by Sue Henry
It’s warmer there, she rationalized to herself. I won’t have to build a fire, and it’s time for lunch anyway.
Refastening the lock, she hurried down the stairs and returned to the sauna, where she put a stout stick through the eye, to hold the hasp closed and keep the door from blowing open. Before she went back to the top of the bluff, she checked the big double doors of the shop to see that they were safely locked as well. The small house on the bluff was also tightly closed, but she cautiously rattled its doors, front and back, to be sure.
They went swiftly back across the trail they had traveled earlier, skipping the shortcut for the gentler route down the hill to the beach house this time. The wind increased as they hiked, till tossing trees and brush were shedding sprays of water, though the rain had all but stopped. Jessie was glad she had worn foul-weather gear, and smiled once when Tank paused, braced his feet in the trail, and shook himself vigorously, only to grow wet again as they continued. Most of the brush was at his level.
Reaching the house, Jessie unlocked the door and went first to add more wood to the stove. Before taking off her waterproof suit, she went out to bring in two or three armloads of firewood.
She had just carried in a load from under the deck when she heard the sound of an engine entering the cove. Turning, she watched as a medium-sized boat came around the point at the eastern end of the beach and proceeded directly toward her. Watching nervously as the craft came closer, she recognized it as a water taxi that ferried people back and forth from the Homer Spit to various parts of Kachemak Bay, and, with a sinking feeling, knew who would be behind the wheel. Laying down the wood, she started across the long space emptied by the tide, toward the edge of the water that was just beginning to flood in again.
Damn, she said to herself. How could he have known I was here? But then, how does he know anything?
“Hey, it’s Jessie Arnold. How’re you, Jessie? What’re you doing here?”
The figure that walked around the cabin and onto the covered bow as the boat bumped the beach rocks was tall and also wearing rain gear—yellow.
Ted Carver—solidly built, a pair of glasses slipping down his nose beneath a stray lock of straight brown hair on his forehead—had been an area resident all his life, working a variety of water-related jobs: fisherman, charter boat hand, baytour guide, and now skipper of his own floating transportation service. Jessie had traveled to and from the island aboard his boat in the past, and wasn’t particularly glad to see him. He was pushy and one of the bay’s biggest sources of information about other people. Her temporary residence on Niqa was now no secret, for half of Kachemak would know it by nightfall. Dammit, anyway.
“Hello, Ted. I’m fine—just taking a break from the big city.”
He waited, grinning, obviously hoping she would elaborate on the reason for her presence.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked instead.
“Oh, I saw smoke from the chimney and thought I’d better check to be sure it wasn’t some trespasser. Obviously, you’re not one.”
“Nope.”
“That one of your dogs?”
She turned to see that Tank had followed her over the rocks to the water’s edge.
“Yes. My leader.”
“Going to be here long?”
“Just a few days.”
She thought of asking him to keep her occupancy to himself, but realized it would only ensure that her wish for privacy would become a more significant part of his gossip. Hey, Jessie Arnold’s out on Niqa Island for a few days, but she doesn’t want anyone to know. Kind of makes you wonder why, doesn’t it?
Ted stood, feet apart, legs braced against the boat’s motion from waves that were strong enough to rock it.
“You got any coffee on? I could use something hot.”
Hell. If he came ashore, she would have him and his infernal nosiness on her hands for at least an hour.
“No coffee. Sorry, Ted. Can’t help you out,” she told him firmly.
“Oh…well, it wouldn’t have to be coffee. You got hot water? Tea would do.”
“Not even that. Stove cooled off while I was across on the other side. I just got back and I’ve got…ah…some chores to do…”
Just in time she kept herself from mentioning the wood she had to move, which he could insist on moving for her.
“…so I really can’t take time right now, but it was good of you to stop. Thanks a lot.”
He frowned and shrugged, hesitating.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t want company.”
“Yup. Some other time. But, again, thanks for checking.”
“Okay. See you again…maybe tomorrow.”
Not if I see you coming, she thought, and the smile she forced herself to give him felt grim.
Still frowning, he went back to the boat’s cabin and roused his idling engine. In a minute or two, the craft was rapidly diminishing in size as it whipped through the waves on its way to Tutka Bay.
Relieved, Jessie went back up the beach to her load of firewood, concern for the smoke from the chimney foremost in her mind, feeling dumb for not having thought about it. If Ted had noticed, then anyone could. It was a pointless consideration, however, for she had to have heat—especially with a storm on its way.
Through the rest of the afternoon the idea of someone using the sauna—someone on the island that Jessie had no way of knowing about—bothered her. Smoke from the chimney was a giveaway she had not considered. What else had she missed? Anyone could have come and gone from the west cove while she was either on the other side or walking through the woods between the two, and she would never have known.
Even if there was no one else on the island, she no longer felt secure, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. She had stepped onto Niqa and allowed herself to feel safe without questioning the reliability of it. It would be a good idea to be more alert, more suspicious, but she hated the idea of going back to what she had experienced in the preceding week. Okay, what should she do? How should she be proactive, rather than just responding to whatever came along? What if the S.O.B. really did manage to find out where she was? What could she do to make her safety more difficult for him to shatter?
The beach house had seemed like a haven, but in reality it would be easy to just open either door and walk in. And if she weren’t close enough to the shotgun, all she had was the handgun at her belt. It might not be enough in a moment of surprise and adrenaline rush—too easy to miss with a first shot, which could then be her last.
She didn’t like the idea that both the doors opened out and could only be locked from outside. Anyone could come in while I was asleep, she thought, be inside before I was aware of it. Tank would hear them, but would he hear them soon enough? Was there a way to remedy that situation? She decided there was, and that, under the circumstances, Millie wouldn’t mind a temporary and fairly minor addition to her house.
On a flat shelf on the hillside, almost hidden in the trees between the beach house and the meadow, was a large shed. Once used as living space while the house was being built, in the years since it had become a storage place for odds and ends of tools, bits and pieces of equipment, furniture, and things that no longer fit into the island houses. Potentially useful, too precious to throw away, or simply forgotten, objects found their way to this building that also housed a shop with a workbench. A section of the front of the shed was sectioned off by several walls of shelves that held hundreds of books collected by family members. An old upright piano, badly out of tune and with a few dead keys, stood in one corner, and a couple of cast-off, but still comfortable, chairs with faded upholstery filled the rest of the space.
Late in the afternoon, Jessie walked the short distance up the hill and let herself into the shed. Passing between the book shelves into the shop and storage area, she searched the workbench and a few boxes until she found the tools and materials she needed. One by one, she clamped four pieces of foot-long rebar upright into a vise attac
hed to the bench. Then, slipping a long piece of pipe over the free end for additional leverage, she bent a right angle in each piece about four inches from the end.
Back in the beach house, she pounded heavy nails into the doors, top and bottom, and bent them over, forming slides for the rebar. With a hand drill, she made holes in the doorframe into which the rebar pieces could be inserted by sliding them with the four-inch extensions. These improvised locks, she calculated, could have been ripped from the doors if the doors had opened inward and force could be applied against them, but would be extremely difficult, even impossible, to dislodge by pulling on the doors. If nothing else, they would give her warning—plenty of time to reach the shotgun or escape from the opposite side of the building.
Feeling more secure with these slides engaged, she put the tools by the back door, ready to return them to the shed in the morning. Making herself a cup of tea, she sat down to further analyze her surroundings and watch the light fade from the waters of the cove. It went quickly, already half dim because of the overcast and rain, and the house was soon almost too dark to see anything but shapes. She lit a kerosene lamp and quickly tacked up two blankets over the large windows to keep the light from shining out, and was glad the chimney’s smoke would be invisible in the dark.
At eight o’clock, after she fed Tank and had eaten dinner, she called Alex and, through static that was even worse this time, told him about her day, though she found it hard to tell without mentioning anything that would give away her location to an unwelcome listener. It was easier for him to tell her about the destruction he had found in the Knik cabin, but he revealed little about the ongoing investigation. They were both frustrated by the time they had picked their way through as much information as was possible, the reception fading in and out, and having to repeat themselves often. He was anything but pleased to hear that some unknown person had been in the sauna.
“But, I’m…I’m fine, Alex…eally. I’m sure…was only a tempo…intruder.”
“…can’t know that.”
“Maybe not, but…obviously it wasn’t wh…trashed my cabin. No one…once.”
“What?”
“Nobody…be in two plac…once.”
“…less there’s mo…an one….”
“Is there…indica…of that?”
“No…just…what if.”
“Did…ou repla…window?”
“Yes…but it’s li…closing the proverb…ba…n door.”
“How…mutts doing?”
“Fine. I call…on them. Tank?”
“I’m glad I…him.”
“So…I. He’s a good…atch-dog.”
There was little else to say and, after hanging up, Jessie found herself feeling torn between missing him and being glad she hadn’t been there to see the vandalism of their possessions and living space. She knew it must have been worse than he had told her and, this time, didn’t so much mind his tendency to protect her from unpleasantness. Still, she would always rather be informed of everything, however disagreeable, for how could you be prepared for things you didn’t know about?
For a minute she frowned, hating to be protected, her mind slipping back to the quandary of her relationship with Alex—remembering her reaction to his birthday gift. What would she do, if and when he did offer her a ring? Why was she so sure it would happen? Part of it, she knew, was her sure and instinctive knowledge of his rather traditional values. They fit well together, enjoyed each other’s company, were good friends, all of which counted for much. But did she want to marry him—to marry anyone? Somehow it felt like letting go of a large part of her independence. Living with Alex was one thing, marrying him another. Why was it different? Was it all in her mind?
“Well, I’d better decide, before it comes up,” she said aloud. Then she consciously forced her thoughts back to the situation at hand.
It was reassuring to know that whoever had been in the sauna the night before could not have been her stalker—to know it must have been someone who had come and gone without realizing her presence at the other cove. If she had not happened to walk across and lay her hand on the barely warm stove, she would never have discovered the person had been there at all. She would be feeling as safe and confident as she had the day before…well, except for Ted and his big mouth. Maybe saying nothing to him of the reason for her visit would keep his speculations from running rampant. After all, Millie loaned the use of her house periodically, and it was not especially unusual for someone who was not a part of the family to be there.
Oh, to hell with it, she told herself, tired of her own concern. I’ve done all I can, given the circumstances. “Don’t trouble trouble unless it troubles you,” she said to Tank.
He looked up, waiting: company, at least—dependable company.
With that, she banked the fire, changed into the shirt she slept in, took the lamp to the chest of drawers beside the bed, and got in with her book and a handful of cookies, to read and forget about the whole thing. The sheets felt damp and cold, so she got up again, heated some water, and filled a hot water bottle to put between them. With her feet on it, the rest of the bed was soon comfortable. An hour later, she had blown out the lamp, listened for a while to the wind and the lulling monotony of rain on the roof, and gone easily to sleep. The shotgun was now within reach between the bed and the chest, and once again Tank slept on the rug beside the bed, carefully guarding his mistress.
Something woke him in the darkest part of the night. The storm had swept in again, this time in earnest, the wind creating a host of large and small sounds in and around the building. A metal wind chime clanged irregularly, tossing to and fro, and something rattled on the deck. A corner of a plastic tarp covering a small generator outside the front door had evidently pulled loose and crackled as it flapped. Knowing these were natural sounds, the husky discounted them and listened alertly for another—different—sound he had heard.
Quietly, he got up and, toenails clicking softly on the wood floor, went into the larger room, where he lapped a little from the water dish Jessie had put down for him. Then he moved slowly through the whole house, from door to door, and into each room, listening and searching for something he felt was not normal to the environment. Between the gusts of wind, he heard the odd sound again, faint and far away, before it was again overpowered by the stronger roar and clamor of the rain.
Hesitating, he waited till it was repeated once more, then went back to the bedroom, put his forepaws on the bed next to Jessie, and whined.
Instantly, she was awake, turning over and reaching for the flashlight she had left on the chest. Aiming its bright beam at the ceiling to give the room a dim, diffused light, she sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed.
“What is it, Tank? You hear something?”
As she rubbed his ears and under his chin, she listened, heard nothing, and asked him again.
“What is it, guy? Show me.”
Dropping back to the floor, he padded into the outer room while she followed silently in her stockinged feet. He led her to the back door, where he paused, cocking his head to wait for the sound. Watching him, she listened, too, identifying the chime, rattle, and crackle among the sigh of spruce branches and dull growl of heavy waves washing high up the beach to tumble the smaller rocks and pebbles as the tide flooded in.
The wind died slightly, as if it were taking a deep breath, and suddenly there was a hint of music beneath its suspiration—upbeat notes of music, almost too far away to be heard—simple treble notes over a plinkety-plunk bass. The melody faded and disappeared as the wind rose to overwhelm it. But Jessie had recognized the song, as well as the instrument—knew what made it, if not who.
Someone, on the ancient piano in the shed above the beach house, was playing a half-familiar song—an old, out-of-date favorite of her mother’s.
She could even remember some of the words:
See the pyramids along the Nile.
Watch the…da-da…on a desert isle.
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Just remember…da-da…da-da-da…
You belong to me….
17
Jessie’s heart turned over as fear flooded in, turning her skin clammy with the sensation of being hot and cold at the same time. She drew one horrified, shuddering breath, then suddenly was furious, as well as frightened, and a little contemptuous.
Who the hell was playing the song? Who would dare? “…you belong to me”?…Was she reading meaning into the lyrics and title of that particular piece of music? But, most of all, who was playing the old piano, and was it for her benefit?
Two choices lay open to her. She discarded the first immediately—stay where she was, keep the doors locked, barricade the doors, and wait to see what would come next. Unacceptable. She knew she could not tolerate the stress and apprehension of closing herself in the beach house, crouched in the dark, with the shotgun clutched in icy hands for the rest of the night—let alone the following day or days—without identifying the cause of her anxiety. The preceding week had shaken her confidence considerably, but she was suddenly determined to have it back. She would have to go and find out who was in the shed. But she would not go carelessly, without making sure she had as much of an advantage as possible, for what if that sound was meant to lure her up the hill?
Should she call Alex before she went, just in case? She considered and decided against it. A phone call would wake him in the middle of the night for something she couldn’t explain and he could do nothing about. Best to cautiously assess the situation, find out what was going on, and wait to call him when she had facts instead of fantasies to report.
Quickly dressing and buckling on the .44 in the dark, so no beam from the flashlight would betray her through some crack or window of the house, she put on the rain slicker, but left off the oversized pants that would make it impossible to move silently. Pocketing the flashlight and adding some shotgun shells to the ammunition she had put in earlier for the handgun, she took the shotgun and the keys to the house and, sliding back the jerry-rigged locks, opened the front door, which put the house between the shed and herself.