Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Sensing something overhead, he looked up to find the sky streaked with the first northern lights of the year. Pale wisps of greenish light pulsed in slow motion above, some, almost curtain-like, seemed to flow in folds and swirls that brightened and faded as they drifted across the star-filled dark. Almost hypnotic, the glowing patterns held his attention long after his pipe had gone out and his toes grown numb with cold from standing still.

  When he finally turned to walk back to his home-for-the-night, he found his uneasiness relieved. Once again he was pleased he had become an Alaskan, and that Jessie…was Jessie. Right under his feet and over his head were unexpected and extravagant compensations for living in an icebox half of every year.

  Chapter Seven

  BACK IN THE HOTEL ROOM, ALEX FOUND Delafosse already in bed.

  “Light bother you if I read?” he asked, climbing into his own with the copy of Riser’s journal. Assured it would not, he settled comfortably against a couple of pillows and, with anticipation, started the first page. He was soon deep in Riser’s account of the terrible winter of 1897, though a part of his consciousness went on turning over the discrepancies of Russell’s homicide. A time or two he was aware of people coming and going from the bar next door, as voices called out in the street below the window and cars came and went. After half an hour or so, Del began to snore softly, but not enough to be a real distraction.

  In his room next door, Hampton had also tried to spend time on the journal, but did not get far. Exhausted by the day’s physical and emotional stress, he was half asleep within a few paragraphs, and had soon laid it aside and turned off the light.

  Allowing various curious aspects of a homicide to run through his mind while he was doing something else was not unusual for Jensen. When he was trying to put the pieces of a case together, he tended to let the unanswered parts work in the back of his mind, a little like letting a spinning gyroscope find its own balance, without spending much conscious effort. Often facts had a way of fitting their important relationships together if left pretty much alone, and he had learned to trust his intuition in this mental shuffling of puzzle pieces.

  …the Al-ki…is not a large vessel…single smokestack…long foredeck…originally a freighter and not designed to carry…passengers…no private place to write…a curious assortment of persons…

  Curious, he felt, was a good word for this case. Many of the details of it seemed backward. Bodies were usually discovered, then a search for the killer started. In this wilderness it seemed strange somehow to have found Hampton first—if he were the killer—and Russell’s body afterward.

  …landscape…shrouded with heavy fog and mist…motionless ocean of dark green…slopes…channels and passages…icebergs…vessels…sunk or wrecked…

  Another curious bit was that they were so close together. Killers didn’t usually remain near a body they had hidden—tried, in fact, to absent themselves as far and fast as possible, though they sometimes came back for one reason or other. But there had been Hampton, too soundly asleep, with his camp set up in an orderly fashion. Asleep! As if he had nothing to do with Russell’s death at all. As perhaps he didn’t…said he didn’t.

  …Juneau…small, bustling community…keg of nails…Frank Warner…Dyea…jumble of log cabins…hundreds of tents…knee deep in mud…water…

  It was possible. He had certainly looked the part of someone who had half drowned in the river, as he claimed. His clothes were wrinkled and slightly damp, as if they had been wrung out. His boots had obviously suffered a soaking. But other things, his and Russell’s gear, that should have been wet, were not. The pattern of what was wet and what was dry did not seem to fit the supposition of Hampton’s moving the body.

  …Indian packers…to Canyon City…rain…quagmire of mud and water…Sheep Camp…so-called hotel…icefall…water poured into the valley…Arizona Charley Meadows…

  There was also that single shotgun pellet, which Alex thought was probably important but inconclusive. Was there another way the pellet could have become lodged under the rim of the canoe? Unless the craft was upside down it would not fall into that narrow gap…or if it was in the process of tipping over away from the gun, as Hampton had said it was. The impetus of the blast would be enough to wedge it there, hidden from the eyes of anyone battering pieces from the shell to conceal damage done…the hole it would have made.

  …Bennett Lake camp…haste to build a boat…Ozzy Wilson

  The logistics of moving the body and gear were also bothersome. It would be a lot of trouble and a high risk of being seen. There had to be a strong reason for it to be done. If Hampton had done the murder, why not hide Russell wherever he had died? Throwing suspicion on Hampton would be motive enough for moving it, if someone else had killed Russell.

  Moving both men’s gear would have required a second boat. If there was another, then the idea that Hampton had been stranded by his wrecked canoe made no sense.

  …rumors of shortage of provisions in Dawson…ice on lake shore…hurry to leave…

  Curious…yes. But who else could have arranged it all…set him up? Who, and why him? A complete stranger was unlikely, but who would Hampton—a stranger—know? The two Hampton said had stolen his gear were the most probable…if it had been stolen at all. If it had, why bring back his whole outfit, risking detection? Why was setting him up that important?

  …tar soap…matches…evaporated potatoes…oakum…miner’s candlestick…sheet-iron stove…

  Just who was Hampton anyway? Was there a reason besides his stated vacation trip for him to be on the river in Canada? They needed more information on him. Alex made a mental note to start the wheels rolling in that direction with a morning phone call to the Denver police.

  Part of what made Jensen very effective at his job was his willingness to use whatever worked in solving his cases. A stickler for following established procedure that collected and cross-referenced physical evidence, he was likely to follow his own patterns of thought and action when dealing with the less tangible.

  He believed strongly in using both conscious and subconscious in collecting impressions, noting reactions, classifying feelings, and finding the patterns in them, if given the opportunity and encouragement of time and freedom to do so. Sometimes, he knew, the worst thing to do was force facts to fit some preconceived idea or conclusion. Often the process of relating them could not be hurried but should be left alone for answers to work their own way out, or some new fact to free them.

  Alex was aware that he was becoming more willing to think Hampton innocent, but aside from the puzzles within the evidence, he could not have explained all the conscious and partly subconscious reasonings for this instinct. There was an inclination to accept the man as being as honest as he appeared…to believe he was telling the truth, though it complicated things considerably. Logic had little to do with it, though; as Delafosse had said, there was as much reason to assume he had not committed the crime as there was to think the opposite. Care was indicated. His instinct was not infallible, after all. He had been wrong before.

  Then the journal took his concentration completely as Riser continued his trip into the Yukon. Briefly, he wondered how far Hampton had read and looked forward to comparing notes with him in the morning. What a find, an incredible personal account.

  By midnight Jensen had finished a sizable chunk of Riser’s account. Enthralled, he remained focused on the handwritten entries as the story unfolded, and the high points stuck in his mind.

  On the first of October, Riser and his companions had arrived in…White Horse City…aside from a few log structures…largely a tent-filled wide spot on the east bank of the river.

  While building their boat at Lake Bennett, Riser had met Ned McNeal, a Scotsman from New York, who joined their party. A former fisherman, at home with boats, he was not only a help with theirs but a relief to Riser, who was…glad to have him along for another reason. There is something about Ozzy I can’t quite cotton to, though he has done n
othing to me personally to cause me to actually dislike him. He talks little and, when he does, says almost nothing about his background or where he came from. He has a temper and is unreasonably suspicious of others, seems to expect a slight or ill deed. There seems to be a suppressed rage in the man for some unknown reason. Midway through the boat building, he suddenly accused the perfectly honest pair of fellows working next to us of stealing our nails. They, astonished, declared their innocence, but Ozzy brushed it aside with an angry retort and picked up his ax, apparently ready to physically resolve the issue then and there, which concerned me greatly. I resolved never to be in the way if he becomes truly angry.

  At that point, Frank called out that he had located the missing nails in their keg under a canvas he had tossed over our supplies. Ozzy immediately laid down the ax and returned to his work, but never offered apologies to our neighbors, which to me seemed in order. They departed two days later, seemingly with relief, as they had watched Ozzy rather closely following the ruckus, and kept an eye on their goods.

  Their boat completed, the four traveled down Lake Bennett, through Caribou Crossing into two more lakes, and onto the Lewes River, which took them to Miles, or Dead Man’s Canyon, as it was less than fondly called.

  Alex remembered stopping outside Whitehorse with Delafosse to see the wild Miles Canyon rapids before coming to Dawson. Confined between sheer stone cliffs, the water narrowed into a chute full of roiling currents, whirlpools, and a few hidden rocks, a stunning sight. While they had stood above, looking down into the churning water, a speedboat had battled its way up, against the flow, not having any particular trouble but not having an easy time of it either. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like in a homemade boat, racing with the current in the opposite direction. Riser soon told him.

  …Tightening down and covering our gear, we rode through like an arrow from a bow. There was no time to even think, once we were in the clutches of the current and headed downstream at a speed faster than we could have imagined. It seemed much worse from water-level than it had from above, but we were committed and, with only a stroke or two of the oars to put us in midstream, were swept away by the boiling waters. Faster and faster we sped down the corridor of stone, past the whirlpools that we closely missed, rocking and careening atop huge waves that pounded against the walls, rebounded and hammered the boat in their fury to escape the confines of the canyon.

  Just as we were coming close to the end, the boat was caught by one tremendous wave and thrown around almost crosswise of the current. A torrent of water washed in and threatened to swamp us. Frank scrambled toward the stern and seemed about to abandon ship, but Ned quickly threw his weight on an oar and shouted loudly for us to “r-r-row, boys, bloody r-r-row.” His efforts, and some of ours, straightened the boat enough to allow the bow to once again point in the correct direction. Then, with Frank and Ozzy bailing for all they were worth while Ned and I manned the oars, we remained afloat. By the time we miraculously flew out the far end into calmer water we were drenched by both sweat and water, and panting with exertion. Both my hands had blisters, when I could force my fingers to uncramp from the oar I had wielded. We made it to shore and sat in the boat, shivering like dogs from fear and cold.

  Strangely enough, in the midst of all the confusion, I remember clearly seeing the wreck of some vessel, splintered planks and shreds of canvas, sucked into a whirlpool as we passed it. What focused my attention was the white face of a man who was clinging to it, and the certain knowledge that he was a goner for sure, with no hope of rescue. When I had caught my breath, I mentioned it to Ned, who frowned and shook his head, but said nothing, for what could he have said?

  Vaguely, Alex seemed to remember that a tramway had been built to bypass the rapids, for a price. At the time Riser and his partners went through, it must not yet have existed and stampeders were still either running through or packing all their outfits around, an effort that would have consumed days instead of minutes. Miles Canyon was definitely a sight he wanted to make sure Jessie saw, when they came to the Yukon together.

  He yawned and, laying the journal aside, shifted to reach for his pipe and tobacco. As he packed and lit it, he considered that he was beginning to feel involved in two mysteries, the first in finding who murdered Russell, the second contained in Riser’s words on paper. Why had the miner, with a wife he obviously cared for and two young children, stayed in the Klondike—or Clondyke, as he had spelled it? What had brought him from Dawson to the place where Hampton had found his remains and journal?

  Jensen was tempted to turn to the last pages of the account and find out, but the story was compelling enough to keep him from doing so. In fact, every time he had even thought of turning out the light and going to sleep, something in Addison’s entries had held his attention.

  He picked up the journal once more. Just a few more pages, while he smoked this pipe.

  Riser’s account continued after their departure from…White Horse City…and went swiftly down the Lewes River. He described the Yukon as…a young, broad-shouldered country with terraced hills rolling back massively where glaciers once worked their way. The river flows through a wide valley from which canyons branch deep into the wilderness. He mentioned moving between…light-colored cliffs a hundred feet high…beyond them we could see rough mountains and timber-covered slopes.

  With the weather growing colder, he calculated that they would, hopefully, arrive in Dawson in about a week…The thought of being frozen in somewhere along the river is not a pleasant one, although I imagine we could build a rough cabin and hold out with our outfits and food until spring. This, however, would mean missing the winter’s mining on the Clondyke, so we proceed with all speed.

  As he read about the next part of Riser’s trip, Alex was reminded of one of his favorite poems, for on October fourth they came to Lake Laberge. This was where Robert Service had set his humorous, fictional verse of the Dawson trail, about the prospector who cremated his dead partner in the boiler of the derelict boat Alice May. At least he attempted to, for when he looked to see if the job was done, he found Sam McGee “…looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar,” saying, “…close that door…it’s the first time I’ve been warm…since I left…Tennessee.”

  Wishing he had a copy of the poem to read again, Alex’s focus soon returned to the journal, where Riser’s description grew rather poetic.

  …the riverbanks suddenly disappeared to right and left and we…were afloat on the waters of a broader body of water…. We could see for miles over the water. A large dark island covered with spruce trees stands out to the northwest and mountains rise all around it.

  To a bird in the air the lake must seem a jewel in a sea of green that spreads out for hundreds of miles without the suggestion of a road or settlement. Such wilderness is almost impossible to imagine, and here we are in the middle of it, in a small shell of thin wood, floating along. The more I consider, the more I feel like an insect in a puddle, compared to the uninhabited space around me.

  At this point, Jensen came to an entry in the journal which caught the complete attention of his law enforcement mind. Riser witnessed a theft by Oswald that, from the way he wrote, bothered and frightened him considerably.

  Thursday, October 7, Thirty-Mile River, Yukon Territory: I must find a way to talk to Ned alone somehow. Whenever I suggest going for wood or leave the camp for any reason, Ozzy follows me, watches me. He knows I saw the watch fall from his coat pocket when he took out his mittens and that I know it is the Swede’s watch and believe he stole it.

  Late evening before last, when we were all but asleep, a boat full of shouting men pulled in, drawn by the light of our fire. Five Swedes jumped out and asked to camp with us as they desperately needed a quick fire. One of their number had accidentally fallen overboard while lowering the awkward sail they had contrived and was all but frozen. Stripping off his wet clothing and wrapping him in blankets, we built up the blaze and began to get hot liqu
id into him, along with a shot or two from Ned’s whiskey bottle. Rubbing his extremities brought the color back to his skin and saved him from frostbite, but he was pretty well done in.

  Ozzy wrung out the Swede’s wet clothing and hung it to dry around a second fire. It steamed and was still damp yesterday morning in spots that had frozen as the fire burned low. The party elected to stay there another day, until all was dry and they were sure he was not to have pneumonia. They waved us off early yesterday.

  I remember the victim of the drenching asking about his watch before we left to go on down the lake, and when they could not locate it, he decided that it must have been lost in the lake. Later, when we were well onto the Thirty-Mile, Ozzy pulled his mittens from his pocket and out fell the watch into the bottom of the boat.

  I simply stared at it, and when I looked up, he was watching me. He picked it up and said it was his, but we both knew better without saying so. He even showed it to me and said something about having had it all along. I know it is a lie, for he has, several times on this expedition, asked me for the time. Would he have done so if he had a timepiece of his own? I think not, but cannot prove it. There were only the two of us, no other witness. Unless we meet up with the Swedes again there is no way to say positively. But I know. And he knows that I, at least, suspect.

  What shall I do? Nothing, I suppose, for now. As I say, he has followed me everywhere, without seeming to. I have not been able to speak to Ned once in confidence. All last night, when we camped on the river, he was there, slyly close at my elbow. Either he stays with me, or with Ned, so I cannot speak to him alone…. I am somewhat afraid of him…. he has a cruel streak, a way of expecting things to turn against him and, therefore, to feel the need to protect himself any way he can. I do not like this man Oswald, or trust him.