Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “But think about it in terms of the others involved here. Kabanak wanting to confess got me started. He must have some good reason, other than that hatchet, to think his boy had something to do with Russell’s death, so he says he did it to save his son. We don’t know his reasoning, but the value he puts on his son is pretty impressive, if he’s willing to take his punishment.” He poured black coffee into the inspector’s cup and recapped the thermos.

  Delafosse sipped at it carefully to avoid burning his mouth before he spoke.

  “Duck and Will are certainly another thing entirely, though that’s got to be a power struggle too. Says something about Duck’s own son, Will’s father, and that situation as well.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Died in Vietnam.”

  “A Canadian?”

  “Yes. While you had protesters coming north from the States, we had a few who went south to join up with your army. He was one of them. Made Duck furious that Tom was that desperate to get away from him. From what I hear, he hasn’t allowed his name to be spoken since. Fastened all his attention on Will and pretended his son never existed, especially after he was killed. His reaction to the death was that it was Tom’s own fault and it proved him right.”

  “What happened to Will’s mother?”

  “Oh, she took off years ago, after Duck made her life a hell, but had to leave Will with the old man. He raised him to believe she left him because she didn’t want him and that he was worthless like his father. Will never had a chance. His whole life was filled with hate and anger of one kind or another, abuse and contempt. The meaner he got, the better Duck liked it, but he wanted everything his way, as you saw yesterday. Beat Will if he didn’t go along.”

  “God, what a horror.”

  “A vicious circle. Ozzy treated Duck the same way.”

  “From what Riser had to say about him in the journal, I believe it. We don’t know much about Charlie, but I’d be willing to bet there’s a similar story there. Makes himself feel big by preying on others.”

  “That Will Wilson’s a rotten one. Killed my dog,” said the plow driver, rolling down the window to spit with an energy that expressed his disgust. Alex noticed, however, that he was careful not to let it go into the wind.

  “When was that, Willard?”

  “’Bout five years now. Good hound too.”

  “You report it?”

  “Couldn’t prove it…but I knew.”

  “What a tangle of family ties, guilt, independence, fear, anger, love, stubbornness, violence, and whatever else,” Alex said thoughtfully. “Makes you wonder how anybody grows up normal.”

  “Wonder what Hampton’s father’s like,” Delafosse considered.

  “Haven’t a clue. But I expect he’s completely different from Wilson. Hampton seems pretty squared away.”

  “Yeah, seems like. What was yours like? Was he disappointed when you went into police work?”

  “No, mainly encouraging. Only worried about it as a dangerous profession. He was—and is—infatuated with literature, Scandinavian and other, reads all the time. My mom, with her Celtic background, has always called him the melancholy Dane, because he’s serious and studious. He taught English at the local high school until he retired. They always made me feel that whatever I did was okay with them, as long as it satisfied me and I was good at it. Still do.”

  “Mine, too. He’d rather I’d wanted to be a farmer and inherit his wheat ranch, but was proud of me and let me know it.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Dad’s dead, an accident with a combine. They had moved from Montreal to Swift Current. Ever hear of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Out in the flatlands of Saskatchewan. When he died, my mom sold the place and moved to Ontario to be near my sister and her grandbabies. I was eleven years in the Regina and Saskatoon RCMP before I came up here.”

  “Sas-s-skato-o-on, Sas-s-skatchewan,” Alex tried it out. “What a great mouthful of a name. You can almost taste it. Exotic.”

  “Wasn’t really. Ranching community above Montana. Flat, with sky that went on forever. Took me a while to get used to mountains when I came here.”

  “Ontario where you got your French?”

  “And that two of my grandparents were French immigrants.”

  Alex grinned. “That was quite an exhibit of profanity at the ferry landing.”

  “Now, that I did get from my dad.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  AS THE LIGHT FADED FROM THE SNOWY world outside the truck, it began to look flat, lacking the definition of shadows in the drifts. Willard leaned forward, watching closely for clues to the road. “Can’t be too far now,” he said, and the two officers also turned their attention to the front.

  It was almost dark when they caught sight of an almost buried, truck-sized bump in the right-hand ditch, and Willard slowed the powerful plow to a stop where the headlights illuminated the side of the pickup. There was no movement from the smaller truck. It sat silent and snow-blown, seemingly empty, the windows thickly covered with frost on the inside.

  Putting on coats, hats, and gloves, Jensen and Delafosse climbed down the side of the high cab, shutting the door behind them.

  “Must have run out of gas and hasn’t had the heater,” said Jensen, stepping forward to pull open the door. “Good thing they had that stuff you dropped. Good God!”

  What he found in the front of the pickup was a stiff replica of the man he had last seen in Dawson. Clutching a half-frozen wool blanket around him, Hampton struggled weakly to sit up on the tilted seat, batting toward the door with a sock-covered hand that was obviously too cold to be of much use. A swift glance told Jensen he was in serious trouble, and Charlie nowhere to be seen. Reaching in, he grabbed at Hampton’s arm, pulled him up and over the edge of the seat, and lifted him out onto the road, where he collapsed into a heap.

  “What…?” Delafosse stepped forward quickly to help pick him up. “Didn’t you find the duffel bag we dropped?”

  Hampton was so cold he hardly shivered and could scarcely speak. A croak told them, “Charlie…”

  “Where?”

  Hampton gestured ineffectively toward the west.

  Willard leaned out the passenger door of the plow truck and shouted down from above. “Ask him questions later. Get him up here where it’s warm.”

  With Willard’s help, they lifted the almost helpless man into the cab of the larger truck, leaving the frozen blanket in the road. Delafosse clambered in after him, leaving Jensen to inspect the pickup. He and Willard immediately peeled off Hampton’s coat, gloves, socks, and boots to allow the cab’s heat to reach him directly. The inspector was disconcerted to see the pale condition of his toes and fingers, though they did not feel frozen. One ear also had a pale look to the lobe, but his face he seemed to have buried in the blanket, where his breath kept it from freezing.

  Willard took one look at the useless hands and, pulling open his own coat and shirt, put them on his bare belly, drawing his warm clothing back in place over them. “Not going to be fun when they start to come to,” he stated, “but this’ll help. Reach under that seat, Del, and you’ll find my survival stuff. Get some dry socks out, warm them up a minute and get ’em on his feet, then put his feet against you under your coat. Need to get some heat on the inside of him too. Coffee or soup, and fast. There’s a bottle of brandy in there, but none for him. Not good for what he’s got.”

  Delafosse quickly did as he was told, glad they had the full thermos of coffee with cream and sugar, still hot. Pouring a lid full, he held it against Hampton’s now-clicking teeth and helped him take a swallow or two.

  “G-g-god, tha-a-t’s g-g-good,” he gasped. “G-got any f-f-o-od?”

  Tucking Hampton’s feet inside his jacket, Delafosse glanced up. “Haven’t you had anything to eat? We drop…”

  “Ch-Charlie t-took it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Kn-nocked m-me out. T-took it all.�
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  “The ruddy bastard.” Though it took a lot to get Inspector Delafosse’s temper up, he was incensed and angry now. “The son of a bitch.” He lapsed into a few choice phrases in French, which drew a chuckle from Willard and even the ghost of a smile from Hampton.

  As he resumed warming Hampton’s feet and legs, the canoeist began to groan and writhe as his extremities came to life again. “D-damn. D-did some of this b-before, a c-couple of hours ago. Hurts w-worse now.”

  “You bet it hurts,” Willard sympathized. “Better be glad it does. Gonna have to put up with it for a while. Sorry.”

  “Th-that’s okay.”

  “There’s aspirin where you found the socks,” he told the inspector. “May help some.”

  Delafosse found it and gave Hampton a double dose, washed down with more coffee. “Can you eat a sandwich? Soup?”

  Hampton nodded, pulling his hands from Willard’s belly to sit up and shake them helplessly in front of, but not too close to, the gentle warmth of the heater.

  “O-o-oh. Son of a bitch. Both, please. Soup first, but you’ll have to hold it.”

  His hands soon began to flush pink with a few small burgundy-colored spots. Delafosse poured vegetable soup into the lid of the other thermos and balanced it while Hampton slurped it down ravenously. He then fed him a sandwich, a bite at a time. It also disappeared in record time and was followed by the rest of the soup.

  “Heaven,” he sighed. “Thanks, guys. I had about decided you couldn’t make it to the party.”

  “Now,” said Delafosse. “Tell me about Charlie.”

  “I don’t know much because, like I said, he knocked me out. Hit me in the head with that forty-four of his. See?” He turned to show the lump and cut where the butt of the pistol had connected with his skull. “I’ve been hit in the head more this week than in my entire life. I’m beginning to resent it.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Headed for the border, I think. Didn’t seem to believe me when I told him there wasn’t a chance of making it. Thought I was telling lies to keep him here. He threatened me with the gun before I got out when you were here in the chopper. I caught him off guard, broke his nose, and jumped out. That probably set him off. He hit me before I could get back in the truck, just after you left. Then he took off with almost everything you dropped and left me out cold in the snow. Don’t know how long I was out, but long enough to get a good start on this damage.” He held up his hands. “I already had a white patch or two. Damn, this smarts.”

  “So he headed west and has a forty-four.”

  “Right. At least that’s the way his tracks go. I’d like to get my hands on him—though they’re not much use to me right now. I’d pound the shit. I could have died out there if he’d hit me just a little harder.”

  Delafosse looked up at the plow driver, who was listening closely, taking it all in. “You take care of him, Willard? I’ll go help Alex. Okay?”

  “Hey, no problem. I got plenty of gas, so we’ll stay toasty. You go on.” In almost one motion he swiftly rolled the window down and back up. Midway through the process, a stream of tobacco juice went flying with deadly aim. Del was sure that if Charlie had been standing within reach, Willard could and would have hit him in the eye.

  Outside, Del found Jensen pouring the second can of gasoline into the tank in Hampton’s pickup.

  “Even when this is out of the ditch, I doubt we’re going to get it started without a jump from Willard’s battery,” he said.

  “No problem. We’ll do it when we get back and let it run till it gets warm. One of us will have to drive it to Dawson behind the plow.”

  “Right. I was going to unload the snow machines, but it’ll take both of us to move that piece of wood you brought for a ramp.”

  “Got to be done. Like it or not, we’ll have to go after that damn kid.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much, though I’m tempted to let him freeze for pulling such a stunt. Can you charge him with attempted homicide? Not much longer and he might as well have shot Hampton. How’s his frostbite?”

  “Not as bad as I first thought it was going to be,” Del told him. “He’ll be okay, I think, but better not get those hands cold again in a hurry. It’s mainly light. He’s got feeling in all his fingers and toes, so he shouldn’t lose any; may blister up some, but he’s damned lucky and it’s through no fault of Charlie’s. Right now he’s suffering through the thawing out.”

  “Hurts a bunch, but better than not hurting at all.” Alex set the gas can down next to the pickup. “Let’s get those sno-gos out and go find that kid.”

  “Hampton said he’s got a forty-four.”

  “he better not even think of using it…just give me an excuse.”

  Charlie, in his fuddled state, had by now forgotten he ever had a gun. Close to the end of his tether, he was still making what he thought was forward progress to the border, but it was very slow and increasingly unsteady. Actually, he was just a bit over a mile from the truck and headed straight for it, though he had no idea how far he had wandered.

  He didn’t know much of anything. His clothing grew colder and partially froze as the temperature fell with approaching dark, bringing his fever down even more as a result, but he was starting to hallucinate from dehydration and hypothermia. The wind had abated and no snow was falling, allowing him to see quite a ways, if there had been anything to see. He staggered through another in a series of large drifts and almost fell out the other side of it. Without realizing it was gone, he dropped the duffel from under his arm into the snow and walked away from it, hands completely numb to the wrist. Doggedly hugging the blanket around his head and shoulders, he did not see it fall.

  Violent shakes seized him periodically, rattling his teeth. He breathed through his mouth, expelling twice as much moisture and hastening his delirium. In the next few steps he fell twice and crawled back to his feet. He couldn’t remember when he had completely stopped feeling his feet and his hands. His ears and battered nose were also pale and bloodless. If he had poked them with a finger—if he had been able to feel with that finger—they would have felt inflexible.

  The third time he fell, he lay there for a minute, thinking. It felt wonderful to lie down and not struggle for the next step. Huffing and puffing through his mouth because his nose was stuffed and swollen shut, he was having trouble breathing. His throat was so sore he couldn’t swallow. He closed his eyes and thought about it. It was dark. Maybe if he napped for a few minutes he would have the energy to get going again. It seemed like a good idea.

  Before he allowed himself to drift off “for just a little while,” he forced himself to sit up and tug the blanket around so he could put his face on it when he lay back down. Glancing up, he noticed a glow of light some distance off in the direction he had been going. Well, he thought, the border couldn’t be far away if he could see its lights. He would go there as soon as he had his nap. Just as he thought, the damned tourist had lied to him.

  He lay back down and thought of the border between Mexico and California, with its multiple lanes for checking papers and the hundreds of people who crossed it daily, driving or walking. He doubted that this border would be quite that large—maybe only four or five customs agents, each in their own little kiosk. Hm-m-m. What had he done with his papers? Was his wallet in his pants pocket? Would he be able to remember any street Spanish? ¿Cómo está? Uno, dos, tres…cinco…diez. Taco…enchilada…Ensenada…Tiajuana…na…na…

  The noise of the snow machines precluded any speech between the two officers as they flew through the drifts, following the increasingly well-defined traces of Charlie’s meandering stumble over and around the ridge. One after the other, Delafosse in front, they swung around in the broad, three-mile circle prescribed by their quarry’s floundering attempt to reach the border. Dressed in the insulated snow machine suits, face masks, heavy gloves, and boots, they were warm enough, though the temperature was dropping steadily as the dark thickened.

&nb
sp; Two thirds of the way around they found his discarded clothes, including his jacket, by running over them. The duffel, Jensen caught a glimpse of and, slowing slightly, snatched up like the gold ring on a merry-go-round from the drift where Charlie had lost it.

  Del almost ran over the kid when they finally reached him. He threw up a gloved hand to warn Alex and veered off to one side, shutting down the engine and slowing quickly to a stop. Behind him the Alaska State Trooper did the same. Looking up, Alex was somewhat amused to see the lights of Willard’s big truck shining over the snow in their direction, easily within walking distance. If they had waited another half hour, Charlie would have come right back to them. But maybe not. He was lying very still, curled up in a blanket, as if he had simply collapsed and gone to sleep.

  Turned over, the kid did not look good at all. His broken nose was frostbitten white. Blood from it had smeared when he wiped it, coating the lower half of his face and freezing on his upper lip.

  “Here’s our truck-burglar,” Jensen commented, taking a look at Charlie’s boot soles, where he found the left one cracked under the instep, as he had anticipated the minute he saw the totally inadequate western footwear. His feet were probably in bad shape, though they didn’t pull the leather boots off to check.

  Tugging one mitten off the kid’s hand to take a quick look, Delafosse immediately put it back on and shook his head.

  “Dead white and cold as ice. Hate to think what his feet look like. He’s in real trouble. Damn tourist.”

  “Let’s see if we can wake him up enough to get him back to the truck. We’d better call up that chopper. He’s going to need medical treatment faster than we can get him to it on the road. The wind has died enough so they can at least hover.”

  “They still won’t be able to land in this pile of snow—have to lift him up in the basket—but I think you’re right.” The inspector began to shake Charlie, first gently, then with increasing roughness as the kid didn’t wake. He groaned and shook his head in irritation, but did not come to. Delafosse punched his shoulder with a mittened hand, not wanting to slap the disaster of his face, but got no more response.