Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Hampton got back into the cab and let the heater hum until he felt a little warmer. While it ran, he had started to wrap the vest around his lower legs and ankles, but stopped to empty the pockets when he felt something the kid had overlooked. In one pocket were two plastic envelopes that grew chemically warm when you bent a trigger inside. These he slipped into his jacket pocket for later. In the other vest pocket was a treasure, four Snickers bars. There was no trace of the message Delafosse had promised. Whatever it had said had gone with Charlie. Hampton now had no idea what the officers were planning or what they expected of him, if anything. He would just have to wait it out until they showed up.

  He checked his boots to make sure they were not too tightly laced and that his socks were still dry. Wrapping his ankles in the vest, he put the socks on his hands over his gloves; cocooned himself as snugly as possible in the slightly damp blanket, and settled back to eat two of the Snickers bars immediately.

  Between bites of candy he drank large gulps of the ice water from one of the bottles he had placed near the heater to thaw. Aware that every time he exhaled, his breath released precious moisture, he knew that, though it would have been better warm, liquid was what he needed to prevent dehydration that would encourage hypothermia and frostbite. When the water thawed some more, he would tuck a liter of it under his coat, next to his body to keep it from freezing again, and drink as much of it as possible. The increase in body fluids would keep his blood pressure up and circulating more efficiently. Given his present situation, every small opportunity to better his circumstances, inside and out, might make a difference in the long run.

  Hopefully Delafosse had overestimated the time it would take to reach him. Till then he would try to stay quiet, wiggle his fingers and toes often, sleep if he could, and conserve heat and energy. The whole cab smelled of damp wool. His swollen feet and hands ached and itched, his head felt as if the back of it was about to come off, and his stomach growled in indignation at having only a token dropped into it. Well, he was alive…very much alive, and intended to stay that way, if only to settle the score. At least, he thought, curling up on the seat to conserve his body heat, there’s more room without Charlie, and had to grin. Once again, every cloud had its silver lining…so far.

  Across the river from Dawson, Delafosse and Jensen were heading up the highway in the cab of the large truck that was used to plow the route open until so much snow fell that it must be closed for the season. Equipped with an enormous blade, the powerful vehicle bulled its way through most drifts as if they weren’t there. Its driver, Willard Ely, knew the way so well that he now cleared a strip the width of two cars in the center of the road, even around the bends and turns, without slowing down.

  Ely had started the truck and let it run while they loaded two snow machines into the back bucket, tied them down, and put in cans of gas for Hampton’s truck. With an extra-efficient heater, it was now warm enough so both officers had removed their coats, gloves, and hats, and were focused on the sandwiches they had brought for lunch.

  “Want one of these, Willard? We’ve got extra.”

  “No, thanks. Mavis fed me last night’s leftover pot roast before I left. I’m good.”

  “How long will it take to get up there?” Delafosse mumbled around an impolitely large bite of ham and cheese.

  “Er, har-r-rah…well, depends. Have to wait till we get up top and see what winter had dumped on the road before I can make a guesstimate. About thirty miles, you say? I’d guess maybe an hour and a half, maybe a little longer if it’s drifted irregular and we have to slow down for the deep spots. Have to see which way the wind’s blowing too. Takes more time to go against it because I can’t see enough to make much speed. Har-r-rah-t-t.” He cranked down the window just enough to spit a stream of tobacco juice expertly through it and whipped it back up with a practiced twist of the wrist.

  An icy whisper of cold stole in to finger the back of Jensen’s neck, widening his eyes and sending a shudder through him before it was cut off and died in the blast of the heater. It smelled overly hot and he leaned forward to be sure nothing had fallen against it to scorch. He thought longingly of the thick wool scarf packed in a duffel back with the snow machines.

  Also in the bag were warm snow machine suits, along with an assortment of face masks, heavily insulated mitts, and other items to fend off the worst the winter had to threaten those daring or foolish enough to ride “iron dogs” in weather like this. But the scarf was uppermost in his mind, as he turned up his collar and wondered how often Willard would expectorate during a plowing run. He hoped the har-r-rah-t he had heard before the window went down would be enough warning to allow him to protect his neck.

  Delafosse, nothing the shudder, looked sideways at him and grinned, guessing his thoughts. “Willard’s our best plowman,” he commented. “He’s been doing this for years. We plow to the border and your folks do the other side.”

  Clair had gone for their food, bringing back two enormous sandwiches each, plus a thermos of hot soup and two of coffee, one with cream and sugar, one without. “If you don’t eat it all, Hampton and what’s-his-name will,” she said. “All the survival gear in the world is not going to make it anything but uncomfortable up there.”

  Now Delafosse put his second sandwich back in the bag and sighed contentedly. “Can’t find room. How about some of that coffee, Alex?”

  “Sure. Want some of the soup?”

  “No, thanks. Maybe later.”

  Jensen was also satisfied with a single sandwich. He put the paper bag out of the way of their feet and poured coffee for them both. Handing Del a cup, he grinned. “You asked her to dinner?”

  Delafosse grinned back. “Yes. No. Sort of.”

  “You did, or didn’t?”

  “Yes, I asked her…but we never got to the for what part. She just said yes.”

  “Whatever. At least you finally did something.”

  They sipped their coffee in mutually pleased silence.

  “Be dark before we make it back,” Willard said. “You want to bring the pickup back to Dawson, right?”

  “Right,” Delafosse affirmed. “Can’t leave it up there all winter and this may close the road.”

  “They go off on the right side, or the left?”

  “Right, I think.”

  “Won’t take but a minute to jerk it out with this rig.”

  Conversation lagged, as they watched the hypnotic flight of snow across the windshield in front of them. It had almost stopped falling, but seemed to blow up from the ground and ride the wind a few feet in the air. When it hit the truck, it flew higher still. White grains also blew back from the blade, as it scraped them from the surface and rolled snow back to the side of the road. At times it seemed they traveled through a constant white curtain of disturbance. Jensen was glad to be traveling in the warm protection of the truck, with plenty of gas and Willard’s driving expertise. It was going to be dangerously cold when they reached the truck and got out to work in what was left of the blizzard.

  About half an hour into the rescue mission, the radio crackled to life, attracting their attention. Jensen, warm and relatively comfortable, was half asleep, his long legs stretched forward, arms folded across his chest. He had been wondering again what Jessie wanted and wishing he could have spoken to her. The phone had remained unanswered. Must be off with the dogs, he had surmised.

  The voice that came through the truck radio was that of Clair McSpadden, from the RCMP office in Dawson.

  “For you.” Willard caught the microphone in one giant paw and handed it to the inspector with a grin. He had evidently figured out just who the inspector and Jensen had been discussing earlier.

  Though the transmission was filled with static and broken here and there, all three of the men in the cab were used to communicating on a radio and understood what she said clearly enough. Jensen was amused to hear her put on her public voice, since she knew she could be heard by more than just Delafosse.

&nb
sp; “Inspector?”

  “Yes, here.”

  “Henry Kabanak is here in the office. He says he wants to confess to killing Warren Russell. What would you like me to do…ah, sir?”

  A moment of silence, empty of any reaction, fell in the cab of the truck. Astounded, Jensen heard the blade hit a fairly large rock and felt a slight vibration as it rattled along the flat, metal surface before being hurled to the side of the road.

  “Inspector? Did you copy?”

  “Yes, Miss McSpadden. I think so. You said Henry Kabanak was there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah…Kabanak senior or junior?”

  “Ah…well, both, sir. But Henry…senior…is the one who wants to confess. Henry…junior…is in the cell next to Duck Wilson. Mel caught him and another native man—the one who works with Sean Russell—with a hatchet, sir.”

  “Did you say ‘hatchet’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Delafosse turned to look, wide-eyed and confused, at Jensen.

  They both hesitated. Delafosse frowned and shook his head as if to clear it.

  “And…Henry…senior…wants to confess, Miss McSpadden?”

  “Yes, sir. Says he won’t leave until he does and he’ll only confess to you. He won’t talk to Mel.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  The inspector turned back to Jensen with a frown. The silence in the cab of the plow truck was loud enough to make them ignore the howling wind. He stared at Jensen, who stared back. Both their minds were recalculating the situation with such intensity that nothing came out in words. When, finally, Jensen spoke, it overlapped Delafosse’s first words.

  “Na-a-aw!”

  “What the hell is he trying to do? But…”

  “Maybe…”

  “Something’s going on that we don’t know. He’s trying to protect the kid from whatever it is. Otherwise he wouldn’t confess to it, if he didn’t do it, and I do not think he did.”

  Alex nodded and sighed at the disappointed look on his friend’s face. “Yeah. His son…with Hampton’s hatchet?”

  “Right. Has to be. Damn it.”

  “Cl…Miss McSpadden?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Ah…will you ask him if he will wait, please? Explain why I can’t get back for four or five hours. I’ll see him then.”

  “You want him to remain here, sir?”

  Knowing he could be heard in the office, Delafosse elaborated only marginally.

  “Yes. But until I see him he is not technically under arrest. Tell him I trust him to wait. There shouldn’t be a problem, since he came in on his own and wants to speak to me. Ask him.”

  After a pause, she came back on the line.

  “He will wait, sir.”

  “Tell him thank you.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  “No, Miss McSpadden. Not at this time. Call again if you need me. Ah…thank you.”

  He hung the microphone back by the radio and scowled. “Damn it anyway.”

  “Well,” said Jensen, who had been analyzing the situation from this new angle. “It could fit just about everything concerned with the two deaths, with a few details left over that could be worked out pretty easily.”

  “I know. But it doesn’t feel right, Alex. What’s this bit with the journal copy disappearing, for instance? I’m going to have trouble with it. Think I should have locked him up?”

  Jensen pictured the dignified Han Athabaskan chief and shrugged as he shook his head. “Why? Where would he go? You’ve already got the thing that will keep him there…his son.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  WHILE HAMPTON HUDDLED MISERABLY, cold and angry, in his buried truck, a mile or more to the east, Charlie wallowed and stumbled through a world white with endless snow. There were no trees; nothing that provided even a modicum of shelter hindered the wind or broke the expanse of drifts that rolled away as far as he could see through the ground blizzard.

  He had put on one of the bulky, coverall snow machine suits he had found in the duffel. But under it his clothes had already been packed with snow. Now his body heat had melted some of it, leaving him damp and chilled. At least his hands were covered, for he had also found thermal mittens, but they were not warm and were growing gradually colder.

  In the bag, besides the mittens, had been sandwiches, one of which he had wolfed, not caring what it was. When he was well away from the truck, he had washed it down with half the contents of a thermos of hot soup. This he followed with a couple of swallows of coffee from another, but he didn’t care for coffee and unfortunately didn’t drink much. Both thermal containers were now back in the duffel, which he carried on his back. It was heavy and awkward, slipping when he walked and causing him to lose his balance often. His nose ran constantly and he had begun to cough in tight, hacking spasms that added to his exhaustion.

  With Hampton unconscious, Charlie had gone in search of the duffel and quickly sorted through it before leaving. Dumping half the contents into the snow, he had looked for anything he could leave to lessen the weight, including the water bottles, but decided to carry most of it as far as possible in case he needed its critical items. He had not intended to leave anything but the water, but when he had put on one of the down vests and the snowmachine suit, he thought he heard a sound that might have been Hampton coming to. Zipping up the bag, he had abandoned a blanket, the second vest, and a pair of socks and taken off, seeing as he passed that the other man still lay by the truck.

  Now he was tired, and knew the load was too much for him. Stopping, he immediately grew more chilled as the sweat from exertion and some fever, along with the damp inside his suit, grew clammy. Dropping the bag, he coughed until he felt light-headed and his throat was on fire. With a stocking cap he had located in a pocket and put on, he wiped at his hot face and dripping nose. Snow crystals abraded his cheeks like sand with the force of the wind, including two pale spots of early frostbite. Half blind, he turned his back to it and stood, panting and dizzy, until his breathing slowed. It was so damn cold and he was so hot and tired.

  When he looked back along the wandering line of his own tracks, he could not see the truck, or anything beyond a few dozen feet. Clouds had piled up, the thin sun had disappeared and the world gone darker. There were no landmarks, nothing to aim for, and without the tracks he would have been totally disoriented.

  Slowly he settled to his knees and, pulling off his mittens, unzipped the bag. Though he hated the idea of undressing, he decided that he needed to get on the dry suit, with or without shelter from the storm. Reluctantly, he removed his boots, the snowmachine suit, the vest, his own inadequate gray jacket, shirt, and jeans. Shivering uncontrollably in his shorts, he fumbled into the tops and bottoms of one pair of insulated underwear. Brushing ineffectively at the clinging snow, he climbed into the second snowmachine suit. His own socks were now wet with snow, so he pulled them off and, standing on the discarded suit, yanked a dry pair onto his feet with fingers so cold he could hardly feel them.

  Tossing aside the clothing he had worn, back to the wind, he pulled on his thin, inadequate western boots and danced in place. His feet had hurt earlier, but were now quite numb and not painful. Clumsily, he retrieved the gun from a pocket of the abandoned snowmachine suit and put it into the one he had on, along with a half-empty box of shells.

  Another extended bout of coughing caught and left him breathless and bent as an old man over the duffel at his feet. He couldn’t decide if he felt warmer or not, for snow had blown into everything he put on, leaving him once again damp from the inside out as his body warmth melted some of its fine grains.

  His head ached. He felt deafened from the howling of the wind. Digging out a thermos from the duffel, he drank the rest of the soup it held and tossed aside the container. Numbly, he also threw out everything but one sleeping bag, the rest of the sandwiches and coffee, and a first-aid kit. One wool blanket he unfolded and wrapped around his head and shoulders like a giant
babushka. Pulled forward around his face, it kept out some of the flying snow. Picking up the bag, he zipped it shut and, clutching it under one arm, staggered off again, not noticing that he had made a quarter turn to the right. Alaska had to be out there somewhere, with people and airplanes and warm places to go.

  Dreamily, he thought of lying in the sand of a favorite California beach, letting the sun bake his back and splashing into the water periodically to cool off. One foot felt tight in the boot and he began to favor it, limping slightly, not aware that, with every step, he was bearing farther and farther to the right. Soon he had established a curve that, if viewed from above, would have revealed that in the not too distant future he would find himself very near the truck in which Hampton huddled, furious and miserable, ready to pound him to a pulp on sight. On he limped, longing for Alaska…shelter…anyplace he could lie down and go to sleep. Without his knowledge, patches of white spreading from the tips of his fingers were joined by the dead white of all his toes.

  “You know,” Jensen said to Delafosse after a long silence, during which the plow truck cleared a temporary track on another couple of miles of the Top of the World Highway. “When you think about it, most of this case hinges somehow on the relationships between sons and their fathers.”

  Delafosse turned a listening face toward him and held out his cup for more coffee. “Like Sean and Warren Russell, you mean?”

  “Yeah, that’s the most obvious one, with their constant disagreements and conflict. It’s a power struggle; if one wins, the other loses, and neither wants to lose. Sean wants his dad to approve of him, like we all do, but he also needs to live his life the way he wants to, with respect for his own values and talents. It’s interesting how some guys will go along with whatever their parents want, and wind up with a profession they don’t really care about. Too many fathers try to live vicariously through their sons. Maybe they went along with their father’s ideas and want their sons to live the ones they gave up. Fathers and sons compete and the fathers are often, realize it or not, jealous that the son is a younger, stronger, more attractive man.