by Sue Henry
“Jessie?”
From where she had been bending over in the farthest corner of the dog lot, Jessie rose and, bucket in hand, stood to watch a figure walking confidently up the long gravel drive toward her house. The two women stepped behind one of the boxes and stood silently examining the visitor. Linda rested the barrel of the shotgun on top of the box, pointed in the man’s direction, ready for anything.
“Who is it? Do you recognize him?”
“No, not from here. Wait a minute—see what he does.”
She appreciated it when visitors called before making an appearance, and they usually arrived in their own transportation. It was miles to Wasilla. Had this one hiked all the way? Hitchhiked, maybe, and been dropped off somewhere on the road? In either case, it was obvious that he had no wheels of his own, or had left them somewhere.
The figure, as he came closer, appeared to be a young man, from the way he moved and his slim build. He was wearing jeans, a jacket of characteristic Carhartt reddish brown, and a dark baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. On his back he carried a large green pack that looked crammed and lumpy.
He moved with a stride that created the impression he had been walking for some time and seemed used to the pack. Carefully avoiding puddles in the drive, he came steadily onward, stopping only when he reached the steps to the porch. There he shrugged off the pack, letting it slide onto the third step, where it would be easier to shoulder again. Raising both hands behind his head, he stretched his shoulders, then dropped his arms and turned to face the watching women.
“Hi—Miz Arnold?” he called.
Jessie could feel her heart hammering in her chest, and her mouth was dry. She saw Linda’s hand tighten on the stock of the shotgun. Though she hadn’t yet put a finger on the trigger, her right hand hovered close.
“Who are you?” Jessie challenged, hearing and feeling her strained voice almost break. “What do you want?”
The man—boy, really, she could see now as he took off his hat—stood staring at her with an unhappy, puzzled expression.
“But you said I could come. It’s Billy…Billy Steward. Don’t you remember? You said I could help with the dogs.”
The relief was so intense that for a minute Jessie was afraid her legs would collapse under her, and out of her whirling thoughts came a phrase her Missouri grandmother had used: “The sand went right out of her.” It was so appropriate that she barked a short, stress-releasing laugh and half choked on it.
Taking a moment to catch her breath, she laid a restraining hand on Linda’s arm.
“I know him. He’s one of the junior mushers I’ve been training.”
Collecting the bucket she had dropped, she led the way across the yard, smiling apologetically at the perplexed young musher, who waited by the steps.
“It’s okay, Billy. I’m sorry—I’d forgotten I said you could come and help. I’ve just had a few other things on my mind the last couple of days. What’s in the pack?”
“Rope—and harness. You said you’d show me….”
“Right. I remember. Come inside. We’ll make a cup of tea and talk about it.”
“I’ve got to get out of here, just for a little while,” she responded to Linda’s objections a little later. “I’m going to take him back to town. Can’t let him work in the lot now, with this going on. We can all go in my truck and make a quick stop at the grocery store to get something for dinner before we come back.”
“I thought you didn’t want to leave the dogs.”
“I don’t, really, but I think it’ll be all right for just a short time—maybe an hour? There hasn’t been anything for two whole days. I’ll call Alex and tell him we’re going.”
Alex answered her call from the lab in Anchorage and, after some thought, agreed to the quick trip to Wasilla.
“Don’t be gone long,” he cautioned. “And don’t go anywhere but the Stewards’ and to Carrs for the groceries. Call me as soon as you get back, okay? Watch carefully for anything suspicious, anything that you can’t explain.”
They locked the cabin and left the shotgun in its place on the wall, but Jessie took along the Smith and Wesson .44 that she carried with her when she was training or racing sled dogs. Moose were a hazard all mushers learned to avoid when possible, since they could devastate a harnessed team with their hooves if they weren’t stopped. But more than that, the handgun was security. One very like it had saved her life once during an Iditarod race.
Linda and Billy were quiet as Jessie started her truck and swung it around in the wide space by the front steps. At the end of the driveway she stopped to wait for two cars to pass before pulling out onto the road heading south in the direction of Wasilla.
“I’m really sorry, Billy,” she told her would-be helper, knowing how much he had looked forward to working with her at the kennel. “When things are better, you can come and spend a week if you want. I’ll even put you on the payroll.”
He nodded and grinned, his initial disappointment lifting.
“Do you have dogs of your own, Billy?” Linda asked, smiling.
“Yeah. I got two that I got from my dad. Lady and Totem.”
“Totem?”
“When he was a puppy he looked like a bear on a totem pole when he showed his teeth.”
“Good name,” Jessie said approvingly. She turned on the radio and found a station that was playing rock and roll oldies. It was good to be going somewhere—away from what she was beginning to feel was a prison, even if it was the cabin that she loved and had helped to build.
The day was overcast, with pale clouds that hinted at snow soon to come, though they had brought a rise in the temperature. The wind, having plundered the gold from the birches along both sides of the road, had died, leaving the ground beneath the trees a mosaic of yellow leaves. Bare, their branches contrasted whitely against the black-green of scattered spruce.
She drove steadily along a straight section of the road, enjoying the hum of the tires against the macadam surface, tapping her fingers, in time to the music against the edge of the steering wheel. Ahead, the road made a sharp curve to the left. Jessie knew that it was poorly banked, requiring care and a slower speed. Though it was dry now, in the winter it could be dangerously slick with ice or snow. She touched the brakes lightly to moderate the speed of the truck before entering the turn.
The pedal plunged abruptly all the way to the floor under her foot. There was a brief, light resistance approximately half an inch from the floor when she could feel something take hold, just a little, but not enough to reduce their speed. She pumped the brakes repeatedly. Nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Linda asked, frowning.
“No brakes,” Jessie muttered, still trying to get them to work. “Haven’t got any. Hold on.”
Though she steered across into the empty opposite lane, in an attempt to stay on the road, the truck entered the curve at approximately forty-five miles an hour, and immediately she could feel the centrifugal force at work on the vehicle. Irrevocably it was drawn to the right, rocking off the ground on two wheels as she fought to keep it under control. The curve increased and as they came into the middle of it Jessie could see a car approaching.
To avoid a head-on collision, she was forced back into the right-hand lane and for an instant turning away from the curve lessened the tendency of the truck to roll. Having to steer to the left again to avoid hitting the shoulder worsened the problem. Once again both wheels left the pavement, thumping down hard as she wrestled with the wheel. They were going over the edge of the roadbed, one way or another. She knew it and tried to make a split-second decision. Would it be better to roll or to try to drive the truck off the road and down into the broad, uneven space that had been half cleared between the pavement and the thick stand of trees approximately a hundred feet away?
She heard Linda yell something as she made her choice and allowed the truck to drift onto the shoulder and, slowly, over the edge, attempting to retain some influence on its d
irection.
Any control she had was lost in an instant as the hood dipped alarmingly—dirt and rocks flying as the wheels dug into the steep graveled slope of the shoulder—and the truck began an uncontrollable sliding roll to the right.
The horrible, screeching sound of metal crushing and tearing and glass breaking went on and on as the truck revolved, throwing its three passengers violently back and forth against their seat belts. The bridge of Jessie’s nose hit the top of the steering wheel, then her head struck the side window, a stunning blow. She felt Linda slam against her and heard a sharp cry of pain that was cut off as they turned over and seemed to hang upside down before continuing to roll. Then the truck stopped, rocked, and settled, driver’s side down. Aside from the delicate tinkle of glass still falling, there was sudden complete silence.
Everything—everyone—was still for a long minute. Linda groaned and moved a little, and Jessie was groggily aware that both Linda and Billy were lying on her, mashing her against the door. She vaguely tried to think what had happened, why they were on top of her. Slowly, she brought her free right hand to her face, which burned; she felt something slick and warm, and when she moved her hand away, there was blood dripping from her fingers. Then everything began to look gray and fuzzy and she couldn’t breathe.
8
After fading in and out of consciousness and finally falling into a deep sleep, Jessie opened her eyes early Wednesday morning to find herself in an Anchorage hospital and Alex sitting close beside her bed, holding her hand. She said nothing, but silent tears started to run down her face, neck, and into her hair. A dark, angry-colored swelling marred her left cheek and temple where she had hit the truck window and a butterfly bandage held together the edges of a cut on the bridge of her nose. Both eyes were beginning to turn purplish black, but aside from two broken fingers, pinkie and ring, on her right hand, a few minor abrasions, and some painful bruises, she had no major injuries.
“Linda?” she whispered. “Billy?”
They had been no luckier, though neither had approached critical condition. Linda had gone home from the hospital the night before in a cervical collar, with a cast on her fractured left arm. Three of Billy’s ribs were broken and because one had punctured a lung, he was, like Jessie, still in the hospital.
Cautiously, with her right index finger, Jessie explored the damage to her face, winced when she found the bruise on her cheek, and frowned at the bandage on her nose.
“What’s under this? Did they have to sew it up?”
Alex grinned, minimizing his response.
“They thought about it. But I figured you’d rather not have to go cross-eyed at needlework on your nose. The doc said you could have stitches or character. It’ll only be a tiny scar, so I told them character would be fine. Okay with you? If not, they can still stitch it.”
“Character’s fine.” She tried to nod and grimaced at the resulting discomfort.
“You’re going to have a real headache for a few days; you have a bit of a concussion.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“Well…tomorrow, probably. We’ll talk about that.”
“What happened? Why couldn’t I stop? There weren’t any brakes.”
He was surprised that she remembered. Many people who have been involved in accidents, especially victims with head injuries, didn’t recall the incidents at all.
“Do you remember all of the crash?”
“I think so. Until I blacked out, I think. I remember going over the shoulder and a lot of noise that seemed to go on for a long time. Then I couldn’t breath, Linda and Billy were lying on top of me, and there was blood on my face.”
She sighed and yawned, her eyes closing.
“It’s okay, now. We’ll talk later, love.”
She was instantly asleep again as he stroked the back of her hand, laid it on the blanket, and stretched to relieve the ache in his back. Friends and family had come and gone through the hours, but he had taken only a quick break or two to gulp something to quiet his growling stomach, though he had no idea what he had eaten. His eyes felt full of sand. He had rubbed at them with his knuckles and discovered that the unshed tears weren’t all exhaustion.
The door opened to admit a nurse, who, noticing his emotional condition, crossed the room and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, you know?”
“I know. I just hate hospitals and having people I care about in them.”
“It can be scary, but she’s going to be just fine.”
Leaving Jessie in her care, he went to find Becker, who was waiting to give him an automotive report.
The truck, a crushed and crumpled total loss, had been claimed by the troopers for an immediate and thorough examination, the result of which Becker now related to Jensen.
“The brake line wasn’t cut. It was punctured with something sharp and pointed, like an icepick, maybe a little bigger. If it had been cut, she would have known she couldn’t stop before she left the lot, the first time she stepped on the brakes, because all the fluid would have drained out. You might even have noticed it under the truck. This way it was a ticking time bomb until the truck was on the road. She had to step on the brakes several times to pump out all the fluid, then it must have been just suddenly gone. It wasn’t just chance that it happened on that particular curve, or another one like it, because that’s where she would normally use the brakes. They were all damned lucky it wasn’t worse. Whoever punched a hole in that brake line didn’t care who was hurt—or killed.”
“And any one of them could have been. We’ve got to get this asshole, Phil.”
“You’re right about that. It’s gone way past harassment now.”
“First I want to get Jessie out of here—out of the area, I mean. I want her safe—somewhere out of danger, where this crazy can’t get at her.”
“Where?”
“Idaho? I can send her to my folks in Salmon.”
“If she’s in a safe place, we can focus on what has to be done. You won’t have to worry about whether she’s okay or not. I think that’s a good idea, but will she go?”
“She promised she would, if the time came that I decided it was necessary. Well, I’ve decided. It’s now.”
Jessie agreed, as Alex knew she would, but not to Idaho.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she told him, sitting up to spoon lime Jell-O into her mouth from a bowl on her lunch tray. “First I want you to know how much I hate the idea of going away and leaving someone else to take care of something that’s my problem.”
“Jess, it’s not just…”
“I know, but…” She paused, then it came bursting out. “Not much scares me, Alex. You know that. But this does—because there’s no way to see it coming. It’s like trying to see in the dark, when it’s all shadows and no substance. I hate it—detest being afraid.”
“Jess,” he told her seriously, “sometimes the better part of valor is to run like hell.
“You know that as long as you’re here, you put both of us in danger, not just yourself. Think about it. You’re in jeopardy because he can get at you—one way or another—and there’s no way we can intercept his attempts because he keeps changing his angle of attack. I’m in danger because I’m focused on you—when I should be focused entirely on him. It’s not letting him win to put yourself beyond his reach. It’s smart, and defeats the game he’s playing. You stay—nobody wins, and you may lose. You go—he has no chance of winning.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I know you are. Okay, I’ll go. I said I’d respect your professional judgment, and I will. Disliking it—feeling guilty—is beside the point really. I can see that.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“However, somebody’s going to have to take care of my dogs…and you’re going to be too busy, I think.”
“Already got that fixed. Don Morgan’s moving them to his kennel in Willow this afternoon.”
“All of them? What a
friend. He’s got his hands full with his own—has more than I do.”
“You’ve got more friends than you know. All your junior mushers have volunteered to help him out—except Billy, of course.”
“How’s Billy? Did you see him?”
“Yeah, he’s doing fine, considering. Going home in a day or two. Said to tell you you’re not off the hook about him helping—when you’re both well and up for it.”
She smiled weakly. “He’s a good kid. I’m just sorry I got him and Linda hurt. What about Linda’s fruitcakes?”
“This wasn’t your fault, Jess. You didn’t put a hole in the brake line—”
“And the fruitcakes will get done—when they get done,” Ben Caswell told her, coming into the room. “Linda says to tell you this is a hell of a way to get out of helping.”
“Sounds like she’s gonna be okay. How’s her neck?”
“Just strained a muscle or two, thankfully. They did an MRI and there’s nothing torn or broken. But she aches all over—says she feels like someone put her in a wooden box with you and Billy and rolled you all down a long, steep, extremely bumpy hill.”
“Tell her she’s not alone. Even my toes ache.”
“Glad her neck’s okay,” Alex said. “Now help me out here, Cas. I’m trying to get Jess to go down to my folks’s place in Idaho, but she’s got some other idea.”
“Hey,” Jessie corrected him. “I said I’d go—somewhere. I just don’t want to go out of state. There’re places here where I could drop out of sight just as well as if I went back to the old country.”
“Where? Name one where no one would recognize you and let something slip.”
“I told you I’d been thinking about it. How about Niqa Island in Kachemak Bay?”