dirty blond hair uncombed and wild. His forehead was buried under his hair above a scraggly blond beard and mustache. One of those half assed attempts at facial hair. It was hard to tell his age. I was guessing forty. He was looking at the airplane as he approached and craned his neck like he was trying to see if anyone was inside. When he got close enough he set down the thermos, cupped his hands and pressed them against the side window to look inside. He had a black day pack on his back.
I kept low behind the brushes and made sure I wasn't visible while I studied him. He didn't seem to be concerned about any kind of a threat. At least he wasn't sneaking up on the plane or trying to conceal his sounds. I looked toward the road to the lodge where he'd come from in case the troopers were behind him, but the road was deserted.
When he realized the plane was empty, he stepped away from the plane and looked up and down the runway. Seeing nothing, I could see a puzzled expression cross his face. Then he began to scan the tree line and looked in my direction.
I ducked down and held my breath. After a couple of minutes, he called out.
"Hey, pilot. You out there somewhere?" He had a high pitched nasal voice that surprised me from such a large person.
I didn't answer, thinking it better to wait a bit and try to pick up some idea of who this guy was.
He looked up and down the tree line again and tried again. "Where are you, man? The troopers sent me to tell you what's going on."
Say what? I wanted to speak up but something held my tongue. My feet wouldn't move either. I couldn't decide.
"Okay then, maybe you swam away," he called out to the trees with a chuckle. "But if not I've got some hot coffee here for ya."
He didn't sound like a psycho killer, I thought. And yet I reviewed my experience with psycho killers and decided to wait some more.
The big man paced back and forth on the gravel for a minute and then called out again in his high pitched voice. "Okay, man, I'm heading back to the lodge. If you're interested, there'll be some breakfast there for ya."
He turned to go and I felt a stitch in my stomach reminding me I hadn't eaten in a long time. As he walked across the airstrip toward the road to the lodge, I stayed hidden but called after him.
"Hey, who are you?"
He stopped and turned around scanning the tree line. He seemed to focus in on my hiding place, but nothing changed about his relaxed body language. He smiled in my direction and pushed his glasses back up his nose.
"I'm Charlie Westridge, I own the lodge here. Are you alright?" he called in my direction.
I didn't answer thinking about what he'd said. I shifted my grip on the tow bar. “Where’re the troopers?” I finally asked.
He keyed in on my voice and stepped in my direction.
>
"Stay right there, okay? I've got a weapon." I said with an edge in my voice.
He pulled up and held up his hands. “Whoa, take it easy. Everything's okay. I guess I can't blame ya for being cautious after all the excitement last night, but that's all over now. Hank's gone."
"Who's Hank?" I asked.
"He's the guy that started all the trouble. He was one of our fishing guides. He got wasted yesterday when I was out cutting wood and started some shit with Greta. She's the one who called the cops."
"Where're they?" I asked him again.
"Can you come out of there? I ain't never talked to no tree before." He grinned and chuckled.
I felt a little foolish but my only protection was the dense patch of woods behind me. My only chance against an attack would be to hide there again.
"Not until I know what's going on around here."
"Okay, okay, relax, man. The troopers took one of my skiffs to follow Hank. After all the shooting he took off in one of the other boats. They asked me to tell you about it."
I thought that over. "Anybody get hurt in the gunfire?"
"Nah, I don't think so." He was close enough then that we didn't have to raise our voices to call back and forth.
A big drip of cold water splashed down the back of my neck, and I jerked and tried to pull my collar closer around me. "So what am I supposed to do?" I asked.
"They wanted me to tell you to take me with you and fly over to Chenega. If Hank's not over there, maybe we can spot where he went from the air."
"I can't fly anywhere in this shit."
"Yeah, I figgered as much. We're pretty socked in, aren't we? Happens all the time out here." He shook his head and looked down the runway to the water. Then he screwed open the thermos and poured coffee into the metal cup cover. I could see steam rising from the hot liquid, and a chill ran up my lower back. My lips began to tremble and move.
"Coffee?" he invited with a smile, holding the cup out toward my hiding place behind the bushes.
I pushed forward and used the tow bar to hold branches out of my way. He walked toward me and put the cup in my outstretched hand. I watched him carefully and raised the trembling cup to my mouth. The coffee was good and strong and the aroma swept over me in a wave. I closed my eyes in spite of everything and let myself take a big sip.
“Well, hey then, good morning, ” he said looking me over. He stood almost a foot taller than me but he stuck out a huge hand like a no name politician. With the coffee cup in my left and the tow bar in my right, I looked at him awkwardly but then dropped the tow bar with a clunk and then returned his handshake.
"I'm Charlie," he said again with a grin and looked down at the tow bar, then back at me. His hand swallowed mine. "Where are you from?"
"I'm Johnny Wainwright," I said. "I fly out of Seward." The coffee felt spectacular as it slid down my throat and warmed my insides.
"Huh, I don't think I've ever met you. Most of our guests come over by boat. It's been a while since a plane's come in here." He waved a hand at the airstrip. "You make it in okay?"
I thought back over the landing the night before. It seemed like a week ago. "Yeah, no problem."
Then I remembered more details from Daniels. "So what happened with the other trooper? Daniels told me that the guy jumped him and was holding him hostage?"
"Oh that. What a freaking jerk that Hank turned out to be. Yeah, he had one officer handcuffed inside his cabin. I think his name was Rankin? And Daniels was the other one? It took them a while to get their shit together and follow Hank."
"And nobody got hit? With all those bullets flying around? Unbelievable."
"Yeah, it was pretty dark."
"You got a phone at the lodge?" I asked suddenly remembering about Phil and Willie.
"Yeah, they used it to call in before they took off. You hungry? Want something to eat while we wait for this shit to lift?"
"Yeah, definitely. Thanks. It's been a long cold night." I swallowed the rest of the coffee and handed the cup back to Charlie.
Before I had a chance to reach down, he pointed down at the hunk of metal at my feet. "Is that your weapon?"
I picked it up with a sheepish grin. "Uh, yeah, it's a twelve gauge tow bar special."
He laughed with an odd high pitched yuck yuck sort of gulping sound and turned toward the road screwing the thermos cup back in place as he went.
Over his shoulder he said, "Come on, let's head for the lodge."
CHAPTER EIGHT