Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “No, Jessie. It’s not…”…that way, he started to say. But he knew that—in all honesty—part of it was, or had been, and that she knew it. He heard himself start to lie, to make it easy, to reassure her. And she was waiting for him to finish, an apprehensive look in her eyes. He suddenly knew that if he lied to her now, about this, it would never be the same.

  “I tried to make it go away, too,” Jessie said. “When I could see that you had walked around it and really come home, I tried to shut it out. Doesn’t work, does it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is it over?”

  “Never really started.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You can partly thank Cas, maybe. Nothing that matters to us happened, Jess,” he said carefully, trying hard to put into words the shape of what he understood and had felt. “A little more sympathy than I counted on inspired a little more interest than I recognized. I was trying to find a way to express that when I said I wanted to talk.”

  There was a long moment of silence, then she smiled, shakily.

  “It’s time you stopped doing penance,” she said suddenly, without thinking, and stopped, appalled.

  Alex thought for a minute, then nodded, slowly, with an odd, lopsided half-regretful grin. “Funny. I was thinking something like that on my way home. Will you help?”

  “Only if you’ll help remind me that you are not like Grant.”

  “Deal.”

  They made dinner together, took a shower together, and found their way to the big brass bed in their house, feeling more together than they ever had before.

  “She seems very alone,” Jessie murmured, just before falling asleep with her head on Alex’s shoulder.

  “Chelle?”

  “Um-m. Very singular. Always has. It’s like Norm’s disappearance…death, didn’t change her much…since she seemed that way when he was still alive. I mean, sort of self-contained. You know?”

  Alex thought about that out loud. “I thought she knew, somehow, that he was dead. To know, she had to have been involved, had something to do with it. You just explained it, I guess.”

  26

  THE MORNING SKY WAS CLEAR, WITH ONLY A FEW small clouds to the east, as Chelle Lewis lifted her Cessna from the waters of Lake Hood, and turned north, heading one last time for that small lake where Norm had died, on the far side of Mount Susitna.

  She did not turn on the music of the radio, preferring to float along in the white sound of the plane engine as she passed over the familiar waters of Knik Arm and altered course to the west, passing from controlled airspace. It was good to be back in the air alone after everything that had happened, and with a destination, a reason all her own to be going.

  Two months had passed since her last flight in this direction, and the green velvet of summer had spread itself over the slopes of the Sleeping Lady. In the long hours of daylight particular to the far north, every growing thing had seemed to explode into life at once. Contrasted against the white of ice and snow that never left the highest mountain peaks, the colors of nature seemed exaggerated: dark, rich greens, deep, intense blues, and a riot of wildflower hues invisible from the air: magenta fireweed, blue-purple lupine, yellow marsh marigolds and monkey flowers, pink roses, dark brown chocolate lilies, bright white daisies and miniature dogwood. After a winter filled with whites and grays, it was like going from black and white to Technicolor.

  Crossing over Ch’chihi Ken, the long ridge of the Sleeping Lady’s hair, Chelle could see the plateau beyond, with its many small lakes reflecting blue as if liquid sky had fallen to fill dips and depressions between the rolling hills. It was easy to pick out the nameless one for which she was headed; its shape was so familiar she would never forget it.

  Nameless, she thought, and wondered briefly if it would be possible to have it named Lewis Lake for her husband. No. Better to leave it undesignated. He had always liked the anonymous quality of the wilderness, with its thousands of unnamed mountains, lakes, and rivers. He had thought it pleasant to be able to answer “west” or “that way” when asked where he was going. “It leaves all kinds of possibilities, instead of a specific destination—leaves your options open.”

  Chelle smiled, remembering, and glanced at the passenger seat next to her. A small, plainly wrapped box sat on it—all that was left of Norm—ashes and chips of bone—all Alex and Cas had been able to find and retrieve. It seemed incredibly small to hold such an important, unforgettable part of her life—of their short life together.

  Its size had startled her when she had picked it up the day before from the crematorium, and surprised her still. She had been offered an urn, but it hadn’t seemed appropriate when she already knew where the ashes belonged, and that it wasn’t a place an urn would be useful. The lake where he had died was where he should be returned, and she knew he would have been pleased with that idea. They had talked about it once, knowing their profession was one of risk as well as satisfaction, and he had been adamant. “Don’t let anyone dump me in a hole in the ground. Just have me burned and scatter what’s left over some uninhabited part of Alaska that I like, or would have liked. Okay?” So that’s what she would do—the last thing she could do for him to make…amends?

  Bunker had offered to keep her company, but she wanted to go alone. To complete it all, she knew she must be by herself, with no one else watching, or waiting. It was a simple chore, could be done quickly, with little trouble, and she would take care of it herself, picking the spot and the time that felt right.

  Dropping out of the sky, she banked the plane into a turn and leveled off for her landing, drifting gently downward. A light breeze rippled the surface of the lake, making it easy to see the water. She touched down, allowed the plane to gradually lose speed, and heeled in to bring it to a controlled run, watching carefully for floating logs.

  Taxiing to the middle of the lake, she slowed the plane to a stop and allowed the engine to idle. Then she reached for the box and climbed carefully out onto the float. Removing its lid, she slowly emptied the ashes it contained onto the already cloudy water, and watched them drift slightly toward the rear of the plane. She imagined them moving with the water to the stream at the west end of the lake and down to Lower Beluga Lake. From there some of Norm would be carried along the Beluga River, from the plateau into Cook Inlet far below and, eventually, on the tides, out into the Gulf of Alaska, making him one with the country he had loved.

  “I’m sorry, Norm,” she said, softly, for the first and last time. “I should have trusted you. I was mistaken about Karen Randolph…about most of it. If I hadn’t come back from Homer a day early and seen her with you at our house, I wouldn’t have thought…If I hadn’t followed you out here and seen her again in your plane, when I knew there wasn’t a charter on the books…If I hadn’t expected you to leave me…Hadn’t assumed…Hadn’t made so many mistakes…”

  She paused, and raised her eyes to the sky over the lake. A solitary hawk drew circles in the air, looking for unwary rabbits or squirrels. Everything was warm and still, within the hundreds of small wilderness sounds. The Cessna rocked slightly under her weight, as she tossed the box back into the plane. Now there was only one thing more to do.

  She reached into a pocket, then stretched her arm out over the water on which a few of Norm’s ashes were still slowly sinking.

  “I’m sorry, love. Thank you for taking care of me…for not leaving me…no matter what.”

  Opening her hand, one at a time, she allowed two brass shell casings from the Weatherby to fall into the murky, silt-filled water, and watched them vanish forever into its depths.

  Back in the cockpit, she throttled up and let the plane pick up speed until she felt it rise onto the step, gliding powerfully on the surface of the water, ready to lift off—going up to be part of the sky.

  —4 *Death Takes Passage (1998)

  —5 *Deadfall (1999)

  —6 Murder on the Yukon Quest (2000)

  MURDER ON THE YUKON QUEST. Copy
right © 1999 by Sue Henry. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Microsoft Reader February 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-136843-1

  Thanks and appreciation to:

  My publisher, Avon Books, and to everyone there who works so hard to make each of my books, including their covers, the best they can be.

  My editor, Trish Grader, who has a real talent and sure instinct for what works—and what doesn’t.

  Yukon Quest committees in Fairbanks and Whitehorse for their generous assistance and support.

  All the mushers, race officials, veterinarians, volunteers, sled builders, trainers, media folks, and spectators on both sides of the border, for their forbearance in answering dozens of questions.

  Leroy Shank—who, with Roger Williams, dreamed up and believed in the Quest in the first place, then, against all odds, found ways to put the trail under it—for his trust and the sharing of his precious records and recordings of the race and its beginnings.

  Frank Turner, the only musher to have run every single Yukon Quest since the beginning, and winner of the 1995 race, for a tour of his kennel and his considerable insights on the race and its running.

  Anne Turner, mainstay of Frank’s dedicated support crew, for patience and friendly assistance.

  Bruce Lee, Winner of the 1998 Yukon Quest Sled Dog Race, for so generously sharing his experiences and memories of the Trail of ’98.

  Crabb’s Corner in Central for their warm reception, shelter, and great food.

  Circle Hot Springs for a long soak in their wonderful outdoor pool, in temperatures that froze rising steam on the surrounding trees till they looked as if they’d been flocked.

  The friendly, helpful people of Whitehorse and Dawson City, Canada.

  Toby Talbot, for half a lifetime of friendship and hospitality, and for collecting and sending me every scrap of Fairbanks newsprint that even suggested the words Yukon or Quest.

  The Alaska Dog Mushers Association for support and information.

  Vanessa Summers for the sharing of her considerable talent in creating the maps that grace my books.

  Map

  “A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.”

  —Jack London, “To the Man on the Trail”

  For Dominick Abel

  Absolute treasure of an agent.

  No one does his job better, or

  with more style.

  1

  “It was clear and cold. The aurora borealis painted palpitating color revels on the sky. Rosy waves of cold brilliancy swept across the zenith, while great coruscating bars of greenish white blotted out the stars.”

  —Jack London, “A Daughter of the Aurora”

  JESSIE ARNOLD HALTED HER TEAM AND STOMPED IN THE SNOW hook to secure the sled, though as far as they had come and this late on a chill mid-January night there was little chance that her dogs would proceed without an encouraging word from their driver. They had traveled almost two hundred miles in two days and nights of regular alternating stages—four hours of travel, four hours of rest—with one longer, six-hour camp and a few short pauses. With an important distance race—the Yukon Quest, from Whitehorse, Yukon, to Fairbanks, Alaska—coming up the next month, she was scheduling her training to adjust both the dogs and herself to the extended rotations of running that would be required.

  The Yukon Quest was Alaska’s second most important distance race and Jessie had decided to try it for the first time, forgoing her usual participation in the Iditarod, for the two were very close together on the calendar and it would have been difficult to run them both.

  She was looking forward to testing herself on a new race, and the Quest had established a reputation as the toughest sled dog race in the world, because of the extremes in temperature and terrain experienced by its participants. The route would take Jessie and the rest of the racers over more than a thousand miles of the most remote, inhospitable region of North America in the heart of winter, measuring their ability, raw courage, and sheer will with temperatures that often fell between-30° and-50°.

  Jessie was particularly interested in traveling this race route because the relentless, demanding trail would trace the same trails used during the Alaskan and Yukon gold rushes, which had been natural and vital links for mail and freight mushers between communities during this era. The race would also be a challenge because the participants were only allowed to use one sled for the trip, like the mushers who had traveled the early mail routes and repaired their own sleds, if damaged. The Quest would therefore also test the self-sufficiency of each modern musher, leaving some cursing the unrepairable fragments and splinters of their transportation, often nursing their own injuries.

  The trail Jessie and her team would run passed through fewer checkpoints than the Iditarod, with greater distances between them, and would include long stretches on the unforgiving Yukon River, the “Highway of the North,” its icy surface often repeatedly broken and refrozen into a jumble of ice blocks the size of boxcars as it settled into winter immobility. Three extreme summits higher than any on the Iditarod would have to be crossed, and as she paused with her team on this training run, she was thinking about confronting the physical and mental challenges of this new race.

  From his place at the front of the team, Tank, her lead dog, looked back as if wondering why they were stopping so close to home, then lay down in the snow. Two of the young dogs in the team remained on their feet for a minute or two, but, like the veterans, soon relaxed in their places, taking advantage of the pause to rest.

  They’re adapting fast, Jessie thought, generally pleased with the response of these twelve huskies to the extended training run they were about to complete. Opening the sled bag, she retrieved a large insulated container of warm water mixed with vitamins, electrolytes, and the food scraps left from a feeding at the last four-hour rest stop. When each dog had been given a metal pan of this tempting liquid, she watched to be sure they were all drinking thirstily, then took a bag of high-energy dog snacks and moved along the line to give some to each, along with a minute or two of individual attention.

  “Good dog, Bliss. Good girl. Hey, Sunny. You hungry, Wart? Oh…just want that magic spot behind your ears scratched, yes? Okay. All right, Darryl, I’m coming. How about your other brother, Darryl? Here you go, pups.”

  The two wheel dogs, who ran closest to the sled, were littermates named for the pair of Darryls on the old Bob Newhart television show, and were often referred to simply as One and Two. They looked so much alike it was hard to tell which was which, though Jessie knew that Darryl Two had darker ears and was more inclined to wolf his food. Very much a people dog, he greeted her with an affectionate lick on the hand as she presented his snack.

  “Kisses for the pack leader? Thanks. Good job today, guys. Good dogs.”

  Replacing the supplies, she pulled the big fur mittens that reached almost to her elbows over a thinner pair of wool gloves that protected her fingers when the mittens weren’t on. Nothing was as warm as fur, and they hung on an idiot string around the neck of her parka, where they would not be accidentally, disastrously lost. With the dark, which came in midafternoon this time of year, the temperature had dropped below zero and was still falling. Jessie was extremely careful to keep her hands warm, exposing them as little as necessary, but much of the work of caring for the dogs and herself could not be done in the clumsy mitts. Wiggling her fingers to encourage circulation, she left the team and turned to look around he
r.

  The headlamp she wore revealed a trail well packed by the many mushers in the Knik area who used it for training, all of whom did their part to keep it groomed. Beyond her light the ghostly white trunks of the tall birches that lined the trail faded into the dark on either side, branches bereft of leaves until spring.

  Pushing back the hood of the heavy down parka that hung to her knees, Jessie took a deep breath of the cold night air and sighed, placed her hands on the small of her back, and stretched to ease the weary ache between her shoulders. She knew a couple of mushers who had back problems and wondered how they stood the jouncing of the sled for over a thousand miles during a race, or the hundreds of everyday training miles, for that matter. Almost immediately she forgot her minor physical discomforts as she became aware of a spectacular light show above. Reaching up, she switched off the headlamp and waited for her night vision to return.

  Low on the horizon she could see the glow of the city of Anchorage, but overhead was a completely different story. In the subzero temperature and clear air, hundreds of stars sparkled bright as diamonds against the inky blackness of the sky. Across them, swirling, shimmering curtains of the aurora borealis appeared to have snared their brilliance in a gauzy net, the brightest of the greenish white bands so vivid they almost obscured the glittering points of light beyond them. Along the northern edges of the aurora were pale hints of rose that pulsed, grew, and spread, only to wane and slowly vanish as another part of the moving splendor increased in intensity.

  Silent and motionless, Jessie stood gazing attentively upward as she almost held her breath in wonder. How many hundred times have I seen the northern lights? she mused. And I am still arrested and awed by them—enthralled as a child at a fireworks show.

  Watching the ribbons undulate and gradually elongate across the dark sky, she remembered seeing photographs from space probes of the rings of similar auroras above the poles of Jupiter and Saturn. It made her feel somehow closer to and more accepting of the two distant planets to know that they shared such extraordinary and inexplicable phenomena.