“I brought you some blueberry muffins and coffee. The muffins are still warm, just came out of the oven. I wasn’t sure if you’d had breakfast yet.”
He stuffed the razor into a pocket on the side of his kit, plucked a hand towel from yet another handy branch and wiped the last of the shaving cream from his face before turning. “It’s not even 5:00 a.m.,” he pointed out.
“And the sun is already high in the sky,” Libby said. “I knew you’d be wanting to make an early start. I saw the woodsmoke from your stove and figured you were up and about. How’s your hand feeling?”
“Just like new.”
“Would you like me to pour you some coffee?”
“I can pour my own coffee,” he said, moving past her and stepping inside the tent. Libby stood outside, still holding the hamper, and wondered for a moment if she’d just been dismissed, but he reemerged after a few long minutes, day pack dangling from his good hand. “And I don’t need a babysitter.”
Libby flushed. “I was only trying to be helpful.”
He rounded on her, standing so close that she felt threatened by the sheer power he radiated. He may have been at his most vulnerable after suffering that terrible accident, but she had no doubt that he was still stronger than most men she’d ever encountered.
“Look,” he said. “I’m here to do a job. I don’t need to be supervised or watched over or nagged and goaded.”
“Fine.” Libby set the hamper at her feet with a thump. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I promise I won’t do it again.” She turned and started out of his campsite, willing herself to walk carefully and not stumble as she had before.
“Who are you, really?” he called as she moved away. “And why is finding this plane so important to you?” he said, his words so unexpected that it took Libby a few moments to process them.
She stopped and turned to face him. “I already told you who I was, and why I want to find the plane.”
His eyes were so clear and keen that she felt threatened. It was as if he could see right through the thin veneer that hid her soul and innermost secrets from the world. “You’re not telling me the whole story,” he said. “Frey’s offered a big sum of money for us to quit this project, more than the cost of the plane, maybe more than what it might be carrying, but you’re not biting. Hell, you didn’t even rise to the bait or consider making a counteroffer.”
Libby drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. “You agreed to give me one week. Are you trying to back out of your commitment?”
“You agreed to pay me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars if I found the plane. Frey is hinting that he’d cough up a whole lot more than that for us not to find the plane. Why?”
“Who knows what motivates that man, and what difference does it make? You’re working for me now. You don’t need to know why, do you? Why did you salvage that downed commuter plane?”
“Because the relatives of the victims wanted the bodies recovered, the FAA wanted to study the wreckage to discover the cause of the accident and I wanted the money they were willing to pay. I don’t risk my life in a hazardous occupation because I enjoy living dangerously. I do it for the money. To tell you the truth, nobody’s ever offered me money not to risk my life, and I kind of like the idea of it.”
The deep breath she’d taken had failed to calm her. She felt her hands close into tight fists. “You bastard,” she said. “You told me yesterday you were a man of your word.”
He took a step toward her and once again she became aware of his sheer power. “I am,” he said. “I’ll find the plane for you. But at least consider this possibility. If we waited until after Frey dies of old age, we could pocket a chunk of change now and salvage the plane in a few years. He’s in his eighties and he can’t last much longer. You’re a very young ‘some kind of doctor’ who rakes in the big bucks. You can hold off for a few more years, can’t you?”
Libby struggled to control her temper. “If you don’t want to salvage the plane, I’ll find someone who does. I doubt Frey will pay you one cent if he knows I’ll just hire someone else to find the wreckage, someone a whole lot more honorable than you!”
“What if his threat to block purchase of the salvage rights is real? You have to consider that possibility. The man’s a billionaire. He certainly has the power to influence more than a few politicians, and it’s the state that grants salvage rights on inland waters that don’t fall under the realm of the admiralty laws. One phone call from him could shoot this project down.” He loomed over her, and as angry as she was, Libby was nonetheless impressed and a little intimidated by the sense of power he exuded. “Look,” he said, “all I want is for you to be aboveboard with me. I want some honest answers. Is that asking too much?”
“Find the plane, Mr. Dodge, and you’ll have your answers.” Libby spun around and fled the camp, forgetting to be calm and composed. She was furious, both with Dodge and herself. She was halfway back to the lodge when she realized that she hadn’t told him about Karen’s offer to keep his boat at the dock. She kicked a small rock aside, satisfied by the way it shot into the water and threw up a plume of spray.
To hell with Carson Colman Dodge. He was not only rude, he was greedy, and she hadn’t a doubt that he’d take Frey up on that kill fee…if he could. It was up to her to squelch that possibility as soon as possible. She was going to have to pay the intimidating Daniel Frey another visit, this time as the rightful daughter of Connor Libby, and lay all her cards on the table. As frightening as the prospect was, she could see no other way to stop Frey from undermining the salvage operation.
CARSON WAS SO STEAMED UP when he left his camp that he forgot his day pack and left the hamper sitting on the beach. He forgot the spare gas can, forgot his parka, forgot the bug spray. He motored past the Otter, giving it his standard critical appraisal, even as he seethed over his encounter with the maddeningly testy Libby Wilson.
To hell with her. He’d go talk to Frey again and find out just how much money the old bastard might be willing to cough up for a kill fee. If he could get Frey to cut Libby out of the deal, she wouldn’t be able to afford to hire anyone else to salvage the missing plane. The nearest good salvage operator was based out of Seattle and would require an exorbitant amount of money up-front, more than anyone would pay to salvage a de Havilland Beaver out of a remote lake, no matter what it held or how much it would be worth when restored to flying condition.
As Carson neared the search area his anger slowly cooled and he realized if the plane did in fact hold a fortune, all Libby would have to do was whisper about it and all the treasure hunters in the lower forty-eight would be heading for the Brooks Range at top speed. She knew that, too, of course, which is why she was keeping quiet. Or was there some other reason? Hell, she’d hired him to take on the salvage job. Why wouldn’t she tell him the real reason she wanted that plane found? What was she hiding? What was Frey trying to hide?
He fumbled his maps out of the waterproof case, damning his bandaged hand for not cooperating, damning his useless fingers for not moving. The numbness scared him more than any pain ever would. He worked it at night, using his other hand to move the fingers within the limitations of the bandaging, flexing everything back and forth, over and over, willing the sensation to come back. The fact that it hadn’t was ominous. The doctors had said it would take time for the severed nerves to regenerate, but they also said the nerves might not regenerate at all. Or he might only regain partial use of the hand. Already six weeks had passed since the accident. That was way too long, as far as he was concerned. Something should have happened by now.
He spread the maps, turned on the GPS, returned to the search pattern. At his present rate of speed, scanning a hundred-foot swath each time he crossed the lake, it would take him all week just to search the outlet area and the area used by the pilots for their takeoff runs. There was a good chance the plane would be outside of the search area, in which case he was going to run out of time and the mystery would remain unsolve
d. All the more reason to talk with Frey, but maybe he’d wait and give it another few days. He might get lucky and find the plane, and if he didn’t, Frey might get antsy and up the kill fee on his own and by then, with the one week deadline looming on the horizon, Libby Wilson might be more amenable to accepting it.
Good plan.
He’d wait, work the search pattern, and hope for the best possible financial outcome.
LIBBY WAS VACUUMING HER last room when Karen poked her head around the door frame, her face flushed from working in the laundry. “Meet me for a glass of iced tea when you’ve finished beating up that rug!” she invited before ducking out of sight. Libby straightened and paused, vacuum still running, then laughed. It was true enough. She’d assaulted her rooms this morning, taking out her anger and frustration on the beds, the bathrooms and the floors. It was good therapy and she’d finished her rooms in record time, but a tall glass of iced tea sure did sound tempting. She switched off the vacuum cleaner, wrapped up the cord and put her cleaning things away. Karen was already in the kitchen, two tall glasses of iced tea sitting on the table.
She dropped into a chair across from Karen and lifted her glass. “Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been in such a mood.”
Karen picked up her own glass and regarded her for a moment. “I take it the muffins and coffee you brought to Mr. Dodge’s camp didn’t have the desired effect.”
“No. My appearance at his campsite this morning put him in a worse mood than ever. He seems to take offense at everything I do and say.”
“Maybe his ego can’t stand the idea of needing TLC.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Libby took a sip of the lemony iced tea. It was delicious. She held the sweaty glass to her hot brow for a moment. “He promised me a week, but I think he’s going to try to welsh on me. It seems Mr. Frey doesn’t want the plane found and has offered a big kill fee if Carson abandons the project.”
“Hmm,” Karen said.
“The thing is, I’m investigating the death of Ben Libby’s son, and finding the plane is key to that investigation. I wish I could tell you more, Karen, but right now I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“I’m very grateful to you for letting me work here.”
Karen smiled and reached across the table to give Libby’s hand a squeeze. “Do you have any idea how much help you’ve been to me? In just two days I feel like a new woman. You’ve cut my workload in half. I’m already dreading the day you leave.”
“It won’t be till the end of the week, if I have anything to say about it. You said that boat privileges came with this job?”
Karen nodded. “We have an old outboard that we keep as a spare. Runs okay but looks pretty awful. You’re welcome to use it, if you want.”
Libby nodded. “Thanks. I’d like to go check on Solly Johnson after lunch.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Daniel Frey shooting Solly a long time ago?”
Karen frowned and shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Graham about that, or Solly himself. I’ll pack up some food for you to bring along. I know Solly doesn’t like us white folk much, but I betcha he wouldn’t refuse my food.”
CARSON SAW LIBBY LEAVE the lodge in the old aluminum boat and head up the west arm of the lake. She looked like a woman on a mission, and neither glanced in his direction nor acknowledged his existence. For someone who had earlier been very interested in his progress, he got the feeling he was now being pointedly ignored. Snubbed, in fact. Fine by him, and good riddance to her. He watched her until she had disappeared out of sight behind a point of land, neglecting the sonar long enough so he’d have to repeat an entire leg of the grid to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He cussed a bit, then realized he was actually hungry and decided to put off the search for the wreckage long enough to return to his camp and break into the basket of muffins Libby had brought early that morning. He folded up the maps, returned them to their waterproof case, shut off the GPS, reeled the towfish aboard, waved to Frey, who was watching through his binoculars from the porch and had been all morning, then headed for camp.
Back at his site he tied the rubber boat to one of the plane’s pontoons and waded ashore to exercise his leg. The cold water felt good, but his bad leg didn’t particularly enjoy the physical exertion of wading through it. Nor did his burning lung or the rest of his aching body. It was barely twenty feet to the beach, but it felt more as though he’d just climbed one hundred vertical steps at high altitude shouldering a heavy pack. He had to start pushing himself harder.
The basket was sitting right where Libby had dropped it, but he noticed that the dish towel had been pulled halfway out, the butter was on the ground beside the basket and pecked to shreds, and upon closer inspection he saw that all the muffins were gone. Every last crumb had been eaten by the gray jays, who swept in while he ate and begged scraps from his plate.
Damn! After an entire morning of anticipating how good those muffins were going to taste, he was going to have to settle for a can of cold beans. No time to fire up the little stove and heat them. Good thing he liked them cold. Even better thing that gray jays couldn’t open cans.
Five minutes later he was still trying to open the can himself, holding it clamped between his knees and cursing heatedly with every unsuccessful turn of the can opener’s key with his left hand. After five minutes of struggle all he’d managed to do was puncture the seal. He couldn’t make the can opener work from either direction. He gave up finally and broke into one of the loaves of cheap white bread, stuffing a slice into his mouth and chewing it in foul humor, thinking about those huge warm muffins loaded with blueberries and slathered with sweet creamery butter. The black flies plagued him as he ate, and by the time he’d polished off four slices of bread he was ready to return to work. He heard a boat approaching and stood, his heart rate accelerating at the thought of another visit from Libby.
It would have pleased Carson greatly if his first and only thought was that she might be bringing another hamper of food, but it wasn’t. He was also thinking that he ought to apologize for his poor behavior and that he ought to make a greater effort to be polite and civilized in her presence. It wasn’t her fault that she was so damn beautiful and he was a washed-up wreck of a salvage diver. He was revving himself up to make amends when he saw that his visitor wasn’t Libby Wilson.
The approaching boat was the same vintage Chris-Craft he’d encountered the evening before piloted by the slender dark-eyed Athapaskan girl called Luanne. This time, however, it was Daniel Frey who motored up beside the Otter and shifted the boat’s engine into reverse, bringing the boat to a gentle halt before throttling the engine down to a low idle.
“We need to talk,” Frey said over the sudden crash of big waves breaking onto the pebbled beach.
Carson walked to the edge of the water, damning the burning limp he couldn’t quite mask and the audible wheeze of a lung that hadn’t yet recovered from wading ashore. “So talk.”
“I brought along some papers for you to look over. I can fly a notary in tomorrow to make them legal and binding. These papers are worth half a million dollars to you if you sign them.”
“To me alone?”
“To you, and whomever hired you,” Frey replied. “You can split it however you like.”
“What do these documents state?”
“They stipulate that from this day forward you will cease and desist to search for the plane and Connor Libby’s body. That you will leave this lake and not desecrate my godson’s grave. And that you will never return, not even after my death.”
Carson thought about the four slices of cheap white bread he’d just eaten to thwart his hunger because he couldn’t open a goddam can of beans. He thought about the medical bills that he was fighting with his insurance company over. He thought about the constant pain that gnawed and stabbed and robbed him of his strength. He thought about his useless hand and his gimpy leg and the lung that didn’t draw breath without causing him agony and
might never function properly again. He thought about the fact that he was almost forty years old. He thought about all the nights that Gracie hadn’t come to his boat after the pool hall shut down. He was beginning to think that signing those documents might not be such a bad idea.
And then he thought about Libby Wilson.
Big mistake.
Dammit all, she’d already begun to destroy him, even after he vowed he would never let such a thing happen to him again.
“I’ll pass that information along,” he said.
Frey wasn’t about to be put off that easy. “Sign the papers, Dodge. Don’t be a fool. I know all about the injuries you suffered when you attempted to salvage that commuter plane. I know exactly how bad off you are right now, both physically and financially. It was an unfortunate accident, but the odds are you’ll never dive again, and your diving skills were the heart and soul of Alaska Salvage. I’m sure your crew is competent, but without your hands-on skills and expertise the company will fold. You owe too much money for all that fancy equipment you use, especially your ship, the Pacific Explorer, which already has a hefty lien against it, as I understand, and right now your bank account is dead empty.”
Clearly, Frey had done his homework. A billionaire could pull some strings, and Frey had pulled them all, including the loan officer’s at Anchorage Trust. So much for the Privacy Act.
“My crew is highly skilled. Even if I never dive again, Mr. Frey, my company will continue to exist.”
“Teetering day to day on the verge of bankruptcy.” Frey held out a sheaf of papers. “Would you like to read the agreement?”
Carson shook his head. “Not for a measly half a million bucks. It’s not worth my time, thanks just the same.”
Frey’s smile was mirthless. He set the papers on the dash. “No, perhaps half a million wouldn’t interest you. That won’t even cover what you owe the bank, will it? Of course that measly amount wouldn’t interest you. Silly of me to think it would. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
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