Everything To Prove

by Nadia Nichols

  “Yes, sir?” she said, slipping through the screen door.

  He didn’t lower the binoculars. “Who’s that man out on the lake?” he said.

  Luanne followed his gaze and saw the rubber boat moving slowly toward the outlet. She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before, Mr. Frey.”

  “He flew in this morning. That’s his plane, moored up on the point. Why is he here?” He lowered the binoculars to give her a hard stare.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “He’s not fishing,” Frey stated, eyes narrowing with suspicion as he leaned forward, raising the binoculars again. “Why isn’t he fishing? He just sits in that boat and drives it in the same pattern over and over, across the lake by the outlet. He’s been out there for hours. Why? What’s he doing?”

  Luanne watched a few moments more, then shrugged, thinking how pitiful it was that all Frey could find to do was be nosy about other people’s affairs and critical of everything she did. He was a bitter, miserable old man. “I don’t know, Mr. Frey. Can I get you anything?”

  “You can find out who he is,” he said. “Find out from that no-good friend of yours. Johnson.”

  Luanne felt herself tense when he mentioned Graham. Masking her dislike for Frey was becoming increasingly difficult. “I’ll try, sir.”

  She turned on her heel to leave him to his evil ponderings but his voice arrested her. “You’ll do more than try,” he advised in an ominous tone of voice. “Take the boat and go find out. If you expect to keep your job and rake in that easy weekly paycheck, you’ll bring back some answers for me.”

  Little did Frey know that she worked for him not solely for the money, but also for the experience, and for what she could gain in credibility when she wrote her thesis paper about bigotry being alive and well in the workplace.

  LIBBY’S CONVERSATION with Joe Boone was tightly sandwiched between supper preparations and actual service of the meal and left her feeling no more enlightened about the relationship between Daniel Frey and Connor Libby. “I only guided for them when they had a full house,” Boone said, leaning against the counter while Libby prepared vegetables. “Ben would fly me out, I’d work for as long as he needed me, then he’d fly me back to Fairbanks. It was good money, and the clients tipped me well. But after Ben was gone, there was no guiding. Daniel liked having the place to himself.”

  “Would you consider Mr. Frey a hermit?”

  “He’s always been pretty reclusive, but he gets lonely, too. He used to fly me in occasionally on the pretense of having me guide him on fishing trips, but I think it was really because he wanted company. That’s how I got to know him. He’d invite me to take meals with him, and we’d sit out on the porch the way he does now, smoking cigars and drinking brandy or whiskey, whatever tripped his trigger that night.”

  “Did you know Connor Libby at all?”

  “Oh, sure. Connor was a good kid. Easygoing. Loved the outdoors, and loved living in the wilderness. Talked about going to college, getting a degree in wildlife biology or zoology or something, then coming back here. I was kind of surprised to hear he’d joined the air force. I mean, he wasn’t a gung ho fighter type, you know? He wouldn’t even hunt unless he needed the meat. But I think he felt like he had to join up, to live up to Ben’s expectations. Ben felt that every able-bodied citizen owed military service to their country.”

  “Do you think Ben Libby pressured Connor to enlist?”

  “No. I think Connor just wanted his father to be proud of him. Like I said, he was a good kid. You’d never guess, talking to him, that he was a rich man’s son.”

  “Did Mr. Frey talk about Connor at all?”

  “Not really. I asked him if he heard much from the boy after Ben died, and Daniel said he’d gotten a few letters. He was sure that when the war was over Conner’d meet a girl, get married, and settle near her folks somewhere in the lower forty-eight.”

  “Did that eventuality seem to make Mr. Frey sad?”

  Boone shrugged. “When Ben and Connor were there, Daniel played by their rules. Never said much. Stayed in the background and deferred to them in all matters. When they were gone, he transformed into the lord and master of the kingdom. He demanded constant service and was pickier than all get-out. Seems like he had a plane flying his mail and provisions in every other day. Of course, he could afford to. It was no big deal. If he wanted the daily paper delivered daily, he got it delivered daily. Didn’t matter to him if that newspaper cost five hundred bucks in air-mail charges.”

  “Did he ever mention the plane crash that killed Connor Libby?”

  “Sure. Daniel was Connor’s godfather. The boy was the only family he had.”

  “Did he mention why he wouldn’t attend Connor’s wedding?”

  “No. But Daniel didn’t like Indians and didn’t approve of the marriage. He was pretty up-front about that.”

  “Why did Mr. Frey dislike Indians?”

  Joe shrugged. “Why do some people dislike blacks and Hispanics? Who knows.”

  The dinner bell clanged. Libby thanked Boone for his information and hurried to help Karen. After supper had been served and the kitchen cleaned up, she called Susan to check on her mother.

  “Marie’s feeling pretty good. She beat me three games straight at cribbage, which made her feel even better,” Susan said, “and her appetite’s getting better by the minute.”

  “That’s great news. Tell her I miss her and I’d like her to fly out tomorrow to stay with me for a little while. And Susan? Be forewarned. She’ll probably put up a fuss about leaving her house, but this is such a beautiful place, the food’s out of this world and there’s a cute cabin for us to share.”

  “Sounds like just what your mother needs. Don’t worry. If you send a plane for her, I’ll make sure she’s on it.”

  Libby went down to the dock and shaded her eyes against the sun, searching for Carson and the rubber boat. Yes, he was still out there, motoring slowly along near the mouth of the river. Although the sun was still high above the horizon, the air was already starting to cool. She thought about the woodstove in Carson’s wall tent, and the fact that no firewood had been cut for it. She remembered seeing the blood seeping through the bandages on his hand and felt a twinge of guilt at the not-so-nice thoughts she’d been having about him since their last conversation. No way would he be able to cut firewood, and without it, the inside of that tent would be a cold and miserable place come morning. She knew he’d resent her help, but she also knew he’d burn the wood if she cut it, and it was in her best interest to keep him as healthy as she could.

  She was shrugging into her jacket and preparing to walk back up the shoreline with another hamper of food, a bucksaw and her first aid kit when she spotted Graham Johnson getting ready to take two clients out fishing and headed down to the dock. “How’s your dad doing, Graham?”

  His expression answered her before his words did. “Much better. I made sure he ate some lunch. He’s breathing a lot easier and eating pretty good. He’s also taking the medicine you left.”

  Libby nodded. “Glad to hear it. Tell him I’ll be by to check on him very soon.” She caught a glimpse of a motorboat approaching the dock, and Graham glanced over his shoulder.

  “That’s Luanne,” he said, sounding surprised. “Frey doesn’t usually let his hired help use the boat. He doesn’t think we indigenous peoples can handle motors.”

  Graham’s clients were still settling their gear into the boat, trying to decide what flies to take from an unimaginably large selection when Luanne reached them. She throttled down and put the engine into reverse at exactly the right moment, easing up to the dock like a pro. She gave Graham a quick, shy smile, then looked up at Libby. “Mr. Frey sent me,” she explained. “He’s wondering about the man in the rubber boat, the one who flew in this morning. Mr. Frey has noticed that this man isn’t fishing.”

  Libby shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. She wasn’t about to offer up any information. “Oh?” />
  “I asked him myself on the way over, and he told me he was measuring the water depths in the lake for the state maps.”

  Graham turned to his clients. “You ready?” They nodded, and he cast off the lines and started the motor. “I’ll see you later?” he said to Luanne, and she answered with another quick, shy smile. She watched Graham motor away from the dock then turned again to Libby.

  “Graham told me you came here to look for a plane that crashed in the lake a long time ago,” she confided.

  “Then no doubt you know why that man is really out there in the rubber boat.”

  Luanne nodded. “Yes, I do, but Mr. Frey doesn’t, so he sent me here to find out.”

  “Did he appear to be interested in what was going on?”

  Luanne nodded again. “Very.”

  “Good,” Libby said.

  “What do you want me to tell him when I go back?”

  Libby realized that eventually Frey would find out why Carson was here. What was the point of trying to keep it secret? What could Frey possibly do to foul up the search? “Tell Mr. Frey that the owner of Alaska Salvage is here on a little fishing expedition, and he isn’t trolling for lake trout. If he wants to know more, Libby Wilson will be happy to speak with him again.”

  For the third time, Luanne nodded. “All right.” She started the motorboat. “Will you be a writer from Boston if he invites you back?”

  “No,” Libby said. “I’ll be an Athapaskan born in the village of Umiak.”

  Luanne smiled as she backed the boat away from the dock. “Good.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CARSON WAS FULLY AWARE that he was being closely watched by the man he assumed was Daniel Frey sitting on the porch of the lodge not far from the lake’s outlet. He had the distinct impression that Libby didn’t like Daniel Frey. Didn’t trust him.

  He glanced at his gas gauge. Nearly empty, but he had enough to make it back to his campsite, where he had two spare gas cans stashed. He made a mark on the chart to keep his place in the search pattern, plugged the data into the GPS, reeled in the towfish, then decided to have a word with Daniel Frey. Maybe the old man could shed some light on the mystery of the plane crash, and he was obviously wondering what Carson was up to.

  Wondering? Hell, if his reactions were any indication, Frey was fairly frothing at the mouth. The old man was standing at the top of the porch steps when Carson climbed out of the boat. Carson tied the lines off and stood for a moment, staring up at the eccentric billionaire.

  “Come on up here, goddammit!” Frey ordered, motioning with one arm and scowling darkly.

  Friendly bastard, Carson thought. He climbed the porch steps with as much energy as he could muster, willing his bad leg to work normally, but the effort cost him. He was sweating long before he conquered the last step. He stuck out his unbandaged left hand. “Carson Dodge, owner of Alaska Salvage.”

  Frey’s bushy white eyebrows framed sharp, predatorial eyes. He paused, then shook Carson’s hand in a clasp that felt as sharp and bony as an eagle’s talons. “Daniel Frey. Sit,” Frey said, indicating one of the chairs. “Have a brandy.”

  The old man was supposedly in his eighties, but didn’t act or look it. He poured two glasses and handed Carson a big snifter with a generous slug of what had to be fancy stuff. “I’ve been watching you out there,” Frey said, settling himself back in the recliner. “It looks to me like you’re searching for something, and if you’re the owner of Alaska Salvage I can assume you are.”

  “You assumed correctly,” Carson said, tasting the brandy. Just as good as he’d expected from a billionaire. “I’m looking for a plane,” he said, swirling the rich, honey-colored liquid in the snifter. “A de Havilland Beaver. Maybe you know something about it.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Frey said. “A young woman was here just yesterday. Said she was writing an article for the Libby Foundation. She asked a lot of questions about that very same plane.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “There was nothing to tell.” Frey took a swallow of brandy. “I wasn’t here when the plane went down. I was fishing up on the Kandik. In any event, that crash happened nearly thirty years ago. Why would you be looking for the plane now?”

  “It’s what I do,” Carson said.

  “Not without a reason,” Frey countered. His eyes glittered like shards of ice as he leaned forward in his seat. “For your information, Mr. Dodge, my godson died in that crash. I’m guessing you want to salvage his plane to make a few bucks and that journalist wants a good story, but I don’t give a damn about her article or your greed. I’m asking you to let the boy and the plane he died in rest in peace.”

  Carson took another sip of brandy. “This is very good,” he said. “Courvoisier XO, isn’t it?”

  “Who hired you?” Frey asked, the suspicion in his sharp eyes deepening.

  “Nobody. I just happen to collect old Beavers,” Carson responded.

  “Bullshit. That journalist’s in on this, too, isn’t she? The reporter from Boston. I was right about her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

  Carson drained his snifter, set it down on the side table and stood. “I appreciate the cognac, Mr. Frey, but it’s time for me to be getting back to work.”

  “What kind of story is she really after? How much is she paying you?” Frey was clearly agitated.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss my client’s business,” Carson said. Make the old bastard sweat. Carson hadn’t known him ten minutes and he already disliked him, in spite of the brandy.

  “Then I’ll discuss some of my own with you. It’s worth a lot to me for that plane to remain undisturbed. This lake and that wreckage have a deeply spiritual significance to me. I don’t want you digging up Connor Libby’s grave. I consider that a desecration.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that information along,” Carson said.

  “Mr. Dodge,” Frey said when he was halfway down the steps. Carson paused and glanced back. Frey was on his feet, and he spoke very carefully. His words were as chilly as his eyes. “Let me repeat myself. It’s worth a lot to me for you, and whoever hired you, to give up this salvage project. I’m fully aware that a restored de Havilland Beaver in flying condition is worth well over a quarter of a million dollars. I realize how much this salvage project is worth to you. I’m a very wealthy man. I can afford a big kill fee. A fee that would be worth twice what you’d ever recoup for the plane.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that information along, as well.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Dodge. If you pass up my offer, I can guarantee you won’t get a cent for the time you put in searching for the plane. Even if you find it, you’ll never get the chance to bring it to the surface. You’ll never be able to purchase the salvage rights to that plane. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Carson nodded before continuing down the steps. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  A few minutes later he crossed paths with the slender young Athapaskan woman who had queried him on the lake. She was just docking the beautifully restored vintage Chris-Craft as he prepared to depart. She cast him a questioning look as she jumped onto the dock. He was about to introduce himself when Frey let out a bellow from up on the porch.

  “LUANNE!”

  The girl bent to secure the Chris-Craft to the dock cleats, then stood and flashed him an apologetic glance before walking swiftly up the dock to where Frey waited.

  Carson took his time puttering back to his campsite to refill the rubber boat’s gas tank. The wind had died, leaving the surface of the lake as still as glass and reflecting the soaring grandeur of the snow-clad Brooks Range. He kept up just enough head speed to outrun the horde of mosquitoes that gave chase and pondered Frey’s reaction to the search for the missing plane. He didn’t strike Carson as the type to wax sentimental over a dead godson, but then again he certainly didn’t need the money from salvaging the plane itself. Maybe he really did want to keep the site sacred.

  How muc
h more would Frey offer them for a kill fee? How much would it be worth to an aging billionaire to keep the ghosts from the past buried for yet a few more years, and keep the story out of the press? A fortune might be sitting on the bottom of Evening Lake, and it would take a mighty hefty kill fee for him to walk away from this project.

  LIBBY CARRIED THE HAMPER, her first aid kit and the bucksaw with her when she returned to Carson’s campsite. Since he refused to let her tend his hand, she would at least leave the proper supplies so he could do it himself. The camp looked pretty much the same as when she saw it last except that Carson was absent, out searching the lake bottom for her father’s plane. She set the hamper and first aid kit inside the wall tent, noting that he’d tossed his sleeping bag and gear together in a careless heap. Curious, she peeked inside the cooler, which was full of beer, then took stock of his food supply, which consisted of at least forty packets of dried noodles, beef and chicken flavor, two loaves of white bread and several cans of baked beans. She then walked the shoreline long enough to gather up a goodly amount of driftwood. She made a big pile of it near the tent, then commenced cutting it to stove-wood length. The bucksaw Karen had lent her was sharp, and the work was easy and would have been almost pleasant except for the mosquitoes. After the wind died and before the cold air from the high places seeped down and rendered them dormant, they attacked with a vengeance. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to bring bug spray.

  For a while she worked without pausing, but when the attacks intensified beyond tolerating she threw the bucksaw aside and went into the wall tent for temporary relief and to hopefully find some insect repellent. She was sifting through Carson’s gear when she heard the muted sound of an engine approaching the shore. Libby froze, her heart skipping several beats. She hadn’t expected him to return so early, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught inside his tent. Could she slip out unnoticed and disappear before he beached the boat? She peeked out the tent’s door.

  Not a chance of it. He was already ashore, pulling the boat up onto the gravel strand and turning toward the camp site. For a few moments he didn’t notice her or the firewood she’d stacked. He grabbed one of the five-gallon gas cans and refueled the boat, and while his back was turned Libby edged out of the tent. He was perhaps twenty feet away, and preoccupied. With a little bit of luck she could sneak into the brush and…