by Sue Henry
“Aw, Rod …”
“Don’t start, Nelson. You want to run the boat? No? Well, then, just do it. Find some line and tie her up in a real good package. Then get that extra anchor that’s in the sail locker in the bow and bring it up here.”
“You gonna dump her overboard?”
“Yeah, but not here. With that anchor, she’ll sink like a stone, probably would anyway, but I want her to stay sunk in deep water. We’re almost to where Tracy Arm takes off out of Holkham Bay. There’s a couple small coves back in there where we can tie up for a while and sleep till tonight. But, best of all, it goes straight down, practically to China. We’ll dump her and that’ll be that. Nobody’d ever find her, even if they knew where to look. Which they won’t.”
Not pleased with his assignment, Nelson reluctantly went down to follow his instructions, since the idea of running the boat appealed to him even less. In the forward sail locker he found the anchor, a large Danforth, which he lugged back to the cockpit and left on the deck, along with a coil of line. He then disappeared below decks, where he remained for the better part of half an hour before reappearing, face wet with sweat, an open bottle of whisky in one hand.
“Goddamn, I hate stiffs. Gives me the willies to touch ‘em.” He shuddered and tipped the bottle to take a long pull.
Rod had run the boat into Holkham Bay and was now heading up Tracy Arm, a confined passage that was walled on both sides by high cliffs, scraped and scored by the glaciers that had formed it long before. If the steepness of what could be seen above the water was any indication, the bottom must be hundreds of feet down, Nelson thought, with an uneasy feeling.
“There’s gonna be no place to put down an anchor to lay up here,” he said to Rod.
“Don’t intend to. The only anchor I care to see slide over the side is the one that goes down with her. I’ll tie us off between a couple of rocks. Don’t panic. Haul her up here and get that anchor tied on.”
“Hey. I can’t carry that by myself. She looked little, but she’s a dead weight now. You gotta help.”
“Drag her, damn it. I’ll help lift her up the steps. Hurry up before we get too close and I have to mind the boat.”
The woman’s body, bound with its anchor, made a remarkably small splash as it fell from the stem of the Gull. Both men watched it vanish into the depths of Tracy Arm until a wisp of fog crept around the boat, obscuring the surface of the water.
“Gone,” said Rod, turning to recheck the lines he had used to secure the sailboat between a large boulder and a stunted scrub of a tree on shore. Moving to the boat’s inflatable dinghy, upside-down on the cabin roof, he began to untie it. “Get me those two cans of paint out of the galley. Before we sleep I got to change the name on this thing.”
In a short time and with a little less than professional effort, he had cleverly transformed the Hazlit’s Gull into Harry’s Doll. Climbing back aboard, he left the dinghy floating from the stern of the larger boat.
His partner sat morosely smoking, the level of the whisky in the bottle fallen to three-quarters.
“Jesus, Nelson. Why did I bring you? You’re drunk, you S.O.B. Go get some sleep. It’s over—she’s gone forever. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to prove she was ever here.”
The old man staggered to his feet and tossed his cigarette toward the side, where it fell short, hung up against a cleat, and smoldered until Rod snatched it up and tossed it overboard. Without looking back, Nelson shuffled to the companionway and down into the cabin, toward the head and a bunk, in that order.
Rod stared after him, shaking his head in disgust, then reached for the bottle and took a deep swallow of his own. Carefully checking the boat to be sure all was secure, he soon followed his own advice and went below.
But forever is a long time, and far beneath their somnolent oblivion, the hasty knots Nelson had inexpertly tied began to loosen as they were dragged against the steep rock that angled into the depths. The body tumbled through the water, scraping stones in slow motion until the line caught on a sharp protrusion, giving the anchor just enough slack to slip free and continue the long, silent fall on its own.
For a time the body remained where it had paused, swaying gently. Then the determined current of the incoming tide twisted it with curious fingers, the line holding it pulled free, allowing it to drift languidly away into the frigid waters of Tracy Arm, rising a little nearer the surface, toward a fate neither of the sleeping men could have imagined in their worst nightmares.
6
7:45 A.M.
Monday, July 14, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Peril Strait, Inside Passage, Alaska
MOST OF THE TIME HE SPENT PILOTING HIS SHIP THROUGH the deep icy waters of the Inside Passage, Captain Dave Kay’s face was more inclined to smile than to frown. Close observation disclosed a glint of farsightedness in his eyes, the result of guiding the Spirit of ‘98 through roughly a thousand miles of uncertain waters on an almost weekly basis during the tourist season. He was, quietly and competently, totally aware of whatever was happening around him at any given moment. At this particular moment on Monday morning, however, he was quite uncharacteristically frowning.
Jensen was not anticipating a frown when he was ushered into the captain’s office just behind the bridge, though the frown faded as Captain Kay rose, offered his hand, and indicated a chair. Alex lowered his tall frame into it. Having enjoyed a hearty breakfast, he and Jessie had been leaving the dining room on the lower deck when the first mate appeared to relay the official request for his presence.
“Thanks for coming up, Sergeant. Glad to have you aboard.”
“Thank you. It’s a fine ship.”
The captain glanced down at a sheet of paper in front of him on the desk and was silent for a minute before he gave Jensen a serious, thoughtful look. “Do you consider yourself on or off duty, Sergeant?”
Jensen qualified his answer, hoping to ascertain the purpose behind the query. “On … a special kind of duty, I guess, sir,” he equivocated. “I was instructed that I should be present, in uniform, for all official functions on the trip, but otherwise to enjoy the cruise. But, in a way, I’m always on duty. All troopers are.” Then, anticipating, “Why? You have a problem?”
Kay hesitated a moment and pursed his lips slightly before answering. “Ah … well … unfortunately, it would seem so.”
Weight on his elbows, the captain leaned forward on the desk with an air of restrained frustration.
“In the last few hours three passengers have come to me with reports of pilfering in their cabins last night. All of them claim that while they were ashore in Haines for the reception, possessions they left aboard were disturbed. The cabins weren’t vandalized or trashed. Carefully, skillfully searched and several items are apparently missing: a gold nugget chain necklace of some kind, cash and a silver money clip, and an antique pocket watch of sentimental and historic value. Two of them didn’t even notice the thefts until this morning—one came to me last night, here on the bridge, after everyone had already gone to bed.”
As Kay spoke, Jensen straightened in his chair and gave the captain his complete attention, his law enforcement awareness taking over. His air of respectful deference vanished, the “sir” in his vocabulary forgotten. They were suddenly two equal individuals with a shared predicament.
“Who came last night?”
“Judy Raymond, from 305. The necklace was hers.”
“One might indicate a simple misplacement or loss, but three is too many to be anything but theft. Is there any way they could be related?”
“Yes. The three cabins involved are next to each other on the forward starboard side of the Upper Deck—301, 303, and 305.”
“Just forward and on the opposite side from ours, 314. Isn’t there another one in that group, and who are the passengers in those cabins?”
“Yes, but 307 wasn’t touched. Occupied by a Mr. Stanley and his daughter.” The frown returned to the captain’s face as he glanced unh
appily at the paper between his elbows. “Who those passengers are compounds the problem. Ail those cabins are occupied by the descendants of Klondike miners, three of whom—including Stanley—had relatives on the Portland in 1897 and are all honored guests for this centennial thing. The others are Bill and Nella Berry, Charles … Chuck … Lovegren and his wife Carol, and Judy Raymond. The worst part of this is that the necklace and the watch were family heirlooms, handed down from the gold rush. As you can imagine, they’re not too happy about it.”
“What about the clip? Not an heirloom?”
“No, thank God. It was on the money that was stolen.”
Stolen. The word lay between them like a most unpleasant tangible thing, and the captain’s frown emphasized his reluctance to define the problem so explicitly.
“Look, I’d really appreciate your help on this,” he told Jensen. “You’re better trained and equipped to deal with it than I am. Critical incident training is one thing—identifying potential situations before they happen. I’ve had to take care of an alcoholic passenger or two, a crewman with a warrant for a hit-and-run in Seattle … once somebody took home a life ring … we never did find out who, or how they got it off the ship. But never serious theft. The cabins are open, no locked doors, but everybody has always respected that. Never a problem. We suggest that any real valuables go in the hotel manager’s safe.”
“Anyone could just walk into any cabin at any time?”
They could, but don’t. It’s an honor system, company policy … establishes a certain friendly, trusting atmosphere that we encourage. Passengers don’t have to carry keys, misplace them, forget and take them home accidentally. It also makes it much easier for the crew to get in for cleaning. It isn’t that large a ship, room for just under a hundred passengers and a crew of twenty-five. There’s almost always someone on deck. You’d have to be just about invisible …”
“Unless everyone is ashore … at a reception, say? Maybe not too smart security-wise. How about lunch and dinner? Everyone’s served at once, aren’t they? All in the dining room at the same time?”
“Well, yes … but late morning and during lunch the cabins are being cleaned … faster when they’re empty and unlocked … and at dinnertime there are crew members turning down beds, going in and out of all the cabins. There’s no time it would be easy.”
“How about someone who is neither a passenger nor a crew member? An outsider? Someone who could slip aboard and off again without being seen.”
“Not possible. When we’re in any port, we keep someone posted at the dockside end of the gangway to watch for just that sort of thing. Only passengers are allowed on board. Anyone else must be identified, have special permission, and be accompanied by someone from the ship.”
“So … it probably isn’t an outsider.”
“I don’t think so. But now, realistically, without other options, you’re about to come to a conclusion that really bothers me—whoever did this is either one of the passengers … or one of my crew. And I don’t like either one.”
There was silence for a moment or two, while the two men looked at each other with concern. Jensen could sense a slight shift to port. The faint scream of a gull drifted in from somewhere outside.
“Obviously, the passengers, including those who were robbed, were off the ship in Haines.”
“Yes.”
“Did any passengers stay on board?”
“Only three, as near as I can figure. A Mrs. Blake, in 302, which backs up to the Berrys in 301—elderly woman who uses a wheelchair most of the time. Her niece, Rozetta Moisan, did get off for a quick walk on the dock, but she got right back on and was never out of sight of the crew member, at the gangway. The other was a retired man, Wayne Johnson, in 308—drank too much between Skagway and Haines, went to bed. His wife went to the party without him.”
The penny dropped for Alex concerning Edith Johnson’s discomfort over her husband’s illness.
“Oh, yeah. We met her. Heavyset woman in a pink-and-blue dress.”
“Who was the crew member at the gangway?”
“My first mate. Totally trustworthy woman … no question.”
There was a long moment of hesitation, during which Captain Kay took a deep breath, let it out, got to his feet, and walked over to look out a starboard window.
“Who was responsible for turning down the beds in those cabins?” Jensen asked. “That was done while we were at the reception. We’d better start there.”
Kay turned to face him, misgiving unmistakably etched on his face, though he nodded agreement. “I’ve already sent for her,” he said, stepping to open the connecting door to the bridge. “Julie, would you come in, please?”
A young woman in her mid-twenties came into the room. Perhaps five feet two, she had shoulder-length brown hair tied back with a blue ribbon, and intelligent eyes the color of coffee. She wore tan slacks and a white cotton shirt under a navy blue anorak with the same tan lining its collar. Alaska Sightseeing/Cruise West was machine-embroidered on her top left jacket pocket, a name tag with Julie and the company logo—a polar bear in profile within a bright blue circle—pinned to the pocket on the right.
“Jensen, this is Julie Morrison, one of our CSRs. Ah … that’s Customer Service Representative. Julie, Sergeant Alex Jensen, Alaska State Troopers.”
Alex noted with a glance that Kay was also care fully watching the woman’s reaction to the introduction of his official position. Her response was interesting. For a bare fraction of a second she was still, and something very like apprehension seemed to move in her eyes; nothing overtly identifiable, more an impression than anything conclusive. Then, so quickly and smoothly that it left Jensen wondering if he had imagined her initial stillness, with a nod to the captain, she stepped forward and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.” Her smile transformed her face with a cheerful openness—a completely likable, innocent person.
They shook hands, and, still smiling, she stepped back and turned her attention to Captain Kay.
“Julie,” he began, waving her to a chair and sitting down behind his desk, “you didn’t leave the ship last night in Haines?”
“No, sir. There really wasn’t time. The crew waited to eat dinner until the passengers had gone ashore, so we were a little later than usual. Then we had the party cleanup in the lounge, cabin check and bed turndowns to do, plus some extra printed information that the centennial committee asked to have distributed along with the usual pins and welcoming information we put in the cabins. It was after eight when we finished. Didn’t seem worth while to get off. I went to the lounge.”
“Anyone help you turn down the beds?”
“No, sir. I did the Upper Deck alone.”
“Anyone else around on that deck?”
“No, sir, not outside. Mr. Johnson was in 308. He was asleep and didn’t answer, so I thought the cabin was empty and went in. I left their things on the other bed. Mrs. Blake and her niece were awake in 302. Everyone else was gone. It was pretty quiet.”
“No one else at all?”
“No, sir. Not that I saw.”
Kay looked at Jensen, who had remained silent. The captain nodded an invitation to the trooper to question Morrison.
The woman also turned to look at him, and, once again, uneasiness flickered in her eyes, though her expression of pleasant helpfulness did not change. It altered the tentative approach Jensen had been about to take with his questions, motivating him toward a more aggressive interrogation.
“Three cabins were burglarized last night, Ms. Morrison. All three on the Upper Deck—your deck. Were you aware of this?”
The congenial expression left her face along with its color. For several seconds, mouth open, she simply stared at him without answering, recognition of their suspicion abruptly dawning.
“Well?”
“No, sir. I wasn’t,” she at last responded, shaking her head.
“It seems you may have been the last, perhaps the only, person to ent
er and leave those particular cabins before their occupants returned. Can you explain that, in light of the thefts?”
Apprehension was now clearly apparent in more than her eyes. It tightened the line of her lips and drew vertical marks between her brows as anger began to mix with it. She glared at him defensively, started to speak, cleared her throat, and finally all but spit the words out.
“No, I can’t explain that. But I didn’t take anything from anyone’s cabin.” Her voice rose in indignation, real or feigned. “I don’t take things that don’t belong to me. Ever.”
Jensen let the tension stretch itself out for a few moments as he looked at Julie Morrison without speaking. For perhaps thirty seconds, she held his gaze, then looked down at the hands rigidly gripping each other in her lap, fingers tensely interlocked.
“You should be aware that we will need to search your cabin, Ms. Morrison,” he told her in a more conversational tone.
Her attention returned abruptly to his face, and, though it seemed impossible, she appeared to turn even more pale.
“I don’t think you can do that without my permission. Not without a warrant.”
“Julie,” Captain Kay broke in, “if you didn’t have anything to do with this, then let Sergeant Jensen do his search and prove it.”
She bit her lip and shook her head.
“I can get a warrant in Sitka, if you force me to do it,” Jensen told her. “Why not just get it over with now?”
“No,” she all but whispered. “I can’t.”
“Why?” the captain asked.
Her only answer was to shake her head, refusing to look at him.
“Julie …”
“No. No. I didn’t do it. There’s nothing there.”
“Then let us look.”
“No.”
She remained adamant, and they had little choice but to let her leave. She went out through the bridge, white-faced, arms folded defensively in front of her, and she disappeared toward the work she was assigned in the dining room.
“What do you think?” Captain Kay asked as the door shut behind her.
