by Jim Craig
Damn guy, I swore to myself. Cold rain was peppering my cap and the back of my neck. I kicked at the wet gravel at my feet, looked left and right and then scampered across the soggy driveway, jumped over a wide puddle and found a door around the corner of the red barn.
The door was locked. I knocked and listened just in case but there was no one around. There was an overhang above the door but a wet breeze was swirling and I needed shelter. The idea of sleeping in Willie's plane or in the cab of the backhoe was not appealing. I pulled my collar up against the rain and bent over to examine the lock. There was a metal guard that prevented a credit card from slipping the bolt but the pin tumbler cylinder set in the doorknob was nothing special.
I got this, I smiled to myself.
To hell with Willie, I thought, remembering the deep inside pocket of my fleece. I reached in and pulled out a small black leather case.
It's funny how certain skills come in handy at the strangest times. I wasn’t James Bond, but I could get through most locked doors when necessary. I'd taught myself how to do it over the years, and it often came in handy in the repo man world. Unzipping the case I selected two slim metal tools and took another look around out of habit. It was still dark and deserted.
Breaking and entering is a felony. It doesn’t matter if you're on a remote island, but I wasn’t going to steal anything. I wasn’t going to break anything either. It was a point of professional pride for me. I liked to come and go leaving no trace. Lock picks don’t leave scratches if you’re careful.
Not only that but if I was discovered inside, I had a story ready. In the cold and the rain in remote Alaska survival is always a concern. I'd found the door unlocked and went inside to keep from freezing to death. As long as I didn't take or break anything I couldn't see anyone making a big deal out of it.
The darkness pressed in all around but it didn’t matter. I could do this by feel. The rain dripping down my neck distracted me more than the dark anyhow. Darkness was my friend. It covered the kinds of indiscretions that don’t stand up well to the light of day. In less than five minutes I felt the pins align and the cylinder slid left. I tried the knob and smiled. I was in.
The interior smelled like rubber tires and mildew but at least it was dry. The light switch didn’t work, but I didn’t care about that either. When my eyes adjusted to the dark I could make out a tool truck parked on a concrete floor. One wall was lined with picks, shovels and rakes. Stacks of red rubber traffic cones stood against the other wall.
I found enough tarps, cardboard and old cloth bags to make up a halfway decent place to sleep on a pile of boxes. I pulled off my wet coat, shoes and pants and laid them over the cones to dry.
It was chilly in the big rough room, but I sat down on the lumpy bunk I’d made, rolled onto my back and pulled a piece of tarp over me like a quilt. It had been a long day. A long strange day. Fatigue crept over me like a thousand crabs on the ocean floor. I was fading fast. The food sat in my stomach heavy and full.
I tried to review the plan for the next day as was my habit. However, truthfully I had no idea what would happen. So much depended on the fog. Hopefully I could get Willie to fly me to Taroka, fire up the airplane and come back for Greta. Remembering that kiss out in the rain under the umbrella sent a wicked chill up the back of my neck.
My last thoughts were of Brandy. I pictured her in a sleeping bag curled up on that couch, very close by. She was listening to the same rain pattering on the roof under the same foggy sky as me. Within reach but so far away.
I shifted my weight to lay on my side and wondered how Brandy would react to a sleeping place like this pile of boxes and rags. Heck, she'd be fine. She was a pilot and could handle almost anything. We'd already shared some rough and tumble conditions together.
Then I thought of Greta being offered the same idea. I smirked to myself with a snort. There was no way. I couldn't see her with her perfect makeup, blond sprayed hairdo and white gloves bunking down in this squalor. But then again she'd surprised me out on the road in the dark. What did I know?
It was quiet in the truck barn. And dark. The only thing I could hear was raindrops gently peppering the metal roof above me, then plunking into small puddles beside the building below me. At least I didn’t have to listen to Willie like Brandy did. I caught myself hoping I’d hear a knock on the door when she decided she’d rather listen to my snoring than his. But then the hollow ache of that thought slipped away and fatigue took me.
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