Murder on the Iditarod Trail

by Sue Henry

  Five miles from town, he was so close she could hear him swearing obscenities at his dogs. Then she became the target.

  “Get out of the way, Jessie. Goddamn you, move over and let me by. Fucking woman. Get the hell off the trail like you’re supposed to. Goddamn it. I said give way, bitch.”

  The litany of abuse went on. Terrified, she refused to let him pass, knowing how close he would come to her if she did. She couldn’t see his face in the dark, only the anonymous beam of the headlamp. But she couldn’t miss his harsh voice.

  “Fucking, selfish bitch.”

  “Mush, Tank. Go boy. Hike,” she called as the team slowed slightly. They picked the pace back up at the sound of her voice. Luckily, her leader had never liked to run behind another team and required little encouragement to strain to stay in front, where he felt he belonged. A couple of the team dogs were beginning to tire, not quite keeping the lines taut. Soon they would pull the speed down, and she could only hope Bomber’s dogs would suffer first, having been pushed hard longer.

  “Get those mutts off the trail, damn it. Fucking pull over.”

  If I can reach the roadhouse, she thought, where people can see us. Get to the roadhouse. Hold on and get there.

  They came to a relatively flat area, which, for a way, drew away from the ice blocks and into rolling wells. Jessie heard a snap and realized Cranshaw was whipping his dogs with a piece of line. Barely long enough to reach the first few, it nevertheless had its intended effect on dogs familiar with the sound and threat of punishment. To her left a blur of motion in the dark told her he had driven off the trail to force his team by hers. His leader and first two team dogs were even with her sled. Bit by bit the rest of the dogs moved past, until she could see his sled bow.

  “Get off, Jessie. I’m warning you.”

  Ahead she could see the white bulk of more ice blocks looming out of the dark.

  “I’ll run you into the ice. Fucking pull over.”

  As the blocks came nearer, he began to run closer, ready to force her off the trail.

  “I mean it, bitch. You’ve cost me too much.”

  With a crunch, his sled banged into hers and rebounded. Her sled shuddered but, miraculously, clung to the ruts left in the trail by Martinson’s team.

  Until that moment, Jessie hadn’t answered Bomber’s shouts of demand and threat. Suddenly her temper took over, along with her fear.

  “Get the hell away from me, Bomber. You may have got mine, but I’ve got another gun and I’ll use it.”

  She dared not let go of the handle of the speeding sled to pull Holman’s gun from its holster, but she doubted he could get his either.

  For a moment there was silence, then a roar of anger from Cranshaw. He threw his weight violently to the right, driving his sled toward hers again. But his dogs suddenly slowed, causing him to almost miss as the sled fell back. The bow of his sled caught the back of hers, throwing them both. Jessie felt the handle jerk from her hands, and she fell backward as her team dashed away from her. Cranshaw, his team stopped dead by the block of ice rising to the left of the trail, clutched at his sled and regained his balance without falling.

  As she rolled and clambered to her knees, Jessie saw him pull at the bag on the back of his sled. Metal gleamed in the pale reflection from snow and ice. Throwing herself to the right, she tried to crawl behind another block, but the crack of the gun was followed by a burning sensation in her right shoulder. Her arm went out from under her.

  The sound of the shot startled Cranshaw’s dogs into motion, and they followed Jessie’s team around the ice. The sudden jerk of the sled accomplished what the collision had not, yanking him off balance, toppling him into the snow before he could fire again.

  While he was down she snatched her headlamp and shut it off. With her shoulder still on fire, she crawled one-handed into the shelter of the ice, where she drew herself into a crouch and fumbled for the gun under her parka. Her right hand was numb and wouldn’t work. Awkwardly she unzipped her coat with her left hand and reached across her body to get the gun. If she could brace it, maybe she could aim it well enough when he came.

  “Jessie? Goddamn it. I’ll get you. You hear me? So help me God, I’ll get you.”

  Carefully she braced the gun on a shelf of ice and aimed it at the sound of his voice. A flare of pain took her breath as she bumped her injured shoulder, and she bit back a yelp of agony. Silently she waited, listening for the sound of Cranshaw moving, trying to guess the direction from which he would come.

  34

  Date: Sunday, March 17

  Race Day: Twelve; and four days later

  Place: Nome checkpoint

  Weather: Clear skies, light wind

  Temperature: High –6°F, low –8°F

  Time: Late evening

  Holman, five minutes behind Jensen and Caswell, caught Jessie’s team as it trotted toward town. Anchoring it securely to an ice block, he continued toward the erratic snow-machine lights he could see in the distance.

  Jensen’s first indication of trouble came as a bullet hit the windscreen of his snow machine, missing him by inches. He whipped around beside the trail and retreated to the protection of an ice block, catching Caswell and dragging him into shelter. Shutting down both machines, they listened, but heard nothing.

  “Jessie!” Alex shouted. “Are you okay?”

  Another shot cracked a chunk of the ice over their heads into fragments.

  “Alex? Thank God you’re here.”

  The call came from across the trail. It was followed by another shot from the same direction.

  “Goddamn you, Jensen. Stay back or I’ll fuckin’ kill her. I know where she is and I’m closer than you are.” To emphasize it, another shot hit the block on their side of the trail.

  “Cranshaw. We’ve got you. Give it up. Come on out.”

  A string of obscenities spewed from the mad musher.

  “You can’t get away. There’s nowhere to go. Give it up.”

  “Come and get me, bastard. I’ll get her before you get me.”

  Caswell gestured around the ice. Pointing to himself, he whispered to Alex. “I’ll go that way and try to get behind him. You go across and work your way up to Jessie. Okay?”

  Alex nodded and Cas went on. “I won’t fire unless I get a clear shot at him, but if you hear him move, fire high to keep him back.”

  They moved. The dry snow crunched and squeaked under their boots, giving away their progress. Pausing, Jensen could hear Cranshaw moving toward the position of Jessie’s voice.

  “Jess, don’t say anything. Keep quiet.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Good, he thought. He moved swiftly, keeping behind the ice, crossed the trail, and continued, slipping from one block to the other. Pausing to listen, he could hear Caswell on the other side. The sound of Cranshaw’s progress now came from Jessie’s side of the trail. Slowly, Jensen advanced until he was within two blocks of where he estimated her to be. He crouched behind the block, peered around the edge, and waited. Silent.

  Against the pale white of the next block, he hardly saw the shadow in the dark, but heard the giveaway sound of the snow as Bomber closed in on Jessie.

  A flash, the crack of a gun, and Cranshaw’s howl filled the cold air. The musher clutched at his arm. His gun flew spinning into the dark.

  “Bitch. Fucking bitch, you shot me.”

  Raising his eyes, Alex saw the dark shape of Jessie on the ice block where she had waited for Bomber to come hunting.

  He reached Cranshaw just as Caswell arrived from the other direction to take charge of the musher.

  “Come down, Jess,” Alex said as he reached up to her.

  “He got me in the shoulder,” she warned holding her right arm across her chest as she slid down into his arms. She kissed him fiercely, then held on tight, shaking an
d gulping big breaths of cold air.

  “You don’t shoot too bad left-handed, lady.”

  “I was scared to death.”

  They heard Becker and Holman pull up on snow machines and shout. Caswell, with Cranshaw handcuffed, wounded forearm and all, called them in.

  “Let’s get a look at that shoulder,” Alex told Jessie, pulling her into the beam of a snow machine’s headlight.

  “It hurts. Where’s my team?”

  “Got them tied down about half a mile on,” the race marshall told her. “Don’t worry. They’re okay.”

  “I’m not worried. I knew they were out of it. But as soon as Alex puts some kind of temporary patch on me, I want them so I can finish this thing.”

  “Jess, you can’t.”

  “The hell I can’t.” She took a furious step toward Cranshaw. “Let him get away with this? I’ll finish it for George, and Ginny, and Steve, and for me. And I want him to see me do it.”

  Do it she did. With an escort of snow machines, she completed the race. Driving one-handed, her shoulder packed with snow and gauze from her first aid kit, right arm bound tightly against her body to minimize the jolts of the rough trail, she talked Tank and the rest of her team up the seawall and into Nome, as the siren howled its welcome.

  Schuller caught up with her before she reached town, but somehow, as he later related it, straight-faced, to the sympathetic, cheering crowd, “I really thought I had her, but gunshot wound and all, she beat me.”

  All the way up the long street, she smiled a thank you she couldn’t wave to the folks on the street who gave her an enthusiastic welcome at the finish line. She walked Tank under the arch and stood smiling while the checker accounted for her required gear. She spoke for a few minutes with the press and hugged her leader with one arm while the press snapped pictures. Tim Martinson stood grinning in the background.

  Alex and Becker stayed close. Caswell, standing with the reluctant Cranshaw by the police squad car, made sure Jessie got what she had asked for. He made Cranshaw watch it all.

  Then, when she had petted each one of her dogs, she let Alex take her to the hospital.

  Although it was late, they all sat in the Gold Dust Saloon at the Nugget Inn: Becker, Caswell, Holman, Alex, Jessie, Martinson, Schuller, and Ryan. Beer and popcorn had replaced the first round of champagne, ordered, as promised, by Jessie. Alex contentedly filled the air with pipe smoke.

  The awards banquet had taken up the major part of the evening. Now they enjoyed one another’s company, not wanting the celebration to end. Two-thirds of the racers had crossed the finish line in the four days since the race had been won. Only a few were left on the trail approaching Nome. Already, mushers were discussing strategy for next year’s competition.

  Since all entrants were required to be at the post-race cele­bration, most had stayed on. Martinson spent the time in Nome, where no bar in town would allow him to buy his own drinks. Jessie, after two days in the hospital, had been released just the day before, her arm immobilized in a sling.

  Cranshaw remained in the Nome correctional facility, but he would later be transferred to Anchorage. Everybody agreed he couldn’t get a fair trial in Iditarod City. Jensen, Becker, and Caswell had gone to Anchorage to report and work out the immediate details of the case, then returned for the banquet at the request of Matt Holman.

  It had been an exciting and satisfying evening for them all. Packed full, the gym in which the event was held rang with laughter and applause for hours, as trophies were presented and tales of the race shared. There had also been sadness and a sense of loss for the three mushers who had died on the trail, as well as those who had been injured. That both Harvey and Ryan were in Nome for the dinner and festivities was a lift to everyone, glad to see them healing. Pollitt was still in the hospital in Anchorage recovering from surgery, but he sent a telegram.

  The IAMS dog food company’s sportsmanship award was given to two people: Solomon for staying in the burn with Pollitt until he could be airlifted out, and Murray and Solomon for taking T.J. Harvey back to Shaktoolik through the storm.

  Martinson and Jessie had picked up their first- and second-place trophies, to enthusiastic applause and the flash of many cameras.

  Midway through the evening, Holman had called the three troopers to the front, where he thanked them for their dedicated perseverance in solving the case. He presented them with patches, usually given only to mushers who complete the race, because, he said, “They worked as hard as anyone on the trail.”

  When it was over, the group had walked back to the hotel’s saloon.

  “You’ve got to explain a few things to me, Jensen.” Jim Ryan leaned across the table. “I missed the last half. When did you know it was Bomber?”

  “I was suspicious from McGrath,” Alex told him. “But I wasn’t sure until much later.”

  “You did think it could have been me though, didn’t you?” Martinson asked.

  “Suspected is a better word,” Alex answered. “Because you were such a bad ass and could have gone back to McGrath from beyond Takotna to run that moose. And when the trapper described the guy he saw on the snow machine, I did think it might be you for a while.”

  “Tim,” Jessie teased, “you were a pain. I could have kicked you a few times, and I wasn’t alone. But you’re a pretty nice guy for a winner.”

  The big musher blushed bright red.

  “Yeah,” he grinned amid hoots of friendly laughter. “You’re okay, too.”

  Alex watched him, marveling at how his hostility had disappeared in the pleasure of winning. There was something boyish in him now.

  Jessie turned serious. “I still don’t understand why Bomber would do those things.”

  “Well, he talked a lot after he watched you finish. He told Cas that he needed to win. That isn’t all, of course, but it’s what started it. He was about to lose his only sponsor if he didn’t make a good showing this year, and he thought he wouldn’t be able to race next year. He blames his failures on other people. He has so little self-confidence he had to make up for it by putting competitors out of the race.

  “The idea wasn’t to kill anyone to begin with. He didn’t know Ginny was doing George a favor by filling his thermos at the same time she filled her own. He slipped dope into the thermos marked G.K., thinking it was hers, and was as shocked as anyone when Koptak died, because he really respected George. It upset him badly and changed the equation. He began to panic, caught between doing well in the race and being found out. Afraid Ginny would figure it out, he doped Smith’s dogs when the opportunity presented itself in Rainy Pass.

  “The rest of his anger kicked in because of jealousy. He doesn’t think women should be allowed to race. You thought he was over that, Jess, but he just didn’t let it show until he was angry and scared. He was jealous of you because he was interested in you and got turned down. He let it work on him.”

  “How the hell did he get the PCP bottle down to Rohn before he poisoned Steve’s dogs?” asked Ryan.

  Becker, who sat next to him, answered that question. “Like we thought. He poured the stuff into a plastic bag and stashed the bottle on Gail Murray’s sled before she left Rainy Pass. It worked loose on the way down, fell off, and Schuller picked it up.”

  “What about Pollitt and Harvey?”

  “They were both accidents,” Alex told him. “They confused the issue because all the others looked like accidents to begin with.”

  “Sure kept us going for a while.”

  They all started to talk at once, and for the next half-hour, his arm across the back of Jessie’s chair, Alex watched and enjoyed the gathering. Caswell said his usual little, but grinned a lot. Holman was already looking forward to the next year’s race, making plans and figuring angles.

  “Hey, you and Jessie look pretty comfy there, Alex,” Becker kidded. “Better watch it. She’s
a tough act to follow.”

  “Are we going to have to see much of this motor-mouth?” Jessie asked Jensen with a grin.

  “’Fraid so. But he grows on you, if you only listen to half what he says.”

  Becker clutched his heart and rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  Alex got to his feet. “Well, guys. It’s late.”

  Reaching across, he took Jessie’s good hand to help her up.

  “Walk you home, ma’am?”

  “Sure, trooper. Yours or mine?”

  “Mine. Yours has too many dogs in it.”