Under the Alaskan Ice

by Karen Harper

  The coffee shop turned out to be a restaurant too. It was warm inside with the buzz of conversation and mingled aromas of coffee and bacon. But then he’d had both this morning, served by the woman he wanted.

  When he saw some locals sitting in a row at the counter, he realized he’d missed a good place to get information earlier. But then it would probably have looked suspicious if he’d started leaving the lodge to hang out here. Besides, he’d been busy diving.

  Mayor Purvis sat at the stool dead center, which might as well have had his name on it. He was taller than the other customers and better dressed.

  “Our favorite winter scuba diver!” Purvis called out, swinging around on his stool but not getting up. “Bet you’re checking the newspaper. The med examiner in Anchorage finally got a picture of the dead pilot, or at least a likeness. And, hell, we all know who he is—was. I was gonna come out to the lodge and tell you in person after breakfast.”

  Bryce came to attention almost as if he was waiting for orders. “The pilot’s a Falls Lake local? One nobody noticed was missing all this time?”

  “He lives—lived—out in the boondocks of the boondocks,” the mayor said, seeming to love being the center of attention and importance even here. Everyone had quieted and hung on his every word, but then, Bryce did too.

  “Yeah,” he went on, “lived partway between here and Wasilla, on a back road not too well marked, name of Spruce Road, I think. It twists around a big foothill where the big lumber trucks go in and out and flatten the snow.”

  Several guys around him nodded or verbally backed him up. He paused, which annoyed Bryce. It was as if the man wanted applause.

  He finally said, “The dead pilot is Lloyd Witlow, owns the LL Lumber and Sawmill Company on that same road. Older fella. Didn’t know him all that well. Had no idea he had or could fly a plane. Did you, boys?”

  Shakes of heads and murmured agreements all around.

  Damn, Bryce thought. A whole new path was opening up already. But a guy who owned a backwoods lumber mill was flying historical treasures around? Items so precious they were now being studied and preserved by Washington, DC, forensic experts who were keeping them hermetically sealed so they wouldn’t be damaged?

  “Thanks for the information, Mayor Purvis,” Bryce managed to get out without clenching his teeth. He did not like or trust this guy, now more than ever. He’d probably been planning to tell Bryce later or to go around him in general, maybe let the troopers know, but this bunch of townies had already been discussing it over coffee, eggs and doughnuts.

  Trying to calm himself, he paid for the paper and went back outside. He had to call the Big Man. And he had to ask Suze if he could rent her old truck that had tire chains to make it through the snow. For someone to say a place where a suspect had lived was out in the boondocks when Falls Lake was out in the boondocks really sobered him. It didn’t sound easy to find, but he needed to head for LL Lumber, wherever it was in this snowy wilderness. And Witlow’s house was on the same road. Why hadn’t someone reported him missing?

  * * *

  “Bryce,” Meg said when she’d heard his plans and knew Suze had said he could borrow her truck, “I’ve never noticed Spruce Road, and I’ve been back and forth to Wasilla many times. It must not be marked, though I think I’ve seen a lumber mill sign along there somewhere, so I know approximately where the turnoff would be. Wasilla used to have visitors when its most famous resident, Sarah Palin, was running for vice president, but not many outsiders go there anymore, I bet. How about I just ride along with you?”

  “Whoa,” he told her. He’d already filled Rafe in and asked him to stay there to guard the lodge. “Not a good idea.”

  “I think I know something about this guy’s background. I mean, not about flying planes, but I’m pretty sure he had a daughter who ran away more than once and then left the area. I think she’s the one Grandma told us hitchhiked to Falls Lake rather than running away to Wasilla where her dad would easily find her. Grandma took her in for a night until she got someone to come pick her up. If I recall right, the girl—she must have been only in high school then and I can’t think of her name—claimed she was fleeing an abusive family situation.”

  “You know any more about the family?”

  “No, but that lumber mill is where we got the paneling to update the entryway here. Suze might know more. I’m pretty sure Grandma said the girl’s mother was deceased.”

  “If the daughter was and maybe still is estranged from her father, that might be why she didn’t report him missing. But why didn’t his workers at the mill?”

  “I think Grandma said she left the state. To where I don’t know—it was all hearsay. Bryce, I should go with you. I do pass for an Alaskan around here now, and that might get you better answers at the mill than some ‘outsider’ they wouldn’t trust. I’ll go ask Suze if she remembers more of what Grandma said and tell her I’m going to ride along with you. Be right back.”

  As she darted off before Bryce could stop her, he realized he’d just been bulldozed—handled, as the Big Man would say. But he saw now how important this case had become to her too. She’d looked in the dead man’s face, she’d dragged his body to the surface. And, he’d like to think, she just wanted to help him too.

  * * *

  Bryce, who almost always felt in control, was still amazed at how in control Meg seemed as the two of them set off in Suze’s truck in a light snow. For sure he could use her help. He supposed he could have just phoned the lumberyard and asked to speak to the supervisor. Why in hell hadn’t someone reported Lloyd Witlow missing? He had to find out, and it was better to be there in person, and—he had to admit—to have a local person with him.

  He had taken time to tell Rafe to keep an eye on Bill Getz and explained why. “A hoarder?” Rafe had asked. “I spotted that guy as a possible kleptomaniac the minute he asked me if I had any sketches I didn’t want and kept watching me. Any sketches? There’s no way he could have known I’m the one who drew the pic of the dead pilot. But who knows what he knows, right? You’re thinking he’s a plant—a spy?”

  “Remains to be seen, like too damn much in this investigation.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Meg and Bryce heard the sharp whine of the lumber mill before they saw it. He drove while Meg sat forward, straining her seat belt, to watch the snow-covered road ahead.

  “At least the turnoff was where I thought it would be,” she said. Snow, already jammed down by heavy trucks, crunched under the tires and rattling chains on the rutted road. “I just hope we don’t meet a loaded truck coming out and have to back up. Thankfully, there’s room to pull to the side in places, if we do need to get out of someone’s way.”

  “I wish everything would get out of my way right now. Even with my sunglasses, the glare’s hurting my eyes. Good, there it is. Crazy to have it so far off the main road.”

  “Somebody probably owned this land way back when, surrounded by heavy forests. Maybe Lloyd Witlow or his family.”

  They pulled into a small plowed parking lot at the near end of the building. Although it had evidently been bulldozed, it was being slowly covered by snow again. Piles of it hunkered around the edges, making Meg feel closed in. The long, rambling sawmill seemed to go on forever, but they could see a sign that read OFFICE on this end of the building. The buzzing sound of saws increased as they got out. The smell of sawdust was in the air, and she felt tension hovering too.

  Bryce took her arm, and they walked carefully toward the office. LL LUMBER was painted on an old sign, then under that in slightly smaller letters, L WITLOCK, Owner.

  Meg said, “Actually, this place is not that far from Falls Lake, as the crow flies.”

  “Or as an unmarked plane flies. But, the eternal question—why?”

  The whole place seemed so rough, and—well, masculine—that Meg was surprised to see a woman at the desk
inside. On the wall were lists of men’s names with boxes to check off their in-and-out times. The sign over that said SWAMPERS. Strange.

  Some old black-and-white photographs were framed on the wall, scenes of the old days cutting trees, of floating logs down a river, even one of rock being blasted away to bring down the trees with them, so they could be harvested.

  “Can’t believe we have visitors way out here this time of year,” the woman said, getting up to stand on the other side of the wooden counter and introducing herself as Margot Lane. She was probably in her late fifties or sixties with streaked gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and large, dark-rimmed glasses. She wore a ski vest over a plaid shirt. Her desk had piles of papers pierced by spikes to keep them in place. Meg saw no laptop or computers anywhere.

  “Need to place an order?” Ms. Lane asked. “Gotta admit we don’t have a website yet, but we’re getting one. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks—well, mostly. We got the best Sitka spruce and cedar around.”

  “I’m Bryce Saylor, and I work for the National Transportation Safety Board.” He extended his hand, which the woman shook. “This is my associate, Megan Metzler.”

  “We do something wrong with our delivery trucks? Our drivers know the ropes, been with us for years.” The phone rang. “Let me just answer this,” she said, “get their number, call them back. If it’s an order, we could use it.”

  She answered the phone, listened, then sank into her chair with her forehead in her other hand. Even while listening to the speaker, she looked up at them and frowned. “Are they sure?” she asked. “I got folks here right now from a transportation board. I told him not to take that up at his age.”

  Meg shot a look at Bryce, who frowned but didn’t so much as blink. Could it be these people really didn’t know their boss had been missing for days? And had only now learned that he was dead?

  “Yes, thanks for the news, Louise, tragic as it is. I’ll spread the word. It’ll be a shock. Can’t believe it.”

  She punched off the phone and stared at a calendar on the wall. “He died Thanksgiving Day,” she said in a monotone. Bryce didn’t move, but Meg wondered if she should try to console the woman. “Is it true? He crashed?”

  Meg touched Bryce’s elbow to keep him there, but went around the counter. “Yes, we’re so sorry. He crashed through the ice, and his body had to be retrieved from the bottom of the lake. He didn’t have identification on him, nor was the plane marked. Once he was finally identified, we were amazed no one had reported him missing.” Meg squatted beside her chair, putting her hand on the woman’s arm.

  “He—he just took up flying last year. In a big hurry too. Always wanted to, he said. I seem to recall he said he had a customer—didn’t say who—bought him a plane and helped pay for his lessons. Seemed strange to me. I don’t know, maybe helped pay for his little airstrip too.”

  “Do you know who gave him the flying lessons?” Bryce asked, leaning on the counter.

  The woman shook her head, still looking more dazed than grieved. She went on, almost as if talking to herself. “I bet the donor spent a fortune, getting a small runway laid out back of his house—down thataway, not far,” she added with a nod toward the mill itself. “He took two weeks off, like a long Thanksgiving holiday, instead of at Christmastime, he said. Our foreman, Rencie, knows the ropes, so he didn’t worry when Lloyd put him in charge and didn’t call in. He musta been taking a joy ride, then something went wrong. Bet that wayward daughter of his who lives somewhere in the Midwest doesn’t know. And bet she won’t want this place or his house.”

  She was crying now. Meg snatched a tissue from the box on the desk and handed it to her. She blew her nose.

  Bryce said, “Sorry for your loss, and we hate to ask a favor right now, but we need Lloyd’s daughter’s address so that she can be properly notified. Do you know how we can contact her?”

  She shook her head but reached for a small console on the desk and pushed a button. “Clarence might—he goes by Rencie. Foreman here for years, keeping an eye on all the swampers. I’ll get him in here, see if he knows that ungrateful woman’s name. Hated her father, hated Alaska.”

  A man’s voice on the console: “Got a problem or a customer?”

  “Need you to come in here, Rencie. Need you to come in here now.”

  * * *

  Rencie was over six feet tall and looked like a real bruiser, Bryce thought. He wore old-fashioned overalls and had a set of serious-looking earplugs hanging around his neck. He took the news about his long-time boss’s death really hard, punching the wall.

  “Damn stupid idea to learn flying! Too many mountains round here, and he liked to fly low to see the trees.”

  Bryce saw Meg nod, maybe thinking again of her husband. She’d done so well so far today, strong, compassionate. He really would like her as an associate—and more.

  “I’m sure the news would have come to you soon, but the pilot and the plane had no identification,” Bryce explained. “How long has he been flying that he didn’t have his plane marked?”

  “Don’t exactly know ’cause he didn’t tell me ’til he was pretty into it. Only saw the thing close up once, then always at a distance, and he flew when I was watching things here. Kept it in a big old equipment shed out back at night.”

  “We really need to notify his daughter, however estranged they were. Would you know how to find her contact information for us or at least know her name?”

  The big guy swiped tears from under his eyes, leaving gray streaks. “Sure do. Yeah, name’s Rina. She’s married now, that’s all I know. Well, that and they live in Michigan or Ohio, I think. You know, that’s one good thing,” he with a sniff. “Lloyd was a real private man, but I got the idea he was softening toward her lately—or maybe the other way round. Not sure they buried the hatchet, though. Nothing in his office about her, I think, but I got the key to his house and maybe can find something there.”

  “We’d really appreciate it,” Bryce said. “His place is on this same road, right? Can we drive there?”

  “You don’t mind a little hike in the snow, we can walk,” Rencie said, wiping under his nose with his index finger. “Just on the far end of this property, never bothered him to be this close, noise and all. Don’t want to tell the swampers yet, but we’ll walk through the mill. Man, I hope him and his girl made up some before he died. ’Specially if she inherits this place now, probably would want to modern it all up—or just sell it.”

  Bryce wanted to ask why lumber mill workers were called swampers, but that could wait. He felt they were about to get some answers at last. This mess had to unravel, and he was going to pull any string of information he found.

  * * *

  Rencie let Meg wear his earplugs that looked like headphones as they walked through the mill. Still, she could hear the scream of the saws as tree trunks were debarked, then went down conveyor belts to be cut to size. Sawdust made her sneeze. It almost made her dizzy that entire trunks kept moving past, moving past. The various workers didn’t even look their way. Rencie said they were called swampers for the logging camp men who used to wade through streams and standing water to transport tree trunks by floating them toward their destination, the more rudimentary mills of the time. She smelled cedar, but Rencie shouted to them it was mostly Sitka spruce being cut today.

  She’d have to tell Chip about this, maybe bring him here in warm weather, or it could be part of his class’s field trip. Someday he’d go to high school in Wasilla. On her walks with him, they’d seen deer, elk, bear and hares eat the cones that fell from spruce trees, and bald eagles roosted in their branches. Yet here they were cut down and cut apart. And, Rencie had said, sometimes blasted free from rocky soil with detonated charges.

  She breathed easier outside when they emerged from the end of the mill under the open sky with the light snow still falling. Rencie pointed ahead at a wooden bungalow.
As they walked through a lot with huge parked machinery, she was tempted to take Bryce’s hand, but thought better of it.

  When they passed under huge, crane-like machines that dangled what looked like giant claws, her heartbeat kicked up. Silly, but she recalled her childhood nightmares of monsters with massive jaws chasing her. She’d wake up screaming until Suze, in the next bed, comforted her. She didn’t believe in omens or signs, but that bothered her as they neared the dead man’s gray-and-white house, where the eaves hung heavy with snow.

  This particular trip to help Bryce and learn about the dead man was safe, of course, but her stomach cramped in foreboding. However much she was coming to care for Bryce, should she have stayed home?

  “This was his place from the get-go,” Rencie said as he fumbled with the key and unlocked the front door while they all stomped snow off their feet on the porch. Rencie even took his boots off before he went farther into the house. Despite the bright day, the closed curtains made the house seem gray and ghostly.

  Just behind the door was a photograph of a small cabin in a vast, grassy wilderness with mountains in the background. Not only was the front of the little place decorated with two caribou antlers, but a herd of the same animals grazed all around it.

  Rencie led them in, looked around, then said, “Can see, I guess, why a single child, a girl, didn’t like it here. But sure hope they made up. Can’t remember what he said made me think they did. Now I’m gonna ask you two to wait here in the living room while I check the bedroom he used for a second office. Well, lookie here!” He pointed at a framed photo on a corner table in the dim room. “Bet I’m right. Pretty sure that’s his daughter, and it’s a recent pic, ’cause she’s definitely an adult here, and that must be her husband in it.”