by Sue Henry
“You got it.”
26
Date: Sunday, March 10
Race Day: Nine
Place: Between Kaltag and Unalakleet checkpoints
(ninety miles)
Weather: Clear, increasing wind
Temperature: High –11° F, low –24° F
Time: Late evening
Unexpectedly, the weather held as the race leaders pushed on to Unalakleet, over the Kaltag Portage from the Yukon River to the coast of the Bering Sea. The crest of the Nulato Hills and a rolling series of ridges called the Whalebacks were the only obstructions, easy to cross. The trail ran up the Kaltag River, through a low east-west pass, and down the Unalakleet River, past Old Woman Mountain.
The route, centuries old, is used by the people of the interior to reach the sea. It marks the dividing line between two groups of native residents: the coastal Inupiat Eskimos and the Athabaskan Indians of the interior.
Schuller and Martinson left Kaltag together at nine o’clock in the evening. This time, however, they were closely followed, not only by Murray and Harvey, but by Cranshaw, Solomon, and Arnold as well, all driving hard, increasing the pressure. Ellis and Banks were close behind them.
During the three-hour rest at Kaltag, Bomber approached Mike and Jessie to offer a stiff half-apology for his temper tantrum in McGrath and ask to join them. Alex watched uneasily as the three of them left together. He studied each leader intently as they left, knowing one of them had to be responsible for the murders. When they had all gone the three troopers loaded the plane and prepared to make the hop from Kaltag to the coast, hoping the wind would not be too strong for them to land in Unalakleet, where planes had been known to blow off the runway before they could taxi to a stop.
Less than half an hour after the last sled disappeared to the west, the wind dropped and seemed to be holding its breath. The storm still threatened. Trailbreakers reported from Unalakleet that the trail was in excellent condition, although the snow was a little deeper than usual. Unless the weather changed, it would take the mushers approximately fourteen hours to make the ninety-mile trip to the largest village community anywhere along the Iditarod Trail.
As the three troopers flew in the dark, they could see none of the mushers on the trail. Other than twice spotting the bobbing light of a headlamp, Alex saw nothing until the lights of Unalakleet appeared on the western horizon.
They had no trouble landing and tied the plane down securely before finding their way to the checkpoint. Although the lodge that doubled as a hotel was crowded with race followers, the troopers managed to get a room that had a single bed. Two of them would sleep on the floor. Jensen insisted Caswell take the bed, reminding him that he wanted a fully alert pilot.
“If the weather takes the turn they keep warning us about, I don’t want to take any more chances. I want you rested.”
“If it does, we’ll be drinking lots of coffee and waiting for it to clear,” Caswell reminded him. “There’s absolutely nothing to stop that wind all the way from Russia, cold as Stalin’s heart.”
Late as it was, the lodge was full of noisy people eager for the race to reach them in the morning. The café was crowded, but as Unalakleet was a dry community, it served no alcohol. This didn’t put a damper on the high spirits of those who awaited the first mushers, and Jensen suspected an outside supply. As the race drew closer to the finish line, tension increased, not only among the racers and their teams, but also for those following their progress. For the next few days rules would relax somewhat and authority would look the other way, as long as a semblance of order was maintained.
The troopers crowded themselves into chairs around a small table, which they shared with the ham operator on a break and Holman, who had flown in earlier in the evening, seemingly recovered from his Yukon River trials. Conversation slowed as they turned their attention to enormous bowls of firehouse chili. Starved for greens, Alex stared in disappointment at the small bowl of shredded lettuce and carrots, topped with one limp slice of tomato, that the waitress set in front of him.
“Lucky to get that,” Holman told him with a grin, “Each tomato and lettuce leaf comes in by plane from Anchorage. Might as well ask for gold.”
Stuffed and blinking with fatigue, Caswell agreed with Alex that sleep was next on the agenda, and they left Becker talking with Holman. Alex heard the young trooper come in sometime later to crawl into his sleeping bag. It roused him slightly, and he lay for a few minutes listening to the small sounds from downstairs. Some of the fans were still enthusiastically anticipating tomorrow’s racers.
Lying on his back, staring at the dark ceiling, he tried to let his mind drift and not think of the case. He remembered that in the morning he would have been on the trail a week. Who is it? It seemed much longer and yet not as much as a week. Had to be Cranshaw or Martinson. The whole race, with its competition and the celebration it inspired in the villages through which it passed, seemed isolated from anything else that could be happening in the rest of the world. Although there was nothing specific on either of them. He realized he had not seen a paper or a televised news broadcast since he’d left Palmer and hadn’t missed them. Maybe they should be looking at Schuller again? Harvey? Murray? Caught up in the case and the race itself, he felt suspended in time, as if, when he returned, things would simply pick up where he had left them and go on without a break. Damn it. His eyes flew open once more as he huffed with irritation and turned on his left side. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well try to find some answers.
Three people had died and one had come close. This was no dream. Carefully he reviewed the mushers he still felt any reason to suspect. Could he find anything in what he knew of their characters to help solve the problem?
Martinson and Cranshaw still headed his list, but how about the others?
Dale Schuller, who was so quietly focused on the race that he seemed to have almost no personality away from his dogs and sled, was competently going about the business of reaching Nome first, if possible, keeping strictly to himself. Or was he? But he couldn’t have run the moose into Jessie and Ryan.
Gail Murray seemed too long a shot for the same reason, but there was nothing else she could not have been responsible for. She certainly kept a low profile, but she defended Harvey actively enough, which seemed out of character for a murder candidate. Unless she was very smart. Still . . .
T.J. Harvey. He too was out of position for the moose, and would he really have forgotten to remove the mail container from his sled if he had taken it at Eagle Island? There must have been all kinds of opportunity to discard it between there and Kaltag, where it had been found. Or had Martinson set him up? Harvey and Ellis were both hard to suspect of stashing the plastic PCP container on Murray’s sled, considering that they had been running hard for McGrath before taking their twenty-fours. Harvey seemed likeable enough, cooperative and good-humored. How could you tell, seeing him only on his way in and out of checkpoints?
Oh, hell. Again he sighed and rolled over. He would think about Jessie and leave the case alone till morning. Wonder where she is? I’m trying to put up a fence without posts, like I warned Becker. Her hair is like silk. These other mushers just don’t fit in right. Wish she was here, right here, warm against me. Hmmm.
Intuition screamed that it was either Cranshaw or Martinson, but which? There appeared to be a remarkable sense of inferiority lurking somewhere in both men. Neither exhibited the generosity that comes from self-respect and confidence.
Whichever, the whole motivation rose from trying to win the race without earning it; to run the hypothetically shortest distance possible, a direct line, between the start and finish without traveling the long curve of reality, which meant competing against better racers. If you can’t beat them, eliminate them.
From his experience with other criminals, he had teamed to expect and watch for inordinate selfishness. They wanted w
hat they wanted immediately, easily, without waiting or paying the price. Seemed to assume they deserved it, that they were special, above paying their dues.
Uninspired, he shifted again from one side to the other in his bag.
Phil Becker’s disembodied whisper floated through the dark, snatching him out of his contemplation.
“If you don’t stop thrashing and go to sleep, I’m going to throw the nearest boot.”
The pounding of a boot on the door dragged him from the bright dream of a swift-flowing Idaho stream and three trout on the bank as he fought to land a fourth. Becker opened the door for Holman, who stomped in with three cups of coffee, his voice like an alarm clock.
“Hey. Rise and shine. Got something for you, Jensen. McGrath called when we cranked up the radio. Got a Takotna trapper says he saw a guy on a snow machine just about the time that moose stomped hell out of Ryan. Passed him on the trail headed southwest. Description fits Martinson, right down to the parka color. Whadda you think?”
“Jesus,” said Becker.
Alex pulled on his jeans and reached for coffee. “Did he see the face? Could he identify him again?”
“Seems to think so. Says it was a big guy, dark, with heavy eyebrows.”
Calculating rapidly, Alex drank half the cup and began to pack his pipe. “You got a supply plane coming in anytime soon that could bring him up here before Martinson leaves?”
“One here that could hop back and get him, but it’d be faster to find one out of McGrath and skip the return.”
“Right. How long?”
“Early afternoon, easy. Martinson’ll get in here about noon and have six hours’ layover.”
“Let’s do it. We’ll pay the freight, whatever it is. This could be the break. Nail him cold before he has a clue.”
27
Date: Monday, March 11
Race Day: Ten
Place: Unalakleet checkpoint
Weather: Overcast, increasing wind
Temperature: High –10°F, low –2l°F
Time: Noon
The first seven came into town within an hour and twenty minutes of one another, at noon. Martinson had jumped over Schuller for a ten-minute lead, but he dropped two of his dogs as soon as he arrived. He was now down to twelve, while Schuller still had fourteen.
Half an hour later, Jessie arrived in third place, having passed Bomber, Harvey, and Murray. Harvey was next, with Bomber right behind him. Murray and Solomon completed the group at twelve forty-five. All Jessie’s dogs looked strong. Murray dropped one. So did Harvey and Solomon.
Race regulations required a six-hour stop before the last, long run up the coast. Everyone wanted to get it over with, catch some much-needed rest, and head out. They were all leaving room for strategy in the last 270 miles.
The mushers began to sort their gear, taking only what was required and necessary for the next two days, leaving anything they could spare, to lighten their sleds. Every ounce counted. Three of them—Murray, Martinson, and Arnold—changed to the lighter sleds they had had shipped in.
With so many mushers in town at once and the outcome still in question, village excitement soared. School let out for the day and children ran everywhere. As each musher came into town the siren sounded and church bells rang to announce them. In front of the lodge, it seemed that all five hundred residents, plus out-of-towners, stood around assessing the relative merits of the teams as they checked in. Between arrivals they wandered back and forth, watching the ice of the Unalakleet River for more arrivals.
The sun came out shortly after noon, but the wind picked up, whipping snow from the ground. Clouds soon replaced sunshine, and the chill factor drove many indoors. They knew it would be several hours before more racers made their way over the portage.
Before going into the checkpoint, Becker asked Holman about the dogs that had been dropped. Only one, Martinson’s, looked really tired. The other four seemed capable of continuing, even eager.
“None of ’em’ll finish with all the mutts still in harness,” Matt told him. “It’s time to leave the slow ones. Team can only go as fast as the slowest. Some of these dogs’re running their first Iditarod, training, sort of. Or they’re older and slowing down some. Next two or three villages, they’ll all leave mutts. The winner’ll probably make Nome with just the eight or ten fastest.
“They’ll drive the teams hard, really push. It’ll be a sprint soon. There’ll be almost no rest for dogs or mushers till the finish. They need their strongest and best. Dogs can take it. They’re tough. Drivers have to hope they are, too.”
At two o’clock, the plane carrying the Takotna trapper set down neatly on the strip, despite the crosswind. Half Athabaskan, short and spare, Joe Garcia greeted them with a nod. Jensen thought it a strange name for the interior of Alaska, but all kinds of men got gold fever in the old days. They snow machined him to the hotel and went up the back stairs, to avoid meeting Martinson. Garcia sat on the bed, drinking coffee and nodding as Alex explained the setup.
At two-thirty Holman called a mushers’ meeting in the room next door, ignoring complaints from the racers. The room was crowded with seven mushers, Holman, and the checker when Alex accompanied Garcia through the connecting door.
In the silence of suspended conversation, the trapper looked carefully at each face, narrowing his eyes.
“See anyone you recognize?” Jensen asked quietly.
Once more the sharp eyes assessed the gathering, then turned back to Cranshaw. Raising his hand, he leveled one bony finger in Bomber’s direction.
“Him. Lives in McGrath. The rest? No. No one I know.”
“Nobody you’ve seen?” Jensen pressed.
“No. The man I saw on the trail is not here.”
As quickly as it had materialized, their lead disappeared. In the room now empty of mushers, Jensen fumed in frustration, kicked a chair, and dropped dejectedly onto the bed.
“Goddamn it, Cas. I thought we had him.”
“Yeah.”
“Who the hell did he see on that snow machine? There’s not one other musher in this group who fits the description. Could it be an outsider? Have we focused on the wrong people?”
“You really think so?”
“No, damn it. Just a hunch, not fact.”
“Well, we could stop the race. Impound the sleds, body search everyone, question them all till something shakes out.”
“And still come up empty, maybe. No. I don’t like that either, but we’ve confronted them as a group here. Whoever it is may go cautious on us now.”
“Or desperate.”
“Yeah.”
Impatiently finishing the six-hour stop, Jessie watched Martinson leave, then Schuller. She finished packing her sled and talked to Solomon as she waited.
“Sorry, Jessie,” he told her. “You’ll have to go ahead from here. Just isn’t my year. My mutts aren’t as fast as yours.”
“I’m sorry too, Mike. Third—I really didn’t think it would happen, and my guys still look good.”
They did. All eleven dogs were healthy and ready to run. Already hitched to the sled, they waited at the checkpoint for the last thirty minutes to tick by. Although some of them lay down in their harness, all were watching closely for Jessie to step onto the runners. Tank got to his feet each time she passed the back of the sled but finally sat down, half-ready, his tail sweeping snow.
“Listen, Jess. They still haven’t got whoever’s trying to wreck the race, and I think it’s still dangerous out there.” His back toward the checkpoint, Solomon opened his parka to reveal a handgun in his belt. “You need this? You have one?”
“Thanks, Mike.” She leaned close to avoid being overheard. “I have one. But you’re a good friend. Thanks.”
The checker came up. With her hidden gun, Jessie suddenly felt like a thug.
“
Ready?” he asked. “Five minutes to blast-off.”
She hugged Solomon and went forward to talk up her dogs, now all on their feet, sensing imminent departure. Tank woofed and strained at his harness as she ruffled his fur. “Good boy. Want to go, huh? Okay.” She gave a pat and a word of encouragement to each dog, then stepped onto the runners and pulled the snow hook.
“All right. Let’s go guys. Take ’em out, Tank.” The team leaped forward, heading swiftly north.
As they pulled away, she saw Alex standing on the steps of the lodge. As he waved, she grinned. Taking off a mitten, she held up one index finger, indicating her intention to make it to Nome first, and was rewarded with his smile.
Watching her go, Jensen didn’t feel much of the smile. There was a coldness in the pit of his stomach.
He, too, was thinking about guns. Jessie’s had never reappeared. Now he wished he were going with her, knowing Solomon was not. She was going to be very much alone, with Cranshaw and Harvey directly behind her.
Alex felt strongly that if anything else was going to happen, it would be soon, possibly in the approaching darkness on the forty miles between Unalakleet and Shaktoolik, or the following fifty-eight-mile run to Koyuk.
“What’s the weather prediction, Ben?” he asked Caswell, who stood beside him.
“Not looking good. The wind is supposed to pick up, and another storm is headed for the coast, due to hit soon.”
“Have we got time to make another hop up the coast?”
“If we leave right away, we could make Koyuk, maybe Elim. We’ll have to watch it, though.”
As soon as they could load the plane and warm it up, they took off. Holman, also heading for Koyuk, waved them off and went to help a reporter load video equipment into a Cessna 185 Skywagon for the short trip.
The view from the air was spectacular. Still well below the Arctic Circle, the sea freezes out from the shore each winter. As it freezes, the force of the tide, combined with driving wind, cracks and moves the ice, shoving up giant blocks and breaking it apart to expose open water, which then refreezes. Until it gains solidity deep into the winter, the frozen sea is frightening, creature-like, as it groans and barks in its own violent voice. Later, during the most intense cold, it creaks with the tide in a deep vibration, talking in its restless sleep, waiting for spring to wake and break it again.