“Scary awesome.”
“A little realistic fear is what keeps you alive out there. You find yourself getting a touch cavalier, you might as well just go ahead and call the undertaker.”
“You ever been out there alone? I mean really alone, where you have to find your way back on foot?”
“Do you see me sittin’ here before you?”
“I do,” Tony said.
“Well, given the scenario you just proposed, you wouldn’t see me, because I’d be mixed in with a big load of bear shit and deposited out in those woods.”
Tony laughed at the image. “Renewable energy, Alaska style.”
Dutch slapped his knee. “Exactly.”
They flew on for another hour, each dozing occasionally. When they both awoke at the same time, Dutch leaned forward and tapped Tony on the arm. “I never asked Regis much about you, but what exactly did you do for him?”
Tony wondered how much he should offer. “You know that Regis is responsible for maintaining discipline in the church?” He waited while Dutch nodded. “We have the usual problems of all large organizations. We have people who bad mouth the church and its leaders as a way of self-aggrandizement; we have others who simply cannot obey church rules. We have homosexuals, for example, who we have to either help change their lifestyle or banish them. We have people who choose to be promiscuous. I have to convince them to stop or drive them out. We have outsiders, usually family members, who try to drive a wedge between the member and the church.”
“Disruptive personalities,” Dutch said.
“Exactly. And that’s where I come in.”
“And you are in hiding because . . . ?”
“We had a young lady, a very disturbed young lady, who was drowned trying to escape an auditing session. Unfortunately, she was the daughter of a Clearwater police officer. I was pursuing her when she drowned. Now the police want to try to blame the entire incident on the church, and they want to use me to do it.”
“Typical,” Dutch said. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it up in these parts. I’ve got a bit of weight up here, politically speaking, and no out-of-state cops are going to come marching in and trampling all over our rights. We’ll keep you out of sight and just let them wear themselves out running into stone walls.”
* * *
Harry and Vicky landed in Gustavus at three that afternoon, just as Dutch’s DC-3 was on its final approach into Homer, over five hundred miles away. Harry had arranged to rent a battered Jeep Wrangler through a one-man rent-a-wreck agency and it was waiting in the airport’s dozen-car parking area.
“Nice wheels,” Vicky said as she tossed her bags in the rear.
“The other choice was walking,” Harry countered. He attached the Garmin GPS he had brought from home and downloaded the address of the cabins he had rented. “Says it’s about three miles.”
Harry pulled out his cell and called the state police in Anchorage. After five minutes explaining his situation, he disconnected and turned to Vicky. “They say there’ll be a state cop in Gustavus tomorrow, and suggest we connect up with him when he lands. He’ll be easy to find. He’ll be on a state police helicopter. His name is Sergeant Jessie Reed.”
“Okay, let’s go see our digs and figure out where we can get some food,” Vicky said.
Harry made another call and reached the owner of the cabins, who agreed to meet them in fifteen minutes. They headed toward town along Good River Road, a two-lane paved roadway with thick woods on each side.
“I feel like I’m being watched,” Vicky said.
Harry pulled to the side of the road. “You are.” He pointed into some thick brush where a female moose stood. The animal was about six feet at the shoulder and looked heavy enough to mangle their vehicle if they ran into it.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Vicky said.
“I don’t like having animals around that are bigger than my car.”
“Let’s get to the cabin so we can go inside and lock the door.”
They continued on for five more minutes and turned into a gravel road that led to a cluster of rental cabins. The owner was already there, waiting outside his Dodge Ram pickup.
“You must be Harry Doyle,” he said as Harry climbed out of the Jeep. “I’m Jeff Rutledge.”
“Yes sir,” Harry said, extending his hand. “And this is my partner, Detective Vicky Stanopolis.”
“So you folks are up here lookin’ for some villain, eh? Well, we got plenty of our own. Don’t need to import any more.”
“We’re supposed to meet up with a state cop tomorrow. His name is Sergeant Jessie Reed. You know him?” Harry asked.
“I do,” Rutledge said. “’Cept he ain’t a he; he’s a she. Don’t arm wrestle her, though, ’cause you’ll lose.”
“Glad you told me. It would have been an embarrassing way to start off a police relationship.”
“Let me show you the cabins. They’re right down this path.”
The path was about four feet wide and cut through thick brush with a secondary path every thirty yards or so, leading to a cabin.
“There’s always moose in and out of here, so just be prepared for them. If you see one, back away and try to find something to put between you and it. The bigger the something the better, I might add. Another camper saw a brown bear today but said it wasn’t aggressive, but that don’t mean it won’t be aggressive tomorrow, so just be aware. All the cabins have heavy anti-bear screening, but don’t leave any food out. They have a tremendous sense of smell and an appetite that’s beyond belief. They’ll pretty much satisfy themselves with the dumpsters, but the dumpsters ain’t always full. Oh, and if you go to the dumpsters, take a look first to make sure you’re not interrupting anybody’s dinner.”
After a routine run-through of both cabins—water and electrical shutoffs, best escape route if the door was blocked—Rutledge wished them a good visit and went on his way.
Vicky stood in the middle of Harry’s cabin, hands on her hips. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, partner, and I know it’s against regulations, but I want you to grab your stuff and move into my cabin.”
“Are you that worried?” Harry asked.
“Let’s just say that two guns are better than one, especially when you’re dealing with something that can eat you.”
Harry looked around the cabin. It was identical to Vicky’s—it was basically one large room. It had a sitting area with a foldout couch and two armchairs, a well-equipped kitchen with a breakfast bar and four stools, an open bedroom with two queen-sized beds, and a full bath. “Okay, I’ll try to give you as much privacy as possible. If I’m missing something, let me know.”
“Just don’t walk around naked,” she said. If you do, I just might jump your bones, she added to herself.
* * *
Homer reminded Tony of a 1990s television show that he had loved as a little kid. The show was called Northern Exposure and each week it began with a young moose wandering down a road dotted with small, rustic houses. He didn’t remember anything else about the show, just the road and the moose, and a chubby Indian woman who played a small role. It was his favorite show . . . ever.
“Do you remember a TV show back in the nineties called Northern Exposure?” he asked Dutch.
“Northern what?” Dutch asked.
“Exposure. Northern Exposure. I think it might have been filmed here?”
“Never had a television show filmed here, that much I’m sure of,” Dutch said.
Tony chewed this over. What the hell did Dutch know? “It was a great show,” he said.
Dutch only grunted.
Dutch’s commercial fishing operation—Malcolm’s Ocean Fresh Halibut, a division of Vandermere Enterprises—was located on the Homer Spit and comprised a dozen commercial fishing vessels and a fish-processing plant. The Spit, as it was known locally, was a 4.5-mile-long piece of land that jutted out into Kachemak Bay at the southern tip of the Kenai Peninsula. The bay, like all of Homer, like a
ll of the Kenai Peninsula, was surrounded by mountains, the upper regions of which were covered in snow year round, and one of which, Mt. Augustine, was an active volcano.
A Range Rover was waiting for Dutch when their plane landed at Homer Airport and it carried them on the short drive to the fish-processing plant which was located at the start of Homer Spit Road. Since many people’s livelihoods were dependent on Dutch, he was treated with nothing short of reverence. Tony, moving in Dutch’s wake, was an instant curiosity and also received a wary degree of preferential treatment. This included everyone. All except for Big Pete McGuire, Dutch’s plant manager, who treated everybody, Dutch included, as if they were wasting his time.
McGuire was a house of a man, with bright red hair and blazing blue eyes, all coming out of a six-foot-four-inch body that looked to be carved from stone. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty, so ageless were his features: square jaw, broad brow, bushy eyebrows, and a long, hooked nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. Tony instinctively checked out his massive fists and instantly felt sorry for the men who had broken it.
“Hello, Dutch,” Pete said with exaggerated gusto. “What the hell are ya doin’ in this stinkin’ fish house when ya could be home with that plump little Indian housekeeper of yours? I know what I’m doin’. I’m havin’ such a good year I’m workin’ on the Fourth of July, is what.”
“You wanna know why I’m here, Pete? Let’s go into my office and I’ll tell you,” Dutch replied.
Pete and Tony followed Dutch into a massive first-floor office with a wall of windows that overlooked Kachemak Bay and the array of mountains beyond. The rest of the office seemed to be dedicated to Dutch’s personal memorabilia, including photographs from his days at Yale and with political figures ranging from George W. Bush to Sarah Palin.
Dutch sank into an overstuffed executive desk chair and waved the others into comfortable leather visitor’s chairs. He leveled a hand at Tony. “Pete, this is the young man I told you about on the phone,” he began. “He has some bothersome people looking for him so we’re gonna keep him out of sight for a bit. Understood?”
“No problem, we’ve done this before.” Pete turned to Tony. “You’ve just gotta cooperate with us, son. If you’re told to skedaddle for a bit, you just skedaddle for a bit.” He turned back to Dutch. “How much work do you want him to do and what kind?”
“He’s not here to work,” Dutch said. “Give him what he needs to keep his mind occupied. If he sees something he’d like to try and it’s not going to screw up your operation . . . well, you be the judge of that.” Dutch spun around in his chair, much as a kid might. “If we think someone is on his tail, I want you to send him up to the hunting camp. In fact, take him up there so he can get an idea of what it’s like.”
Pete winked at Tony. “It’s pretty plush,” he said. “A little playground for millionaires who want to tell their friends they went big-game hunting but still had their special picnic lunches complete with champagne and foie gras. And you should see some of the secretaries and assistants they bring with them.”
“Pete exaggerates,” Dutch said.
“Pete does not exaggerate,” Pete responded.
“That hunting lodge is sounding better and better,” Tony said.
“Let’s see what happens,” Dutch said.
* * *
Harry and Vicky were at the Gustavus Airport when the state police helicopter landed at ten that morning. Sergeant Jessie Reed climbed out of the copilot’s seat and walked toward the parking lot where an unmarked Jeep Cherokee, only slightly less battered than Harry’s rental, sat waiting.
Reed easily made two of Vicky and spotted Harry ten pounds, none of which was fat. She was dressed in uniform with sergeant stripes on her pale blue tunic, a Sam Browne gun belt holding a Glock semiautomatic, highly polished steel-toed shoes, and a Smokey Bear hat. She cocked her head to the side and looked Harry up and down with steely gray eyes, then did the same to Vicky. “You the two Florida detectives I was told about?”
“We are. I’m Harry Doyle and this is my partner, Vicky Stanopolis.”
“So you’re Greek, eh?” Jessie said. “That sure musta been a mouthful to handle as a kid.”
“It was practically Jane Smith in the neighborhood I grew up in,” Vicky shot back.
For some reason the remark made Jessie smile. Ignoring Harry, she asked Vicky: “What can you tell me about the villain you chased up here?”
Vicky filled her in on Tony Rolf, the four women he had murdered, his ties to Scientology, his albinism.
“That’s some spooky shit,” Jessie said. “But if Scientology’s involved, there can only be one dude they’d come to: Malcolm ‘Dutch’ Vandermere, a little pussy born with a silver spoon sticking out of his patrician ass, and a shit-eating grin on his lily-white pursed-lipped face.”
“I take it you know the man,” Harry said, fighting back a smile.
“Oh yeah, we’ve met. He owns a fishing fleet and a big fish factory in Homer, all bought for him by his daddy, and run by a big Irishman who’s probably the best fisherman in Alaska, guy named Pete McGuire. Built like a brick, that one, and tough as nails—you’ll know him when you see him, six foot four inches of muscle and a nose shaped like an S that he got one Paddy’s Day when he wouldn’t leave a bar I told him to get out of. He’s been waitin’ to pay me back for that one ever since.” Jessie let out an evil laugh. “He tries, and that S is gonna go the other way on that Irish mug of his.”
“If Vandermere is hiding our boy among his fishermen, how hard would it be to find him?” Harry asked.
“Not all that hard. It would just take time,” Jessie answered. “He could also be hiding him in a very upscale hunting camp he runs back in the mountains. Hunting for rich pussies who don’t know how to hunt, but want somebody to take ’em out, hold their hand, and bring ’em back with a trophy of whatever—buck, moose, bear, mountain goat. And all the time they get to stay in a fancy lodge and drink chateau whatever. It would be a helluva lot harder to find him there. They keep a pretty close watch on that place. Get a lot of celebs there: congressmen, judges, a few movie stars.”
“But we could get there?”
“If we had to and we were sure he was there. That would sure break old Dutch’s balls if we did. But let’s go out to his place in Gustavus and see what we can find out.”
They soon pulled up in front of Dutch’s massive log home on Strawberry Point. Vicky took in the view of the mountains across the sound and let out a low whistle. “Some joint.”
“Yeah, old Dutch doesn’t deny himself anything,” Jessie said. “Nothing but the best in wine, food, houses, and toys galore are good enough for Malcolm Vandermere.” She grinned at Vicky. “I’m betting you think it’s a tough way to live, eh?”
“Yeah, my heart really goes out to him.”
They rang the doorbell and in less than a minute a short, round woman answered with a broad smile for Jessie. Jessie spoke to her in a foreign dialect that Harry and Vicky later learned was the woman’s native Tlingit language. They switched to English and Jessie introduced them to her.
Her name was May Lightfoot and Jessie explained that she had worked for the Vandermere family—first Dutch’s father and then Dutch—for nearly twenty years, which was most of her adult life. She had worked long hours and the Vandermeres had paid her only what they had to, which was typical of their employment practices, and she, like most of their employees, felt only the degree of personal loyalty necessary to keep her job.
“Was there a young man at the house this past week?” Jessie asked.
May gave her a worried look.
“This will be confidential,” Jessie assured her.
May nodded her head.
“What was he like?”
“Strange,” May said. “I would not want to be alone with him. He had the smell of danger on him.”
“What was he called?”
“Tony.”
“Wha
t did he look like?”
May gave a description so detailed it surprised both Harry and Vicky.
“That’s our boy,” Vicky said.
“Where is he now?” Jessie asked.
“Homer. Mr. Dutch says he will stay there, at least for now. I was happy to hear it. He is one who likes to hurt people. Sooner or later he will hurt someone again. It is written on his soul.”
They thanked May and regrouped next to Harry’s car.
“What do you suggest?” Harry asked.
“I think you should get your butts up to Homer. The best thing for you to do is fly up to Anchorage, rent a car, and drive down the Kenai Peninsula. May’s not about to tell Dutch you’re coming, so you should catch them flat-footed. In the meantime, I’ll ask my boss if I can help you with this murder suspect who’s loose in our turf. I expect he’ll agree. Hell, I can’t see why he wouldn’t. If so, I’ll call you on your cell with my ETA in Homer.”
“Sounds good,” Harry said.
“Yeah, I want to see you reshape the big bruiser’s nose again,” Vicky added.
“With pleasure,” Jessie said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Max Abrams was seated behind his desk at the Clearwater police headquarters when Ken Oppenheimer knocked on his door.
“Can I see you for a moment?”
Max looked him in the eye and fought back a smile. “Grab a seat.”
“This is awkward.”
“Not for me,” Max said. “Happy Fourth of July; I had the day off and came in to clear up some paperwork.”
“I know. I called to see when I could make an appointment to see you and they told me you were here.”
Max shrugged. “Okay, I’m here. What can I do for you?”
“I think I’m being set up by Regis Walsh.”
“I think you are too,” Max said. “So, the question is: what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t want to be his scapegoat.”
“Okay, let’s say I don’t want you to be his scapegoat either. Where do we go from there?”
“I have a long story to tell you. Can you get a stenographer on the Fourth of July?”
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