by Sue Henry
“Unless Holman came back and told her where to
look for Anne—I think she may have gone back out to that cabin she talked about. The one where she said she was taken and held, west of Trapper Creek. There’s some kind of tie-in there.”
“Possible, I guess,” Becker agreed thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt to check, but she could have gone anywhere.”
“I think it might be essential to check. It makes more sense than anywhere else I can think of. And if the Holmans, or either one of them, is there, and if they are either one or both responsible for all or part of this mess—she could be in real trouble.”
“She’s no dummy. If she has a rifle, she knows how to use it.”
“I expect you’re right. Shall we make a run to Trapper Creek?”
“Can’t get to where that cabin is in a truck or your Jeep. Only snowmachines will get us off that road and into the hills.”
“Oh, hell. I hate those things. But—okay, let’s rustle some up and see if we can get out there before dark.”
BENEATH THE ASHES
271
“I’ve got a couple of Ski-Doos already on a trailer you can use,” Hank Peterson offered from where he had been standing with Billy, listening to the exchange.
“Another one I can load, if you want me to go along.
I’ve been out there and know where that cabin is.”
“Good idea, Hank. How long will it take to get
going?”
“Soon as you can, go get into some suits and boots.
I could get the machines and meet you in town.”
“Let’s do it.”
Through the night, Jessie had run her team north through the still-frozen and snow-covered swampland and maze of creeks to the west of the Parks Highway and the Susitna River. At Trapper Lake, she had swung northwest and, as the sun rose, she had already crossed both Peters and Bear creeks and arrived at the area between the banks of the Kahiltna River and the Little Peters Hills. Turning east, she directed the team up the slope a little way till she found a flat, sheltered place by a stand of birch, where she stopped, fed and watered the dogs, and settled them to take a long rest while she was gone.
She unharnessed Tank and, leaving him loose to accompany her on his own, began to climb the hill that would eventually lead her to the cabin in which she had long ago spent part of the winter. It was slow going through the deep snow on the more sheltered side of the hills, especially with the rifle she had taken from the sled and a day pack of ammunition, water, and a few supplies, but she took her time and was soon approaching the crest to the west of the cabin.
272
SUE HENRY
Stepping out of the cold shadow of the hill into the sunshine made it seem warmer, though the temperature remained almost the same. Pausing for a minute, she looked toward the cabin, but there were too many trees in the way to see it. Without further hesitation, she made her way through the trees along the crest, carefully keeping Tank close and moving as quietly as possible. In about ten minutes she came to the burned remains of the Holman cabin and stopped to look
around.
The space near the trees where she and Anne had
built the first fire to thaw the frozen ground had been tampered with—the dirt that had been dug out had been put back to fill the hole and flattened. Some snow had been kicked back over it, but without new snow to disguise the work the marks and boot prints were plain to see. Why, she wondered, would anyone go to that much trouble if there was nothing there, as Anne had said?
Nothing else appeared to have been touched, though someone had come and gone on the trail that led
toward the other cabin. Anne had left Knik Road still wearing the borrowed boots and work-stained parka, a fact which did not endear her to Jessie, and the familiar prints of the boots were there to be plainly seen on top of the marks of sled runners and the paw prints Jessie’s team had left. There was no question that Anne had been here again and, perhaps, still was.
Continuing cautiously along the trail, it wasn’t long until Jessie caught the scent of wood smoke. When she drew near enough, she saw that it was coming from the chimney of her old cabin, drifting slowly through the
BENEATH THE ASHES
273
trees in the still morning air. Stopping on the far side of a large spruce, where she would not be easily seen, she stopped and waited, watching for ten or fifteen minutes, to see if whoever had built that fire would come out. It might not be Anne. It was, she supposed, just as possible that Greg had found his way back here, hoping, like Jessie, to find his wife in this familiar setting. The smoke continued its lazy drift, but all was silent and still. There was no sign of anyone.
Finally, growing impatient, Jessie slowly circled the cabin until she could see the front of it. Away from the cabin, near some trees, a snowmachine was parked.
Again, she watched, but saw and heard nothing from inside the log building.
At length she decided that, short of spending an in-determinate amount of time waiting in the cold for someone to come out, if she wanted answers she would have to initiate contact with whoever was in the cabin.
If it was Anne, as she suspected, she might still be sleeping, expecting no one. The later it grew, the more unlikely it was that she could be surprised, and surprise would be a definite advantage for Jessie. Thinking ahead, she very gingerly chambered two shells in the rifle, muffling the sounds of the bolt action as best she could.
The sun cast long lines between the shadows of the dark spruce and bare trunks of the leafless birch as she slipped through them, taking care how and where she stepped, for it was not simple to walk silently in crusted snow. Step by step, she approached, Tank padding quietly beside her, and finally stood on the step in front of the door, ready to throw it open.
274
SUE HENRY
Closing her eyes for a minute, to allow her eyes to adjust for light that would be dimmer than the bright-ness of sun on snow, she waited, listening attentively.
Hearing nothing, she took a deep breath and holding the rifle ready for use, reached for the handle, slowly turned it, and, shoving the door inward with all her strength, followed it quickly into the room beyond and hesitated just inside to look for an occupant.
The blow that hurled her into darkness came so in-stantaneously she saw only a hint of motion to her left and had no opportunity to move or defend herself before she was falling against the nail points that pro-truded from the door to discourage plundering bears.
Pain lanced sharply through both sides of her scalp.
The pool of sunshine that had accompanied her
through the open door onto the wood floor blurred, became murky, and winked out as if a switch had been flipped.
24
Q
MACDONALD WAS HAVING NO TROUBLE AT ALL
-
REMEM
bering what he disliked about snowmachines. His main objection had always been the amount of noise they generated. He liked to be able to hear what was going on around him and found it impossible over the roar and whine of the Ski-Doo he was cautiously guiding along the trail behind Phil Becker. He knew that part of the guidance problem he was having was the result of never having ridden a snowmachine enough to learn how to make it perform the way others seemed to do so easily. He also knew that it was a skill he would willingly—cheerfully in fact—forgo. Overcompensation in steering kept him swinging from one side of the trail to the other, while Becker glided straight ahead and Hank Peterson kept leaving the trail entirely to run circles around the other two, obviously experienced and exuberant in his enjoyment of running his machine through open country.
It had taken over two hours for the three to reach the pull-out at Kroto Creek on Petersville Road, unload 275
276
SUE HENRY
the three machines, and start for the Little Peters Hills.
Enjoying the ride or not, it didn’t take MacDonald long to be able to o
perate his iron dog well enough to speed up a little, so they soon reached the turnoff at the Forks Roadhouse. Though no new snow had fallen since
Jessie and Anne had made their trip over the same route, wind had blown snow onto the trail where it left the road, covering all but a snowmachine track that showed plainly in the drift.
“No one’s run a sled over this in a couple of days,”
Peterson observed, stopping to look and let his machine idle, so he could make himself heard by Becker and MacDonald, who did the same. “Jessie didn’t
come this way. There’s snowmachine tracks, but
they’re everywhere around here.”
“Is there any other trail to that cabin?” Becker asked.
“No, but she wouldn’t have to follow this with her dog team. It’d be shorter to break her own trail up the valley and come in from the west. That’s what I’d do.”
“Won’t know until we get there, will we? Let’s go,”
MacDonald called, frowning. The farther they went the more concerned he had become about the situation.
Feeling remiss that he hadn’t anticipated that Jessie, independent and capable, might take off on her own, he was also having second thoughts about several other things. Hank Peterson had seemed just a little too willing to come along on this expedition. Was he leading them off on a wild-goose chase—taking them away
from where they should really be paying attention?
Could he have had anything to do with either of
Jessie’s disappearances? It also bothered Mac that,
BENEATH THE ASHES
277
when they had stopped to ask Oscar Lee about his conversation with Greg Holman the night before, they found he had hired a new bartender and taken the day off. He had not answered his telephone either, adding to MacDonald’s apprehension.
Though the day was bright and sunny, his thoughts were dark. Mike Tatum’s death had been no accident.
He had been a threat to whomever silenced him. Like Jessie, MacDonald was beginning to distrust almost everyone that was in any way connected to all this trouble. Committed now to this trip into the bush, he, nevertheless, had an uneasy feeling about it. The farther they went, the more he wanted it over, to investigate the cabin in the hills and get back to town, where he was comfortable with his usual habits of careful planning and efficiency. He did not like following hunches. He knew he was a bit of a plodder, but also knew that his methods got results in the long run.
Something about this spur-of-the-moment run to confirm a possibility didn’t sit right. That he couldn’t decide why it nagged at his sense of caution didn’t help either. Becker seemed satisfied with it, but . . .
Phil Becker was not as content as MacDonald as-
sumed. Fully aware of the worried frown on the investigator’s face, he was having second thoughts of his own. He felt somewhat responsible for Jessie’s disappearance, believed he should have anticipated that she might take it upon herself to investigate her abduction.
Whether it had really happened, or she only believed it had, would make no difference to her curiosity and determination. He had ignored what he knew of her independence and hoped that a price would not be
278
SUE HENRY
exacted from her for his mistake. Drawing his own conclusions from a lot of circumstantial evidence, he had allowed his disappointment to generate distrust.
He was sorry for it now—and feeling more than a little guilty.
As they had turned off the road onto the narrower trail, Peterson stopped showing off on his snowmachine and settled down to steadily following the track that led along the gentle slopes between the Peters and Little Peters hills. The pace he set was faster than MacDonald would have chosen, but he managed to keep up, hoping that it wouldn’t be too much farther.
Setting Hank to keep a watch on Greg Holman had
seemed a good idea to him the evening they met to talk at Oscar’s. He had decided that it might accomplish two things: give him an idea what Holman was up to in his supposed search for his missing wife and allow him to keep track of Hank Peterson. Hearing from Jessie later of Peterson’s visit to Holman at his motel had made Mac wonder just what connection might exist between the two men. Had he made a mistake? Had Peterson been keeping track of Holman, or an arson investigator?
Though he had not mentioned this possibility to Becker, he now thought he should when he had a chance.
“Wake up, Jessie. Come on, wake up.”
Without opening her eyes, Jessie knew immediately who was calling her name and shaking her shoulder.
She had found Anne Holman, but not as she wished or expected. Her head hurt in two places, a throbbing on the left side, a sharp burning on the right. What had happened? She tried to move.
BENEATH THE ASHES
279
Anne heard the groan that escaped Jessie’s lips, and saw her eyes blink open.
“Oh, good. You’re going to be okay. I’m really sorry, but you shouldn’t have surprised me like that. How could I know it was you? I thought it was—”
“What did you hit me with?” Jessie interrupted, but tried to move her head as little as possible for the moment. “It hurts—dammit.”
“—Greg trying to get in—thought he’d found me. I hit you with a piece of firewood. I’m really sorry.”
“Okay. You said that. Why does the other side hurt?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that. You fell against the nails in the door and cut yourself.”
Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t hit me, Jessie thought.
Raising a hand, she felt deep scratches that the nails had made in her scalp—two or three long cuts, still oozing blood. On the opposite side was the lump Anne had raised with the firewood.
“O-oh. Am I going to have headaches for the rest of my life? Where’s Tank?” she asked Anne.
“Outside. I was afraid he’d bite me because I hit you.”
Jessie listened and could hear him growling outside the door.
“Stop that, Tank,” she called. “It’s okay. I’m all right; good boy.”
His growls subsided, and he was quiet for the time being, knowing she didn’t need defending.
Getting slowly to her knees, she waited out the re-newed throbbing in her head.
“Have you got any aspirin?”
280
SUE HENRY
“Yes. I’ll get it for you.”
Anne went across and retrieved her day pack from the corner that Jessie remembered it had been in when she was captive, brought back three aspirin and a bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
Swallowing them, Jessie looked around for her own pack. It stood across the room under the window, next to the rifle. Anne, seeing where she was looking, stepped between Jessie and these things and stood, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
She said nothing, only shook her head, but Jessie knew that if she tried to go in that direction, Anne could reach the gun first and would. She decided not to make an attempt yet, still feeling a little unsteady. Instead, she sat back down on the floor and waited for the aspirin to alleviate some of her headache while she figured out what to do next—a distraction, maybe, for she was not about to let her personal protection go that easily.
Anne remained where she was, watching distrustfully, while Jessie looked around the cabin. A hint of steam rose from a large kettle and from the spout of an aluminum coffeepot on the stove. Near it, an untidy sleeping bag lay on a pad on the floor. The built-in bunk had been used as a countertop, food spread out over a couple of paper grocery bags—several cans of soup or stew, a large can of apple juice, a loaf of bread, a tub of margarine. The parka that Anne had borrowed hung on a shoulder-high post at the end—part of the foot board. It looked like Anne had been here for a day or two since she left Knik.
“What are you doing up here, Anne? Why did you
leave my place so suddenly when the fire started?”
> BENEATH THE ASHES
281
“You said it was time to go.”
“Did you start it?”
“No-o,” Anne told her indignantly. “Of course not.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. But it wasn’t me.”
“Then why’d you take off when I really needed your help?”
“I was afraid,” she whined, and Jessie recognized the familiar it’s-not-my-fault tone. “You knew that. I told you Greg was coming after me. Why wouldn’t you believe me and help?”
“How did you go? Nobody saw you on the road.”
“I don’t think I need to justify myself to you. You just wanted me gone, so I went. Never mind how.”
Jessie shook her head and instantly wished she had not.
“That’s not enough. You’re just trying to slip out from under again. I want some answers. Did someone pick you up?”
Anne stared at her belligerently, refusing to say any more.
“Oh, for Lord’s sake, Anne. All right. How’d you get up here, then—and why?”
“It’s a good place to hide.”
“From who?”
“Greg, of course. He followed me from Colorado,
like I knew he would. I told you. You just didn’t care.”
Whatever happens to Anne, someone else is always responsible, Jessie thought. Holding both hands to her aching head, she slumped forward in hurt and discouragement, elbows on knees. The fingers of her right
282
SUE HENRY
hand came away sticky with blood that had run down the side of her face from the cuts in her scalp.
“Have you got something I can use to wash this
blood off?” she asked.
Anne gave her another doubting look.
“Hey. Just get me something will you? Please?
What’s the matter with you?”
Still watching, Anne went to her open suitcase that lay on the floor beside the sleeping bag. Taking out a towel, she dipped one end into the hot water on the stove, wrung it out, and brought it across the room. As she handed it over, Jessie took a deep breath and caught a scent she recognized. Startled, she looked accusingly up at the woman in front of her.
