Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  On the next to last load, Ned lost his footing where the bank slopes to the river, and, feet and arms up, slid down on his back to fetch up against the bow of the boat, his burden of dry clothing scattered the length of his wild ride. It was fortunate he was uninjured, for we doubled over with laughter at his plight and would probably have been unable to keep from doing so had he been broken in pieces. The helpless waving of his arms and legs, and his great howl of indignation, reduced us to kneeslapping roars. In two minutes, however, we were all sliding like children on pieces of sacking and having a gay time of it. Even Ozzy made a trip down the incline, though he growled that it was nonsense and a waste of time, impatient to get under way.

  For the next few entries, Riser talked about their trip on the river and the appearance of its surroundings. They went through Five Finger and Rink rapids, which, he said,…were nothing compared to those above White Horse.

  Hampton recognized the places Addison mentioned and was pleased that he had run the same river in his canoe. Not long after passing the community of Carmacks, he remembered coming around a wide loop and seeing the Five Finger Rapids ahead to the left, just as his map showed them. They had indeed been easy to negotiate, adding character to the calm face of the river.

  The land had lifted away to the right in a steep bank high above his head, and he saw that a long wooden staircase had been built to allow those passing on the highway above to stop and come down to view the unusual formations of rock that divided the water into the distinctive five fingers from which it derived its name. Looking up, he had noticed a gleam of light reflected from someone’s binoculars and had raised his paddle in a salute to the person he knew must be watching him go by. A minute later something white, perhaps a scarf or large handkerchief, had been fluttered from above in answer.

  Father on, he had noticed an eagle tracing circles in the pale blue of the September sky. What a view it must have commanded. On the drive to Dawson to drop off his truck, he had pulled off to look to the east, where a viewpoint on a hill allowed a sight of the Tintina Trench. He contemplated this fine example of plate tectonics in the middle of a bowl-shaped valley, aware that it extended hundreds of miles across Alaska and the Yukon. Here was a visible proof of the movement of the plates that cover the earth’s surface and grind against each other, producing earthquakes and bringing mountains and valleys into being.

  As he stood there, looking out at the trench in the distance, Jim had wondered at the rugged newness of this northern country. The sharp peaks and ridges of the mountains spoke clearly of having had little time, geologically speaking, to wear into the softer rounded shapes of older, more mature mountains. And there, far below him, had been indisputable evidence that the earth had not finished carving the landscape into yet more extreme sculptures and unique designs. It had the same clean sharpness he liked so much about the Rocky Mountain country, but this had seemed even younger and more interesting, probably in part because it was less inhabited.

  Leaning back on the bed, he now closed his eyes and thought pleasantly of his canoe trip of the week before. What a great venture, but compared to Riser’s experience through the unsettled wilderness country, his modern gear made the travel a pleasure, not an ordeal to be undertaken with much care and hard work. He thought of Riser’s many trips back and forth in the Chilkoot Pass, just to get his goods and gear to the summit and down to Bennett Lake. Then to have to build his own boat…not only build it, but create the lumber with which to build it.

  Replete with lunch and thinking of sawdust falling in showers down the neck of a sawyer under a log they had been required to cut, he yawned and drifted into a dream full of rough-hewn planks and hot pitch on the bank of a wide lake. Soon he was snoring slightly, the unfinished journal rising and falling gently on his chest.

  Almost two hours later, he woke with a stiff neck and the groggy feeling of having slept through half the afternoon in an unusual position. Splashing water on his face from the bathroom sink, he remembered that he had wished for a map while reading Riser’s account of the long river trip. The one he had used while canoeing was still at the RCMP office with the rest of his gear, but there would undoubtedly be one somewhere in the shops that catered to tourists on the streets of Dawson. If he could find a cup of coffee, it would wake him up, as would a walk in the cold air.

  He decided to go looking. It shouldn’t be difficult to keep an eye out for Sean Russell and avoid him if he showed up. He could finish reading the journal later. There wasn’t much more to complete and, anyway, he hated to come to the end. Might as well spread it out a little more now that Riser had almost reached Dawson, the objective of his long journey. Maybe he could also locate a map that showed what the town had looked like when the rush was going on. It would be interesting to compare it to what Dawson was like now. The Visitor Reception Center might have one. It was worth a try.

  Stomping his boots on and grabbing his coat, Hampton stuffed the journal in his pocket and went out the door. Checking to be sure it was locked, he turned toward the stair and thought he saw something move out at the far end of the hall, but the light was too dim to see and he was in a hurry. Putting it from his mind, he clattered down the stairs, headed for the outside. Jensen and Delafosse should be back soon, so he wouldn’t stay away long.

  Passing the empty registration desk, he stepped out the front door onto the boardwalk and turned left. The Visitor Reception Center was only four or five blocks away on the street that faced the river. A large, two-story log building, it was a replica of the Northern Commercial Company store which had been built in 1897 and stood until it perished in a fire in 1951. Typical of several buildings hurriedly built during the first year or so of the rush, it was a symmetrical, rectangular box with four windows on each floor across the front and a door perfectly centered between those on the ground level. Wherever possible, boardwalks and porches had been built back in the days of the rush to allow pedestrians to escape the ruts and the mud that, when not frozen solid, was churned into a deep swamp by passing horses and wagons.

  As Hampton approached, he admired the forethought that must have allowed goods to come straight from the steamboats almost directly into the mercantile area. Once inside he noted that though the roomy interior was largely empty now, one wall had been set up with a counter and shelves to simulate the commercial enterprise as it must have looked. The rest was spaciously decorated with racks of brochures, posters on the walls, and a counter where requests, questions, and reservations could be filled, answered, and made.

  He found two maps that showed how Dawson had looked in 1898, but none in 1897, and none in much detail. A woman behind the reception counter suggested that he check at the museum, and he left with a handful of information on the gold rush, the town, and the goldfields, but not precisely what he had come looking for.

  Halfway back to the hotel, he found a small café where he purchased a paper cup of coffee to take back to his room, along with a cinnamon roll of epic proportions and satisfying amounts of pecans. Balancing these, he headed on down the boardwalk past a saloon. Just beyond the door, a slightly familiar voice stopped him with a bark.

  “Hey, you.”

  He swung around to find Sean Russell glaring at him. Damn. And he had looked carefully down each street to ascertain the absence of this very person before hurrying along it both coming and going from the Visitors Center.

  “I want to know what you’ve got to say about my father,” Russell demanded, stepping forward aggressively. He had obviously seen Hampton passing from inside the bar and come out in a rush, for he had left his jacket behind and stood in his shirtsleeves in the cold, both hands doubled into fists. “What’ve you got to tell me, huh? Huh? Police ought to have you in a goddamn cell.”

  A few beers had not improved his hostile attitude. He stomped up so close that Hampton could smell the alcohol on his breath and notice that one eye seemed slightly larger than the other. Though he stepped back, Russell followed closely, crowding h
im against the side of the building.

  “Look,” Hampton tried to say, “I only met your father once. I don’t know…”

  “Lying bastard! Who else would have killed him? Huh?”

  Russell brought up one of his fists and the container of coffee went flying into the street. Before Hampton could react, the cinnamon roll followed it.

  Three or four people had followed Sean Russell from the bar and stood near the door watching, but did nothing to interfere or interrupt the harassment.

  “Bastard,” Russell hissed again through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch tourist.” He swung a fist that, because Hampton had no room to maneuver, connected solidly with his left cheekbone and snapped his head back to thump against the wall; then he followed it up with a left jab that split an eyebrow.

  Hampton, his anger and resentment growing, had suddenly had enough. He stopped looking for a way to slide out of his position between the man and the wall, to avoid the confrontation, and buried his own fist in Sean’s belly. Russell was so close he couldn’t see the punch coming and the air went out of him with an explosive sound. Without moving his feet, he sat down hard on the boards of the walk, holding his midsection and struggling to catch his breath.

  The canoeist, aware that his shoulders and arms were stronger than normal, had pulled the punch at the last second, but it still easily felled Russell. He stepped away from the building and stood for a second or two, looking down at the gasping man.

  “I didn’t kill your father. I don’t know who did and I’m sorry he’s dead. Now, leave me alone and get yourself together. And I warn you, don’t try to hit me again. I won’t hold back next time.”

  He stared a challenge at the group by the bar door, but none of them stepped forward to take it up, so he turned on his heel and walked off toward the hotel, the sounds of Russell’s labored attempts to catch his breath fading behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  “AT THE RATE WE’RE PROCEEDING, there’ll soon be nobody in Dawson to so much as write a traffic ticket,” Delafosse commented. “They’ll all be working on this case.”

  Jensen half laughed. “Aren’t they already?”

  The hills surrounding the Yukon seemed to close in as they swept past them on their way upriver in the jet boat, though Alex suspected it might be a perception partly due to his tendency to hunch his shoulders against the chill breeze created by their forward motion. The whole country seemed to be turning inward against the coming winter. With the sudden drop in temperature, the rich gold of the deciduous trees that had stood out so sharply against the dark evergreens a few days before was fading into a more muted shade. Many large and small branches were now naked silhouettes against the gray sky, their wealth of leaves spread in a colorful patchwork over the ground.

  He thought of Jessie, as she had pictured herself in their conversation the night before, in the big couch in front of a fire in her wood stove with the front that opened like a hearth. In cold weather, she loved to curl up there, with a new or favorite book, sip tea or hot chocolate, turning inward along with the season.

  The couch was huge, wide enough for them both, if they sat facing each other from opposite ends, and expansive enough for Alex’s long legs. Jessie had coveted its amazing bulk at a moving sale in Palmer, brought it home in the back of her truck, layered it with quilts, afghans, and fluffy pillows in several sizes. Jensen liked it so much that she humorously accused him of enjoying her furniture more than her company. They frequently relaxed there in the evenings, pausing now and then to throw a log on the fire or share a passage, if they read separately, but more often reading aloud in turns.

  Watching the fall colors sweep past as the boat fought its way upriver, and clutching his collar close against the wind, he was not displeased with the idea of going home soon. Jessie and her enormous couch were both warm, comfortable anticipations in his mind.

  Wilson’s place was on the other side of Dawson from the murder site, so for almost half an hour they ran against the current, around the loops and curves of the famous river. The two officers watched the landscape unfold, wild and, for the most part, unmarked by the remarkable rush it had witnessed almost a hundred years ago and determined efforts to mine it since. Here and there, however, they passed small houses and cabins visible from the water.

  “You use this boat like a squad car,” Jensen observed.

  “There’s a fair number of people who elect to live along the river and it’s the only way to reach them. Some live here permanently, a few have summer cabins. I have one myself not too far from here. It’s a great escape with no telephone, but I seldom get to spend much time at it.”

  “Fish?”

  “Off and on. Mostly it’s an excuse to get out. Mainly I cut more wood than ever gets used, but it cleans out the deadwood and widow-makers on the property.”

  “Know how that ‘getting out’ feels. I like fly fishing, but on smaller waterways than this. Got started as a kid in Idaho. Some great camping spots there along the Continental Divide and a panful of brookies is the best breakfast I can imagine.”

  “We should go together sometime,” Delafosse said. “I’ve always wanted to learn fly fishing, but never found the time or opportunity. I just periodically plunk a line in the water and hope it snags something with enough fight to make it fun.” He turned to look forward as the river fell back on itself in a deep loop. “We’re coming up on Wilson’s place.”

  The first thing to be seen was a battered dock with three boats tied to it. One nearest the shore was only half visible as most of it was sunk below the surface and the rest was glued to the freezing mud of the bank. The other two rode uneasily without fenders, banging against the rough-cut pilings and planks. Obviously, their condition was not a high priority of the owner.

  “Pretty shabby way to treat a boat,” Jensen observed.

  “No different than he treats anything else he owns. Wait and see. For a man in his seventies, he’s one of a kind.”

  “Where’d he get the name Duck?”

  “Something about a bar brawl years ago. If I remember right, somebody yelled ‘Duck!’ and he did, and the guy who was about to punch him caught a bottle in the face. The name stuck.”

  As Delafosse slung a rope over the sturdiest-looking piling, the subject of their discussion came hurrying down the path from the bank onto the dock, a shotgun in one hand.

  “Hold it right there,” he roared as he rocked, rather than walked, toward them. The uneven gait of a crippled leg tipped him back and forth like a small boat in a high wind. He halted at the end of the dock and stood scowling down at the officers.

  “Whatcha want?”

  From under the crumpled brim of a hat of indeterminable color, long yellowish-gray hair flew in all directions, joined by a grungy chest-length beard. Over sharp, dark eyes, his scraggly gray eyebrows were just as unmanaged, or unmanageable. Beneath dirty denim that flapped in the wind, his legs looked bird-scrawny, shrunk to cords of muscle that ended in half-laced boots. The filthy down jacket he wore had once been green. Here and there it leaked feathers from a hole or burn, a couple of which were patched with the same duct tape that seems to hold half of everything above the fifty-fifth parallel together.

  “Just stay right where you are and state your business,” he demanded, with a twitch of the gun in their direction.

  Delafosse looked up at him for a long minute without answering. Indifferent to who was in charge, Wilson stared back at him, waiting.

  “Back off, Duck,” the inspector told him. “We came to tell you about Will.”

  “What about him?”

  “We found his body this morning, downriver on a bar. Shot twice.”

  There was no flash of shock in the old man’s eyes, just the cold, unwavering stare.

  He already knew, Jensen told himself. How?

  After a minute, Wilson frowned even more, before he opened his mouth to comment. “Ha! Always knew the dumb bastard’d get hisself killed someway. Who done it?
”

  “We don’t know yet, but we will.”

  “Doubt it. Haven’t got the brains of a chicken. Never had. Goddamn cops. Where do I git him?”

  “Nowhere, until we finish with the autopsy. Sometime next week you should get in touch at the office.”

  “I got anything to say about that?”

  “No, Duck. You don’t. You have a kid named Charlie here? Younger than Will, in his twenties. Brown hair, no beard. Not a local.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know him? Has he been here with Will?”

  “Don’t have no kid.”

  “Well, then, do you have another, newer boat? Bigger than these two, windshield, outboard?”

  Wilson shifted his weight from his crippled leg.

  “You see what I got,” he growled.

  “I see what you have…here.”

  It was plain he was avoiding the question. As his silence strung itself out and Delafosse waited, another figure came out of the trees, down the bank, and made a small sound as it stepped onto the dock.

  Wilson whirled to face the girl, who halted and looked defiantly at him, then at the officers in the boat. “Will?” she asked.

  She wore dirty, ragged tennis shoes, denim pants with a hole in one knee, and a tattered red jacket much too large for her thin frame, as though she had grabbed the first coat to hand as she followed Wilson outdoors. Still, her long blond hair and face looked clean. She clutched the jacket around herself and waited for an answer.

  Delafosse was nodding when Duck Wilson lurched toward her, roaring inarticulately. Faster than he could possibly move, she climbed up the bank she had come down and stopped to look back.