by Sue Henry
“Wanna switch?”
“Not for any amount of bribery. I’d for sure wind up sitting next to Michael.”
He stepped up to deposit the briefcase and newspaper in one of the plastic bins provided, adding his jacket and shoes before it all slid away into the machine to be scrutinized by an eagle-eyed woman operator while he was occupied in emptying his pockets of car keys and change.
“Good trip,” he wished Jessie, and walked on through the gate with a resigned shrug and shake of his head.
With a few minutes left before boarding, she found a seat in the waiting area and sat down to casually assess the people who were about to join her on the way to Petersburg, or beyond it to stops in Wrangell and Ketchikan, before the plane reached its destination in Seattle. As usual for Southeast Alaska, and the state capital of Juneau in particular, they were a mixed assortment of mostly permanent and temporary residents, but few tourists, for that season had slowed to a trickle with cool weather and the beginning of the school year.
From pictures seen in the news, she recognized a senior legislator from Fairbanks who stared at the floor and leaned close to listen with seeming attention to the appeals of either a constituent or a lobbyist who was emphasizing points with a forefinger jabbed repeatedly into the palm of his other hand.
A group of five commercial fishermen—easily identified by the worn coveralls or jeans, and sweatshirts or flannel shirts they wore—were sprawled loose-boned in seats facing each other for somewhat spiritless conversation across the aisle. At least one slumped half asleep, his cap pulled over his eyes.
An older woman in sensible shoes and a tan raincoat passed up a seat near them with a sniff and scowl of disapproval for their appearance and colorful language. She moved on to the opposite end of the row, where she plumped herself down beside Jessie, clutching her handbag to her ample bosom. “Disgusting,” she muttered. “Simply disgusting.”
Visiting from Outside and not used to the typical behavior of some Alaskans, Jessie guessed, and suppressed her smile as she turned her attention to the rain that was falling steadily outside the wide western windows. Across Gastineau Channel bands of mist below sodden clouds obscured most of the forest that velveted the mountain slopes of Douglas Island. As she was hoping it wouldn’t continue to rain all week on the lighthouse island and feeling glad to have brought waterproof gear, the loudspeaker blared to life announcing first-class boarding. She stood up and moved closer to the gate, knowing her section of seats in the rear of the plane would be next, leaving the woman to cradle her handbag until her turn came.
On board the plane and settled in her window seat, Jessie turned attention to the crush of passengers shuffling single file in her direction, bottlenecking traffic as they reached to cram their bags into overhead bins or bent to tuck them, like her daypack, under the seats ahead of them. One of the fishermen dropped heavily into the center seat next to her, nodding a hello after tossing his worn insulated jacket to the floor and stuffing it under the seat with a booted foot. “Petersburg?” he asked Jessie.
“Yes,” Jessie told him with a smile. “You?”
“Yup—back to another damp and miserable search for the elusive shrimp. But it’s already getting—ah—friggin’ cold out there.”
“You from Juneau?”
“Ketchikan,” he told her, massaging his temples with hands that were nicked and scarred.
An image of taut lines and sharp knives on cold flesh reminded her that fishing was in many ways a dangerous business.
“Just hopped across to the big city for a weekend of R and R,” he continued. “Damn, I’ve got a head. Spent too much time and money in the Triangle Bar last night.”
Slouching in his seat, he pulled the long bill of his cap down over his face and she recognized that he had been the one half asleep in the waiting area. “Wake me when we get there, will ya?”
“Sure.”
As near as she could tell, he was instantly asleep.
Slowly, as the last of the passengers located and took their seats, the aisle cleared. A flight attendant moved along it tucking in a dangling strap or handle here and there before snapping closed the overhead bin covers. The seat beyond the now gently snoring fisherman had remained empty and Jessie, feeling lucky, was considering the possibility of waking him enough to ask him to move over and give them both more room when a final passenger stepped aboard at the next to last minute and came hurrying to practically fall into it. Hugging a small black suitcase against her, she leaned cautiously out just far enough to look back up the aisle as if she expected someone to follow.
“Please put your bag under the seat in front of you,” instructed the flight attendant. “And fasten your seat belt for takeoff.”
“Oh—right.” Startled, the young woman bent to slide the bag into the space suggested, then wriggled to find and fasten the belt while still keeping an eye on the forward door. As soon as it was closed and no further passengers had appeared, she heaved a sigh that sounded like relief, settled back, stretched long jeans-covered legs to put her Reeboks on the bag, and, retrieving a paperback from a denim jacket pocket, began to read.
There was something familiar about her. As the plane began to back away from the terminal and Jessie searched her memory for a clue, the woman turned to look out the window. Turning back, she started to read, then stopped and flipped the book over on one knee to keep her place. Reaching up, she pulled off what turned out to be a wig, then used both hands to run her fingers through the revealed waves of short auburn hair and shook her head as a person might in the relief of removing a hat. The motion caused her jacket to fall open to expose a yellow-and-white shirt beneath it.
It was enough for Jessie to remember the woman who had stood in the doorway of the terminal restroom, though her present appearance was so different she couldn’t be sure of that identification. Without the wig, it was obvious that the woman’s red hair was her own. In the more casual denim she looked younger, perhaps in her early thirties, but it was the same woman. Thoughtfully, Jessie turned to stare unseeing at the tarmac outside the window, considering the odd transformation. Curious—definitely curious.
As soon as they were airborne she gave up wondering, reclined her seatback and settled herself for the short flight.
Whatever the young woman’s reasons for changing her looks, it was, Jessie decided, none of her business after all—was it?
CHAPTER FOUR
RAIN DRIZZLED FROM OVERCAST SO LOW THAT THE MISTY tree-covered slopes of the distant islands and mainland defining the dark Alaskan waters of the Inside Passage were barely discernable from the deck of the Alaska State Ferry that plowed steadily north of Ketchikan through Clarence Strait.
On an outside observation deck, beneath an overhang that provided scarcely more than a suggestion of shelter, the husky figure of average height that leaned, hands in pockets, against a cabin wall was only slightly protected from the damp. Now and again a drop of moisture fell from above to darken one broad shoulder of the gray canvas jacket he wore over a maroon sweatshirt and well-worn jeans.
With little visible of the spectacular scenery that often introduced visitors to the Far North, the few collar-clutching passengers who scuttled past Joe Cooper’s vantage point, bent on finding warmth and refuge inside, cast him looks that questioned the judgment of anyone who would elect to endure the damp chill of the deck in such weather. His gaze never shifted to meet their questioning stares. But when they were not looking in his direction he assessed each with a single investigative glance and returned his attention to the wake that churned a long line of roiling water and foam behind the ferry until mist dropped a curtain to hide it. A careful appraisal, however, would have revealed that, although seemingly at ease, there was a hint of tension about him—a stillness and patience as purposeful as a coiled spring.
A boy of eight or nine in a hooded yellow slicker came trotting along, probably sent out by a mother frustrated by his confinement-induced surplus of energy. Abruptly
he interrupted his solitary circuit of the deck to stare curiously up at the man. Cocking his head to one side, he grinned, exposing the space left by two missing front teeth. “Arnchu cold, mithter?”
Under the bill of his cap, the man moved only his eyes to stare down at his pint-sized interrogator. Then, without change of expression, he twitched one shoulder in what the boy correctly interpreted as a shrug.
“It’th purty cold out here, ya know?”
Making no further response, Cooper continued to consider the path of the wake.
“Okay. Thee ya later maybe.”
Cheerfully accepting disregard as unspoken dismissal, the boy trotted off, leaving the man to his solitary perusal of the nautical miles quickly falling behind.
It had been a week since Cooper bought his ticket for the trip north and waited until the last possible minute to board the Alaska State Ferry Malaspina in Bellingham, Washington. From a spot near the boarding area he had carefully observed the passengers making their way onto the vessel, hoping to recognize the one in particular he had followed north from Seattle, believing she was either heading for the ferry or attempting to disappear into British Columbia. Having identified the car she had abandoned in the parking lot, he had taken up his surveillance post. From past experience he knew she was clever in creating disguises for herself, so when he had not been able to pick her out of the crowd of people boarding—though knowing she could have planted the rental car as a ruse—he had felt certain enough that she had somehow managed to escape his vigilance that he had followed the last of the passengers onto the boat, a commitment that left him no options if she had not.
He had carried little: a single duffel containing a sleeping bag wrapped around a change of clothing, a few personal items and papers, several photographs, and a consuming, resentful anger that the preceding months had honed and focused, along with a cast-iron determination that the woman should not slip away to escape him again. Assuming usual security in boarding the ferry, he had reluctantly locked his handgun in a concealed compartment of the truck he had left in long-term parking, planning to retrieve both upon return. A gun was an easy enough thing to obtain, probably more so in the Far North where, he understood, most people owned them, and where the woman was seemingly headed.
There had been cabins available when Cooper bought his ticket. But preferring to remain where he might catch sight of his quarry, he had not acquired one. Instead, each night he had spread his sleeping bag on the floor of a forward observation lounge, or in one of its recliners, when one was available. Being in the common areas meant it was possible for her to notice and identify him, but he thought it worth the risk, as it was clear that she was aware that he had located and was following her again or she would not have taken flight. As soon as the ferry left Bellingham they were both committed and confined on the vessel until it reached another port. So far, however, there had been no sign of her and he was growing restive.
During the thirty-seven hours of running between Bellingham and Ketchikan, first of the Alaskan ports, he had spent a considerable amount of his time in the cafeteria watching people come and go, reasoning that she would probably not risk the dining room, but had either brought her own supplies or would venture in to pick up food to take away. The woman had to eat sometime, didn’t she? But not once so far had she appeared. The best answer to the puzzle of her disappearance was that she had taken a cabin and meant to stay invisible for the duration of the voyage. But how long, he had wondered, would that be? Where was she headed? Though he had asked, even offered the suggestion of a bribe, the purser had been unwilling to part with any helpful information on either the destination or the cabin assignment of any passenger—would not even confirm that she was aboard.
In carefully analyzing the situation, Cooper had calculated that she would not disembark in the small towns of Wrangell or Petersburg along the route. They were communities where, except for the influx of summer fishermen and tourists, residents knew each other and in October a stranger, especially a woman, would stand out. It was possible that she might remain aboard until the Malaspina reached the northern end of its run in Haines or Skagway, both of which connected with highways that led into Canada. But these were also small, ingrown communities, and besides, the woman had left her transportation in Bellingham. After consideration of schedules and maps, he had decided that she was most likely to leave the ferry in either Ketchikan or Juneau, where she could more easily blend into a larger population, hoping to vanish into a city-sized port.
Upon docking in Ketchikan, he had traded anonymity for the assurance of close scrutiny and had stood leaning against the rail near the gangway as disembarking passengers passed him one by one. From there he had also been able to see cars, trucks, and one motorcycle leave the vehicle deck. A couple of senior citizens had also left from the vehicle deck: An old man with a cane had walked slowly beside his wheelchair-bound wife, who was pushed down the ramp and into the terminal by a steward.
For the three hours the vessel remained at the terminal he maintained his observation post, strolling away only when the lines had been cast off and the ferry drew slowly away from the dock to resume its journey, certain that the subject of his search had made no appearance. Though he expected to watch again in Wrangell and Petersburg, he was now convinced that the larger capital city of Juneau must be her intended destination.
Giving up wake-watching, Cooper abruptly pushed away from the cabin wall intending to stroll forward along the deck to the door that was closest to the cafeteria, another of his endless cups of coffee in mind. As he turned, a disturbance in the rain-dimpled channel caught his attention and he paused to watch as, perhaps half a mile away between the ferry and the distant shoreline, the distinctive “humped” dorsal fin that gives the humpback whale its name came into view above the surface as the giant mammal rose to breathe. As he watched, the huge animal blew a mist of spume into the air, though the spatter of the rain, thrum of the ferry’s engines, and splash of the water they were cutting through obscured the distant sound. In what seemed slow motion because of its size, the whale rolled forward until the giant flukes lifted clear of the water, then disappeared into the depths of the channel once more.
Cooper waited a few minutes to see if it would reappear. When it did not, he was about to resume his walk toward the cafeteria when against the far shore the vague shape of a boat appeared like a shadow, half hidden in the mist. Motoring slowly south close to land, as the fog thinned it gradually grew more distinct until he could see that it was not a fishing boat, as he had first assumed, but a recreational powerboat of some kind, large enough for extended travel with living space similar to a seagoing motor home. Some family of tourists on their trip of a lifetime, he figured, watching it with mild interest. In a moment or two the cloud that hugged the shoreline thickened and the ghostly vessel vanished, leaving Cooper to feel that the sighting had been a trick of his imagination. Shrugging, he swung toward the cafeteria and the continuation of his search.
If the woman he sought managed to leave the ferry undetected and found a place to stay somewhere in the north, he felt he could eventually run her to ground. Though Alaska was a huge state, the bulk of it was wilderness through which ran only a few roads and a limited rail network. Access to many of its towns and villages was restricted to air travel. To Cooper, this meant that its population was contained in a searchable number of communities, even if they were scattered and isolated.
He needed to find her soon—was running out of patience and the wherewithal to continue or extend the hunt. Following her as she attempted to elude him had seriously depleted his resources. But, one way or another, she could not be allowed to escape this time. He felt that he was closing in and savored the idea that when he found her, pleasant or not, he would collect the debts she owed—to him and to others.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS THE PLANE CAME DOWN, JESSIE COULD SEE THAT THE rain falling in Petersburg was lighter than what she had left behind in Juneau.
The airport they taxied up to was several miles south of the town, and the terminal part of a line of buildings and hangars that included private charter companies that flew all kinds of support for locals and flight-seeing for tourists during the season. Through a window she caught sight of a sign for Pacific Wing Air Charters and two mechanics in coveralls working on a Temsco helicopter beyond it.
Most rural and many urban Alaskans take flying in large or small planes as much for granted as city dwellers do catching a subway or bus. But maintenance on any kind of aircraft is regarded very seriously, especially by those who fly in the south-eastern parts of the state and who know that making unscheduled landings—in country that is little but heavily wooded slopes, or abrupt rocky shores that descend steeply and immediately into the saltwater depths of the Inside Passage—are to be avoided at all cost. Strict and conscientious care is that cost.
The fisherman in the seat beside her had not even moved when the wheels hit the runway with a bump. When they had stopped at the terminal, Jessie nudged his shoulder and he sat up, rubbed his red eyes, and yawned before reaching down to retrieve his jacket. The young woman on the aisle was already on her feet and, evidently as anxious to get off quickly as she had been to get on, paid no attention to her seatmates. By the time the departing passengers around them had begun to collect their carry-on baggage and move forward, she had crowded ahead of several people and was already headed toward the exit with her black bag.
Space was limited inside the small terminal and the conversation of many people loud, as arriving passengers greeted friends and relatives while they waited for their checked luggage to appear, joining the throng of others who had formed a haphazard sort of security line to board the continuing flight to Seattle. Hating crowds and not in any particular hurry, Jessie avoided both and found a semiclear space on the opposite side of the room to wait till the worst of the crush had either claimed their bags and vanished through the front door, or had been allowed to board the plane. When the room had almost emptied she retrieved her duffel and approached the ticket counter to inquire about transportation to downtown Petersburg. A friendly agent gave her the number for a local taxi and pointed out a pay phone near the door.