I waved him on. “Go! Go!”
He smiled and went.
The Pioneer Press weather page listed the nighttime low in Fairbanks as 45 degrees. Typographical error, I was sure. After all, this was almost summer. Nonetheless, my memory bank began to spit out depressing flashbacks of journalism school. The subject excited and stimulated me. But the school was in Chicago, home of pallid skies, frigid winds, and ice-slick sidewalks. I had been miserably cold, depressed, and homesick for Miami.
My new summery maternity attire and pink flip-flops were all I had with me. So I bought a fuzzy sweater, warm socks, a jacket, big ugly boots, and a flannel nightgown I would never wear in Miami.
I used the News credit card, ate a good dinner, went to bed early, then took off for Alaska alone, first thing in the morning.
The flight took eight hours, with a refueling stop in Seattle. For Pete’s sake, I thought impatiently, people can fly to Europe in eight hours.
The surrounding skies looked vacant, air traffic sparse. Fellow passengers cheerfully assured me that our late arrival was not unusual; the airline holds the nation’s worst record for on-time arrivals.
When we disembarked in Fairbanks, the air was cool and crisp, chilly actually. My sinuses ached.
I left a message for FBI Agent Kyle Goddard, saying I’d arrived. We were to meet at police headquarters in an hour. I stowed my luggage in an airport locker and took only my laptop.
The taxi, an older-model pickup truck, dropped me off at police headquarters, a simple cinder-block and concrete building.
The secretary said the chief expected me, and it would be just a few minutes. I worked on my laptop as the wait stretched into an hour. Finally I was ushered into his office.
The chief sat alone, at his desk.
“Agent Goddard hasn’t arrived?” I blurted, stating the obvious.
The chief was apologetic. Agent Goddard, he said, would not be joining us.
“But I was told last night that he’d be here. We had an appointment.”
“He was called away on a priority matter,” the chief said.
“Are you sure?” Frustrated and furious, I felt betrayed by the feds.
“A matter of national security.” The chief looked serious.
“Here? What sort of matter—has something happened?” For a news junkie, I was totally out of the loop. Hadn’t even heard a radio news report. For all I knew, North Korea had launched a missile or the Russians had crossed the Bering Strait.
“Off the record?” His dark eyes darted around the room, as though secret spy microphones might eavesdrop. “Terrorism.”
Was this small-town police chief pulling a snow job? “I wasn’t aware that Fairbanks, Alaska, might be a terrorist target.”
“Then you’re uninformed,” the chief said. “The FBI’s top terror suspects are known to be active in this area.”
“Al-Qaeda?” What on earth was he talking about? My back ached from sitting so long on the uncomfortable wooden chair in his chilly outer office.
“Domestic terrorism.” He peered sternly at me over his spectacles. “The ELF and the ALF are top priority.”
“Ecoterrorists, who protest for animal rights and the environment?”
He nodded gravely.
“As far as I know, they’ve never killed or injured anyone.” I felt peevish, uncomfortable, and irritated. “Aren’t they more like vandals with a cause?” I shifted uneasily in my chair as the baby practiced logrolling on my internal organs. “Nancy Lee Chastain Holt, the woman whose safety is in question, has no protestors to protect her. And she’s in a helluva lot more imminent danger than a herd of caribou. FBI priorities seem a bit askew.”
He took exception. “Ecoterrorists have become increasingly dangerous,” he said, with solemn gravity. “They recruit young people, encourage violence, teach them bomb building and how to torch buildings. Property damage from their arson alone amounts to tens of millions of dollars annually—”
Whoa, I thought. We’d veered way off track. If the FBI was MIA, this man could be my only ally.
“I had no idea,” I said, feigning interest. “Amazing. We haven’t experienced much environmental terrorism back in South Florida.”
Because developers rule and there’s little left to protect, I thought.
Crossing my legs demurely at the ankles, I listened intently and soon learned more than I’d ever wanted to know about the topic. Eventually the chief paused for breath and I seized the moment to gracefully steer our conversation back to Marsh Holt and his endangered bride.
Too late. The damage was done.
“I’m surprised that your newspaper let you travel all this distance alone.” His eyes dropped to my round belly.
“My editors believe in woman power,” I lied cheerfully.
A patrol car would stop by to check on Mrs. Holt’s welfare. That was the most he would agree to do.
Where was the stoic patience I can usually muster when dealing with incompetent bureaucrats and their inflated egos? I wanted to scream and shout epithets, pound his desk with my fists, and indulge in a hot fudge sundae, maybe two. Instead, I politely asked to accompany the patrolmen in order to quell my fears about the bride’s safety and, if possible, ask Holt a few questions, so I could wrap up my reporting and go home.
The chief considered this for a moment and then agreed, with a word of warning. “No one can or will force this man to speak to you,” he said. “Nobody has to talk to a reporter. These people are on their honeymoon; it would certainly seem more appropriate to approach them at a later date.”
“That’s my point, Chief. Later may be too late for her. Dead is forever.”
I sat alone, like a prisoner, in the backseat of the patrol car. The officers, both young and husky, one short, the other tall, discussed the possibility of snow. There had been flurries two weeks earlier.
“Miami?” one asked, turning earnestly to me. “How can you live down there?”
I laughed. “I was wondering how you can live up here.”
“We hear Miami’s not part of the USA anymore,” the driver said.
“Funny,” I said good-naturedly. “Most Miamians are probably unaware that Alaska is part of the USA. Seriously.”
“Miami’s ’bout as far south as you can go,” the driver commented, turning uphill, off the main road and onto a narrow, unpaved, tree-lined dirt road.
“Hell, no,” his partner said. “Southern Cal is further south.”
“No, it isn’t,” I chimed in. “North Florida is further south than southern California.”
“Say again?”
“It’s true. Tallahassee, our state capital in North Florida, is south of Tijuana.”
“No way,” the second cop said.
“Check it out.”
The Holts’ rustic cabin hideaway brought Abraham Lincoln to mind. But this was larger than Honest Abe’s boyhood home, with horizontal logs on the outside and a corrugated metal roof. No other structure was in sight, only snow-capped mountains in the distance, virgin forests, and rushing streams. Fir, spruce, and oak trees towered beneath a chilly but breathtaking azure sky. Bright yellow dandelions sprouted everywhere, along with a native plant as red as flame. The cops called it fireweed. In the past, when I thought of Alaska, which wasn’t often, I had pictured Eskimos and sled dogs. Instead, a shiny black Range Rover, probably rented, stood out front.
We crunched to a stop in the gravel driveway. One of the cops opened the car door for me and I followed them up the front steps. The taller of the two rapped on the rough-hewn front door. No answer.
“Nobody home,” the other said, turning as if to go.
The first cop knocked again. “Give ’em a minute. They’re on their honeymoon, remember?” He snickered. “Give ’em a chance to climb outa the rack.”
He rapped a third time. No sound inside.
My heart felt as cold as my feet. Were we too late? I’d risked my job, tried so hard. Bad news would be a bitter pill to swa
llow.
The high-pitched bray of a woman’s laughter resounded from a wooded path behind the cabin.
We all turned as the newlyweds emerged from the brush hand in hand, faces pink from exertion. They wore handsome hiking boots and matching ski sweaters. Her giggle was a rich deep-throated gurgle that sounded almost theatrical.
Her television-personality laugh? I wondered.
They looked startled at the police car out front and us on the porch and approached, no longer laughing. “Is there a problem, Officers?” Holt asked.
He and I made eye contact. The slick, sick son of a bitch never flinched. He was good, really good. He held the arm of his sturdy-looking bride protectively, as though she were a precious and fragile creature.
“There wasn’t a fire?” she cried, melodramatically clutching her heart.
“No, ma’am, there wasn’t.”
Her ample bosom heaved in an exaggerated sigh of relief. “When I saw you I thought for sure I’d left the stove on,” she babbled. “Sometimes when you’re happy”—she coyly batted her eyelashes up at her new husband—“you grow careless about the mundane little everyday…” She had focused on me, eyes becoming frosty as she gave me the once-over.
“Is that her?” She turned to her husband.
He nodded, sadly. “Hello, Britt,” he said, resignation in his voice.
I ignored him and spoke to her. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” I stepped forward. “I hope I can call you Nancy. My name is Britt—”
“I know who you are.” Her cold eyes narrowed.
What has he told her? I wondered.
“This young lady’s concerned about your welfare,” the tall police officer said. “She’s afraid you might have a problem.”
She turned to her husband, her look a question. He smiled reassuringly, and in a microsecond she returned his smile. They locked arms in mutual support as she turned earnestly to the officers.
“We just saw a moose, only five minutes from our front door,” she said, after a pause. “We’ve seen deer, a bobcat, and foxes. Yesterday we watched pink salmon spawn. The female releases her eggs, the male fertilizes them, and they both die within two weeks. Did you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the officers said uncomfortably, as we all stood on the creaky front porch.
“Heaven,” she said dramatically. “It’s been heaven, more romantic than even I could imagine, and I have quite an imagination.” She winked slyly at her husband and then dismissed me with a disdainful smirk. “I’m so happy.” She gazed adoringly at Marsh Holt. “We couldn’t be happier.”
He nodded in agreement.
“But now”—her voice rose, taking on an unpleasantly shrill edge—“an obsessed woman who has stalked my husband for years has followed us here to ruin everything.”
She flung herself into a porch chair and began to shed noisy tears, punctuated by snorts, snuffles, and ragged gasps.
“Not true,” I said calmly. “The man is lying to you. I only met him once, in Miami.”
The two cops shared an Aha! moment and exchanged I-told-you-so expressions.
“Look, Nancy, I’m tired. I’ve traveled nearly four thousand miles to warn you. The least you can do is listen. Can I talk to you alone for a moment?”
“There’s only one person I want to be alone with,” she said, raising her tearstained face to her husband. He smooched it tenderly.
I wanted to gag. For Pete’s sake! I thought, and longed to shake her. “Marshall,” I said, “do you remember Vanessa, Suzanne, Rachel, and Colleen? What about Gloria? And Alice?”
He sighed and shook his head, wearing the expression of a weary and beleaguered man.
Nancy was staring speculatively at my belly.
“I told you, sweetheart.” He reached confidently for her hand. “I have nothing to do with that. Britt lives in a fantasy world. There’s been nothing between us since high school.”
He’d been expecting me. That much was clear.
His eyes roved out past the police car, beyond the narrow unpaved road, searching. He had obviously expected two of us. Nancy’s parents had blown the whistle. They had interrupted their little girl’s romantic idyll to tip off the newlyweds after all.
“Shouldn’t you be someplace else?” Nancy asked sharply, with a disgusted little shudder. “Lamaze class, perhaps? In a straitjacket, or a nice jail cell?”
“Nancy, think about it,” I urged. “You are not safe alone here with him.”
“Officers!” she bleated. “Doesn’t the law protect people from stalkers?” Taking an angry step forward, she pointed a manicured index finger at my heart like a gun. “Keep her away from us!”
“In other words, ma’am,” the shorter cop said, “you’re saying you don’t want to be rescued.”
“Told ya,” the other cop muttered.
“Let’s go.” The first cop firmly took my arm. My pen dropped from my hand and vanished into the thick grass below as he led me down the front steps.
“Ask him to tell you about Vanessa, Colleen, Rachel, Gloria, Alice, and Suzanne,” I called over my shoulder. “They married him too. And they all died on their honeymoons.”
Marsh Holt thanked the officers and wrapped his arms around his bride. She hugged him back so hard they nearly toppled off the porch.
They told me to get out of town and warned me not to go within a mile of the honeymooners. If I contacted Marsh Holt or his bride again, I’d be arrested, the cops said.
“Mess with them again and we put your ass in jail,” the tall one said succinctly.
Apparently it was his partner’s turn to play good cop. “Look, lady,” he said. “We understand that sometimes people become obsessed with another person who doesn’t…uh, return those feelings. But you have to understand that you can’t force a person to want you.”
And you can’t save someone who refuses to be rescued, I thought mournfully.
“Life doesn’t work that way,” he went on. “Suck it up, go home, and get yourself some help.”
He spoke slowly and distinctly, the way one speaks to an unruly child, a misbehaving dog, or a deranged adult.
Humiliated and furious, I let them put me in a cab to the airport. Once there, I dragged my suitcase from the locker, rented a car, found a room at a small local hotel, and beelined back to the Holts’ cabin.
It felt late, but it never grew dark. A strange sun never crossed the sky; the dusky orb slowly circled east to north instead, literally rolling around the horizon of this strange and surreal world. I was Alice down the rabbit hole. Clutching the banister, I dragged myself up the front steps one at a time, banged on the door, and turned the knob. The door swung open.
Nancy puttered at a wood-burning stove, her back to me, a long spoon in her right hand. She wore a frilly apron and little else. An enticing aroma came from a big iron skillet simmering over a low flame. Logs crackled in the fireplace. A champagne bottle sat in an ice bucket next to an intimate table set for two. The scene was warm, inviting, and romantic.
The shortie nightgown under Nancy’s frilly apron exposed dimpled thighs. Dimples in the wrong place, I noted mean-spiritedly. Who, I wondered, packs aprons in their trousseau? Domestic divas, that’s who.
“Bonjour, sweet face.”
She whirled in a giddy impromtu pirouette, lips shiny with raspberry-colored gloss, her expression coy. No sign of the groom. My heart leaped. This, I hoped, was our chance to speak alone.
“Hello, Nancy.”
She howled like a banshee, flung herself back against the pine wall, pointed her long spoon at me, and screamed again. The woman had the lungs of a bagpipe player.
“Stop it!” I pleaded. “Don’t do that. Listen to me.”
Marsh Holt burst through the door like gangbusters. Exactly what I didn’t need. The firewood he carried clattered to the floor.
“What the hell are you doing to my wife?” he demanded.
I sighed.
“Marsh! Thank God! She sn
eaked up behind me! Find a man of your own!” she screamed, still waving the spoon like a weapon. “Leave him alone! He’s taken! Taken! Leave us alone!”
Her high-pitched screeches literally hurt my ears.
The patrol car arrived quickly. You would think the police would have better things to do. These two cops were strangers but had obviously been filled in on the obsessive stalker. Me.
“You were warned,” one said.
“Don’t worry, folks,” the other assured the newlyweds. “We’ll take it from here.”
Marsh Holt comforted his distraught wife, now wearing a terrycloth robe over her Victoria’s Secret ensemble. He stroked her hair tenderly and glared at me.
“She won’t bother you again,” the cop promised.
“That’s what they told us this afternoon.” Holt sounded indignant. Mr. John Q. Public, taxpayer and good citizen, rightfully upset by the dubious quality of local law enforcement. He played the role well.
I rolled my eyes.
They assured him that this time I was really in trouble.
Nancy’s malevolent mascara-smeared left eye peeped out at me from her husband’s manly chest.
“He’ll try to kill you,” I warned, trying to stay calm. “At least six other women died accidentally when they were with him.” I intended to form finger quotes around the word accidentally but was thwarted by an officer who seized the moment to cuff my wrist.
“Sure, and he’s Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, and the Zodiac Killer too,” the cop said, before advising me of my rights. “He’s been a bad, bad boy.” He winked at Marsh Holt.
Again, I sat alone in the backseat of the police car, like a prisoner. But this time I was a prisoner.
“Nobody likes to put a pregnant woman in jail,” the arresting officer informed me, as a female cop patted me down and removed my wristwatch.
She placed her hand on my stomach, and the baby gave it a few swift kicks. “Oh, my,” she said, cheerfully assuring them that I was, indeed, pregnant.
“Some people never learn. You were warned,” the other cop repeated.
You were warned, I thought. They should write that on my tombstone.
Love Kills Page 19
