Everything To Prove

by Nadia Nichols

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Libby said. “If Graham’s free, maybe he could help me search for the plane tonight. I have a feeling I’m running out of time even faster than I thought.”

  Graham wasn’t guiding that evening, and when Libby briefly explained her predicament he willingly volunteered to run the boat. “But I don’t know anything about the sonar,” he warned.

  “I don’t know that much myself,” Libby admitted, “but I know how to turn it on and how to read the screen, and I don’t think Carson will mind if we search until dark. It’s a nice calm evening, and by now that grizzly must have moved on.”

  She could only hope that was the case as they walked back down the shoreline. Graham carried a rifle, just in case. Whenever a bear came near the lodge, all the guides carried rifles as a precaution, but the bear was gone. All that remained were its huge paw prints along the shore, and the incredible mess that the bear had wreaked on Carson’s camp. The canvas wall tent was torn down, the metal-sided cooler was punctured with big tooth marks, and Carson’s gear was scattered asunder. Libby felt a chill as she scanned the brush and woods behind the camp, and was more than glad to wade out to the rubber boat to get away from the shore.

  Carson had already topped up the gas tank, so all she had to do was untie the boat from the pontoon while Graham started the motor, and then pull herself over the side. Soon they were motoring out onto the lake. When they had reached the approximate location, and it was very approximate, Libby lowered the sonar into the water and played out the line, but she was unsure just how much line to let out. She activated the screen and sat where Carson had, hunched over to shield the screen from the low angle of the sunlight so as to be able to read it on the easterly legs of the grid.

  After five minutes it became evident how little talent she had for working any sort of search pattern and watching the screen at the same time. Also, the depth of the sonar was critical, and she couldn’t quite get the resolution right. Furthermore, she didn’t have a GPS, and even if she had one, she wouldn’t have known how to use it. Still, at least she was doing something. The odds of doing it right and finding the plane were long, but if she’d had to spend the rest of the daylight hours on shore, frittering away the last chance she might have to find the wreckage, she’d have gone crazy. She thought about Carson peacefully sleeping off that pain pill while his salvage ship and crew were trouble and she hunched over the sonar screen for three more hours and squelched a rueful laugh.

  The tough guy sure knew when to call a time-out.

  CARSON CAME AWAKE with a start. For a few unsettling moments he had no idea where he was, but then the foggy memories rolled back in. He blinked and squinted across the empty room. His mouth was dry, but when he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, the cabin remained stationary. He still felt muzzy-headed, but the pain levels were way down and he took that as a fair trade-off. He rubbed his hand over his face, stared at the fresh dressing on his other hand, somewhat alarmed that he had no recollection of Libby rebandaging it, and then studied the ends of his fingers that showed beyond the white gauze. He was sure he’d felt them move. He raised his arm and tried to curl his hand into a fist inside the bulky bandaging. Yes, the fingers definitely moved. He gave the order for them to wiggle, and they wiggled. Granted, the movement was weak, but what the hell. Relief flooded through him. What a beautiful, beautiful sight!

  He stood, looked down at his feet, then cast around for his missing boots. There, over behind the woodstove. He retrieved them and sat on the edge of the bunk to pull them on. It was still light out. He could get out on the lake for an hour, maybe. Maybe less. But he’d do what he could before it became too dusky. He owed Libby that much for letting him crash at her cabin. Not that she’d had a whole lot of choice in the matter. He wondered if she were working up at the lodge, cleaning up after serving the fishermen their supper. Should he leave her a note?

  There was a notebook on the table, pen clipped to the spiral binder. He opened it to pull out a blank page and saw that it was a journal of sorts. Dates and entries. He flipped until he reached the final entry. It was very brief, just gave the date and stated, “Time is running out. Only two days remain. I can only hope the weather holds, and Evening Lake gives up its secrets before Frey hides them forever.”

  Carson removed a fresh page from the notebook, closed the cover and penned a brief note to Libby.

  Thanks for the use of your bunk. Carson.

  He picked up his rifle on the way out the door and paused to wiggle his fingers one more time.

  Beautiful.

  When he rounded the point by his campsite and first saw the sheltered cove where he’d beached the plane, he noticed that the rubber boat was no longer tied off to the float plane’s pontoon. He stopped abruptly, wondering if he’d forgotten to make it fast to the pontoon and the wind had carried it off, and thinking with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach about how damned expensive that side-scanning sonar was. Then he continued on, this time paying closer attention and noticing the tracks along the shore. Not just the tracks of the giant grizzly, but fresh tracks of two people, one being Libby’s, the other track considerably larger. The foot prints continued right to the campsite, where Carson stared with dismay at the havoc the bear had wreaked. He knew this was his own fault for keeping a sloppy camp, but still, it was a discouraging sight. Good thing he’d removed the last of his food. It was doubtful the bear would return, having gotten nothing for its bad-tempered efforts.

  But where the hell was his boat?

  He walked back to the shore and looked up the west arm and cursed beneath his breath. He felt the slow burn of anger coarse through him as he beheld one of the guides from the lodge sitting in the stern, driving the boat about half a mile off shore while Libby apparently watched the monitor. He couldn’t believe she’d taken his boat without asking him. That she was using his extremely expensive equipment without asking. What if she snagged it on something and busted it? She hadn’t a clue how to operate such sophisticated equipment. And who the hell was with her?

  He lashed out at a rock with his booted foot. Hollering would be pointless. The distance between them was too great and the wind was working against him. He watched for a while as his anger built, then wheeled around and returned to his wrecked campsite. Might as well vent that energy putting the tent back up and sorting out his ransacked gear. Damn bear. If it showed up again he’d bust its chops. He’d skin it alive. He’d… Oh hell, he wasn’t really mad at the bear, but that doctor woman sure boiled his blood. She had no right to take his boat without asking.

  LIBBY EASED A CRAMP in the small of her back and glanced up at the western sky. The last shreds of color snagged the snowy mountain range and faded even as she watched, and the air was getting chilly. She sighed. “I guess it’s quitting time,” she told Graham, who nodded and headed the boat back toward Carson’s camp on the sheltered side of the point.

  Graham had been silent for most of the past three hours, but as they drew near the plane he said, “I’ll ask my father about the crash again. I’ll tell him why it’s so important you find the plane. Maybe he’ll remember something.”

  “Maybe,” Libby said, but she doubted it. Discouragement weighed her down. She felt exhausted and close to tears as the twilight thickened. She’d been so sure Carson would find the plane, but now it looked more and more hopeless. “Thanks for helping, anyway,” she told Graham, who nodded. He brought the boat in next to the plane and killed the motor. Libby slid over the side and into the icy water, reaching for the painter on the stern to lash it to the pontoon, then doing the same to the bow. Graham was helping her secure the sonar when she heard movement on the beach and whirled around, heart in her throat, expecting to see the looming bulk of that giant grizzly.

  But it was Carson. The pill he’d taken should have kept him under for at least six hours, but somehow he’d thrown off the effects a good two hours early. He stood and watched, and the very manner of his sile
nce was ominous, as was the way he was standing. It was a Clint Eastwood stance, something right out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

  “Thanks again, Graham,” Libby said as they waded ashore. Graham nodded to Carson, who made no response, and then he wisely continued on toward the lodge. “Hello, Carson,” Libby said when she reached shore. “How are you feeling?”

  “What do you think you were doing out there in my boat?”

  Libby considered her response. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed it and searched until dark.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.”

  “Yes, I can see I did, and I’m sorry, but you were out like a light and—”

  “That equipment you were playing with cost me a small fortune.”

  His words cut deep. Libby glanced to where Graham walked along, then looked back at Carson. “Look, I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I didn’t think you’d—”

  “It’s getting darker by the moment,” he interrupted. “You’d better get back to the lodge while it’s still light enough to see.”

  Libby felt her face flush. She clenched her fists inside her parka pockets. “What about you? You can’t stay out here. The bear might come back.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “One of your employees tried to get hold of you earlier. I told him you’d call as soon as you could. He said it was important. His name was Trig and the problem has something to do with the engine of your ship. The fuel pump wasn’t working and he said that they’re dead in the water. That’s all I know. Karen said to feel free to use the satellite phone in the lodge.”

  “I’ll call him from the plane.” His words were delivered with a curtness that stung.

  Libby nodded. “All right. Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about borrowing the boat without asking you.”

  But he made no response, and she felt his eyes boring into her back as she walked down the shore toward the lodge. When she reached the point she turned. He was still watching her. She wondered if he’d be there in the morning, or if he would have flown away, taking the last of her hopes with him and leaving the secrets of Evening Lake buried forever.

  LIBBY’S NIGHT WAS a sleepless one. She tossed and turned and got up several times to open the cabin door and listen, feeling the cold night air pour over the threshold and chill her bare feet while she wondered and worried about the grizzly returning to Carson’s camp. Another listening session at the open door had her wondering and worrying about him flying away while she slept. Well before dawn she was dressed and in the kitchen of the lodge, where Karen was already beginning breakfast preparations. She accepted a mug of hot black coffee, aware of Karen’s questioning expression.

  “He was pretty mad that I borrowed his boat last night without asking,” Libby explained.

  “And even madder that you were out in it with another man, no doubt,” Karen added.

  Libby glanced up. “I doubt jealousy ever entered his mind. He was far more worried about me wrecking his equipment.”

  “You underestimate yourself. I think he’s far more worried about you breaking his heart. Did he get in touch with his ship?”

  “He said he was going to call from his plane.”

  “Hmm. So you don’t know how serious the problem was?”

  “No. But I’m afraid he might be leaving today. The guy on the phone sounded pretty serious, and the term ‘dead in the water’ didn’t sound good.”

  “He promised you a full week, didn’t he?”

  Libby nodded. “But if there’s some kind of emergency…”

  “If he leaves today, he’ll just have to come back, that’s all. A deal is a deal.”

  Karen was making yeast pastries. She rolled out the dough, spread it with butter, brown sugar, cinnamon and chopped walnuts, then rolled it up and sliced it into one-inch-thick rounds. Libby watched her arrange the rounds on a greased cookie sheet and cover them with a clean linen dish towel. She set the pan on a warming rack above the woodstove, refilled her coffee cup and sat down across from Libby. “Daniel Frey was out on the lake last night,” she said. “I’ve never seen him take that big boat of his out after supper before.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Just up to the point. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  Libby made a face. “The only thing I was looking at was the sonar screen. The Titanic could have crossed our bow, I wouldn’t have seen it. Still, I’m surprised Graham didn’t spot him.”

  “He wasn’t out for long. He just motored up the point, then turned around and went back to his dock. I only mention it because I thought it was strange.”

  “Like he was spying on us?”

  “Yes. Keeping tabs. Before, you were right out in front of his lodge. Now you’re out of sight. Apparently that makes him curious.”

  “He wonders what we’re up to, does he?” Libby took another swallow of coffee. “Well, he doesn’t have much to worry about. The odds of finding the plane are beginning to look pretty bleak.”

  “If you did find the plane, what would that mean?” Karen said.

  Libby sighed. “Oh, Karen. I’m not sure. At first I thought finding the plane would solve all my problems. Finding the plane would allow me to prove that Connor Libby was my father. But now I wonder.”

  Karen frowned. “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder if finding the plane won’t cause more problems than it solves.” Libby closed her hands around the heat of the mug. “Don’t get me wrong. I want to find it very much. I know it won’t answer all my questions, but it’ll bring me one step closer to finding some of the answers.”

  “Then I guess I don’t understand. What problems do you think it will create?”

  “All my life I’ve been Libby Wilson, the illegitimate daughter of Marie Wilson, an Athapaskan from the village of Umiak on the Koyukyuk. Don’t you see? If I can prove that Connor Libby is my father, my whole identity will change. My life will change. Radically.”

  “Your public identity will change, there’s no doubt about that, but who you are is who you are. Inside, you’ll still be the same person. You’ll just be a whole lot richer and you certainly won’t need to be making beds and scrubbing bathrooms around this joint.”

  Libby stood and paced to the window, silently cursing the point of land that blocked his plane from view. Was Carson still there? Had he sneaked away in the night? Or was he even now loading up his plane and preparing to depart? Libby whirled, plunked her mug onto the table, and was almost out the door before Karen called out for her to wait, and with a wry smile handed her a basket she’d already prepared. “I figured you’d be leaving early,” she said. “Good luck.”

  Libby ran as swiftly as she dared along the shoreline, leaping over big pieces of driftwood and dodging jumbled rocks. She rounded the point and suddenly there he was, sitting in the boat, working on the painter in the stern. No doubt he was having trouble with the knot she’d made the night before. Good. That would stall him. She came to a halt on the shore near the rope that tethered the plane to the beach, heart pounding in her ears. He had managed to untie the knot and he tossed the painter into the boat, shifting his position to untie the bow line. He barely gave her a glance. Libby plunged into the water and waded out to the boat, setting the lunch basket on the floor. She shimmied over the side and slid into the stern, taking her position on the seat and staring defiantly.

  “I can only give you one more day,” he muttered, eyes on his work as he struggled with the knot she’d tied.

  Libby nodded. “I figured as much when that phone call came last night.”

  “The fuel pump failed in my salvage ship. Things’re okay for now, the weather’s supposed to hold for another twenty-four hours in the sound, but she’s ten miles offshore. I have a spare fuel pump at the shop. I’ll have to fly down, pick it up, then fly out to the ship and replace the broken one.” He was still fiddling with
the knot.

  “I understand,” Libby said. Her lips were so numb she was barely able to form the words. She was suddenly cold all over and she clenched up against a convulsive shiver. “We’d better get started.”

  He finally got the knot untied and looked at her steadily for the first time that morning. “I’m sorry I was so short with you last night.”

  “That’s okay. I probably deserved it.” She clenched up even tighter, fighting the emotions that cramped her throat. She started the motor. “Let’s just get going.”

  He tossed the bow line into the boat but instead of pushing away from the plane, Carson took hold of the wing strut and pulled himself onto the pontoon. He stood, opened the door and pulled out a bulky orange pair of coveralls liberally striped with reflective tape. He tossed it into the rubber boat just in front of her. “Put that on,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called a mustang suit. It’s a flotation device designed for long-term survival in cold, rough waters. Put it on. We’re supposed to get some wet weather today.”

  Libby pulled it toward her, lifted it up then hesitated. “But it’s so big and awkward.”

  “Put it on or go ashore,” he ordered bluntly. “Your choice.”

  She glanced up at him and his expression effectively quelled any further protests she might have made. She pulled the suit on, dwarfed within the bulk of it. It was quite obviously Carson’s. He cast off from the plane, climbed back into the boat and took his place at the sonar screen. As Libby struggled to zip the front of the suit up and cinch the belt tight around her waist, she noticed that the clouds were already gathering over the mountains. At the rapid rate they were piling up there would be no pretty sunrise this morning.

  She was right. By 10:00 a.m. the sky was dark, and by 11:00 a.m. it had begun to rain. Carson protected his equipment by pulling up a clear collapsible canopy he called a dodger, which shielded two-thirds of the boat, but Libby, in the stern, was at the mercy of the elements. The wind picked up and the waves built up rapidly. The search pattern Carson had her steer gave them one long upwind and downwind leg, which was okay, but the short crosswind legs were rough. The images on the monitor became rough, as well, and Carson let out more cable to dampen the effect of the surface waves on the submerged towfish. They refueled at noon and when Libby started to wade back to the boat after taking a bathroom break, no easy feat in the mustang suit, Carson detained her by grasping her arm.