Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Eagle Summit was not, as its name suggested, near the community of Eagle, but sat glowering over a deep valley to the west of the Central, fine dry snow streaming from its crest like the sail of a giant ship. It was the last major obstacle in the race to Fairbanks.

  When Jessie reached it, the wind was blowing its usual whiteout on the summit, making it as much, or more, of a struggle than American Summit had been. The steep climb seemed more threatening and foreboding as the trail went up and up, till at a few points it seemed the dogs must fall back onto the sled. Wading through drifts that reached to her waist one minute, down to what was almost bare, rocky ground the next, she pushed and shoved the sled and encouraged Tank and the team to their best efforts.

  Once again, they went on and on, a seemingly never-ending nightmare. But finally coming out on top, where the trail eased to a run across another barren, treeless space that gave her a floating feeling, she found the thin sunlight made the ice crystals dance in the air around her, and two sun dogs hung their concentrated rainbows in the sky.

  At the unofficial checkpoint at Mile 101 on the Steese Highway, which led to Fairbanks and allowed spectators to reach the communities of Circle and Central, she rested the dogs beside a small frozen lake. The wind continued to whip snow over the glare ice in streams and ribbons that made the dogs curl themselves up in their usual protective balls, once they had had sufficient food and water.

  Ryan caught up, and they shared sandwiches pressed on them for the trail in Central, then Jessie snoozed—or closed her eyes in her sleeping bag on the sled and gave the impression of snoozing.

  In actuality, she was trying to concentrate on her feelings about Alex, marriage, and Idaho. What kept interrupting her attempts at serious decision making were images of the race she was about to finish and the wide territory of the Yukon through which she had passed.

  In her mind, ravens again rode wind currents over the Takhini River, the Chain of Lakes strung themselves out like beads along the string of the race route, great blocks of ice forced the trail into twists on the Yukon, and the barren landscape of the Klondike mining country rolled away over miles of mountaintops.

  She recalled the look of ghostly moonlight reflected from river ice, filling its frozen passage with silver between canyon walls. The image of tortured trees on American Summit gave way to a memory of beams of sunlight that made a ladder across the trail she had run on the way back from her close brush with mortality in the frozen dark. She could almost have reached out and laid her hand on the steam she remembered rising as it froze in the light from a cabin window.

  And there were the faces and voices of so many friends and valued acquaintances: Billy’s enthusiasm, and the Caswells’ support. Delafosse and Claire had been so ready with help, Ryan with companionship, Lynn Ehlers with easy friendship—Leland, Bishop, Murray…John Noble, dripping his thanks. And Debbie Todd, with whom she now had a bond that would endure.

  With a sigh, Jessie released her concentration and let these impressions flood into her mind, realizing that they were, after all, a part of the equation that confronted her.

  29

  “Slipping back the hood of her parka, she bared her neck and rose to her feet. There she paused and took a long look about her, at the rimming forest, at the faint stars in the sky, at the camp, at the snowshoes in the snow—a last long comprehensive look at life. A light breeze stirred her hair from the side, and for the space of one deep breath she turned her head and followed it around until she met it full-faced.”

  —Jack London, “Keesh, the Son of Keesh”

  HAVING CROSSED OVER HILLS AND LONG VALLEYS, ROSEBUD Summit, a screaming downhill run, and a tangle of creeks and overflow, Jessie ran the last easy four miles of broken trail into Angel Creek, ready for a mandatory eight-hour rest. The parking lot around the small lodge building was a mass of vehicles and people who had driven out from Fairbanks and its surrounding communities to watch the racers in the middle of the pack come through.

  Checking in, she found that Debbie Todd, who had arrived just half an hour before, had saved a space for her.

  “Could we run the last part together, do you think?” the young woman had asked her, and Jessie was glad to agree.

  “If you don’t mind waiting for me an extra half hour, I’d like that.”

  Food was heating for the dogs, and she was pulling booties off their feet, when Linda Caswell and Billy found her.

  “Cas and Alex got caught in town,” Linda told her. “There was a bunch of paperwork and arrangements for…well, you know. But they’ll show up soon.”

  Billy stood silently watching Jessie work, his hands in his pockets, and she knew he itched to help, but there was something else. She let him come to it in his own time.

  “Jessie?” he said.

  She glanced up to find a painful frown on his face and waited for his question.

  “Why did Don do that?”

  What could she tell him? The boy had followed big, bluff Graham around like a young dog follows his leader, admiring, learning, trusting. There was no explanation that Jessie could possibly attempt that would cushion the shock of his betrayal—heal even a fraction of the pain she was seeing and hearing in Billy. It made her sad and angry.

  “Sometimes people make mistakes, Billy,” she reminded him. “We won’t ever really understand why—maybe he doesn’t understand, either. But he’s not a totally bad person because of one mistake—even if it was a big one.”

  “I hate him.”

  “No—you don’t. You hate what he did. So do I. But don’t hate him. Remember the good things. Can you try to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe later—not right now.”

  “Later will be fine. Take your time.”

  She got up and gave him back the hug he had given her in Circle, then sent him off to see if the vet was anywhere handy to look at a questionable abrasion on Bliss’s foot.

  Jessie had eaten, rested, and sorted out everything from her sled that she would not need in order to lighten it for a fast run to the finish line. All the extra equipment and supplies would go in her truck with Linda and Billy. Graham had asked Cas to drive his truck back to Knik. The dogs were hitched and ready, and there was less than half an hour left before she could check out and get back on the trail, when Alex Jensen came walking across the lot to find her sitting on her half-empty sled bag, sipping a cup of peppermint tea.

  “Hello, you,” he called. “How’s it going? Sorry about the delay in Fairbanks.”

  “That’s okay.”

  She patted a spot beside her on the sled and he lowered himself onto it.

  “How’s Don? Bob Spenser?” she asked.

  “Locked up along with Hildebrand and Wilson, but okay, considering.”

  “I still have trouble believing those two could have let themselves get mixed up in all this.”

  “They didn’t know it was going to turn so ugly, I think.”

  “Me, too.”

  There was a long pause, as each of them searched for a way to get to what they really needed to talk about.

  “Jess,” Alex finally said, “I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t turn down the job, rather than make my own decision about it. I should have waited till I could talk to you about it.”

  Sometimes people make mistakes, she remembered telling Billy, and that one mistake didn’t make them bad people.

  “You did what you felt you had to do,” she told Alex. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m over being mad about it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He waited, knowing there was more.

  “I already knew—in Pelly Crossing—that you weren’t coming back—not to stay,” she said.

  “You said that.”

  “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things in the last three days. You’re right that I’ve never seen Idaho, don’t know it at all, but…”

  “I’ve been thinking, too. Couldn’t you come down this spring for an extended sort of visit
before you decide? We could write and phone till then.”

  “A long-distance relationship?”

  “Well…yes, for a while. If you really don’t want to live there, we could write and commute until I could come back.”

  “That’s two years.”

  “Yes.”

  She wondered at his optimism, quiet for a minute or two in the dark beyond the lights of the Angel Creek Lodge.

  “Hey, Jessie,” Debbie called out, beginning to move her team toward the checkpoint.

  She got to her feet. “I’ll be just a minute here, Deb.”

  “Jess?”

  Turning so she could watch his face to read his response more directly, she replied.

  “We could try, but you know it won’t work. We’ll start out determined to work it out, somehow. We’ll see each other once or twice a year, write letters, misunderstand a lot, get frustrated at the distance and telephone calls that don’t get answered, or miss each other. Then, gradually, apathy and other interests will replace the hurt feelings and we’ll realize we haven’t really talked for weeks—the letters will get farther apart in the mail. I can’t honestly say I think it will be different, can you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The other critical thing I know is that I’d have to give up racing if I moved to Idaho. The last three days have told me I’m not willing do that, Alex. It’s what I do.”

  “Why should you give it up? There are races in places besides Alaska—the Rocky Mountain Stage Stop…the Minnesota Bear Grease.”

  “That’s only two. Here there are dozens. It happens here—centers here.”

  “You could come back for them.”

  “I wouldn’t—couldn’t. It would cost the earth. We couldn’t afford it. From Idaho, I’d have to ship dogs and sled, besides equipment and gear. I’d have huge travel expenses for every race I entered.”

  “Farther than Whitehorse from Knik? Wyoming isn’t far away.”

  “That’s only one race.”

  “You’ve always said you don’t run dogs just for the races.”

  “I don’t. I love just being out there—the solitude, this country, my mutts. But the races are things to measure myself against. They give it all focus.”

  “There are other things, Jessie.”

  “I know there are. But not for me—not now. You love it here, too. Would you give up law enforcement?”

  He thought about that, carefully examining his reaction to the unexpected question of equity, and she saw the negative answer in his eyes as he ruefully shook his head and answered honestly.

  “No, but it’s not that simple. I don’t have to give it up to be here, or there. And where I am doesn’t change the way I feel about you. But I’ve already promised….”

  Without me, you promised, she couldn’t help thinking. You, not—we.

  “I love you, Jessie. We can work it out. Please…don’t say no. Think about it. Give it some time. You can do that much, can’t you.”

  “I don’t think so, Alex. I’ve never been good at dividing myself—can’t live in two pieces. This is my life. How can I leave it? How can you?”

  “How can I not, Jess?”

  There are always choices, she thought. But that’s not quite right, or fair, either.

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  There seemed to be nothing else to say.

  With an ache like something broken under her breastbone and in her throat, she looked at him with long and conscious care, wanting to remember everything—the shape of his face, the pain in his eyes—all the reasons.

  “Take…good care, then, trooper,” she said in a voice that stumbled. “I love you.”

  His lips moved in a thin smile, full of regret, and he nodded, once.

  She pulled the snow hook, Tank started the team, and they went out of Angel Camp to finish their race.

  Author’s Note

  LIKE MANY GREAT CONCEPTS, THE IDEA FOR A RACE FROM Fairbanks to Whitehorse was born in a bar.

  At first this was only the inspiration for the enthusiastic conversational flight of fancy of a small group of men gathered around a table at the Bullseye one night outside Fairbanks, Alaska, following the Bullseye—Angel Creek sled dog race in April 1983. They wished the race could be longer—to Whitehorse, perhaps, or…what the hell, why not all the way to Skagway, Washington, Oregon…?

  By the time their dream race had reached California it was time to head home, which they did, dismissing the idea of a race to Whitehorse as beer-splashed fantasy. That is, all but two of them did. The appealing idea kept drifting back into the minds of Leroy Shank and Roger Williams.

  Shank, a three-time Iditarod racer, felt there should be an alternative to the famous Anchorage-to-Nome race, which he thought had outgrown its origins and no longer successfully represented the Alaskan pioneer spirit. Williams was no musher, but had spent three days at the Whitehorse McBride Museum, and felt that Yukoners and Alaskans shared similar identities based on their mutual history and background.

  So, with nothing but enthusiasm and an idea that wouldn’t go away, they began to create a race that not only would follow the historic routes established during the gold rush, but would offer the same racing opportunities to a trapper with only a few dogs to run his lines as it would to a professional musher with hundreds of dogs and the sponsorship of corporations—a race that would require the racer to use not only distance racing savvy but bush survival skills as well.

  Though the logistics were staggering, organization and preparations all but overwhelming, the first race, run from Fairbanks to Whitehorse in 1984, was an instant success. It was named the Yukon Quest in recognition of its historical foundations and its challenge to those who run it.

  Actually, it is two completely different races, for every other year the starting line is drawn in Whitehorse and the mushers run the opposite direction, altering the challenges and strategy of the route.

  The Yukon Quest’s reputation as the toughest sled dog race seems justified, if debated by mushers who have raced in the Iditarod as well. Longer distances between fewer checkpoints certainly encourages self-sufficiency in its participants, who must run its length with only one sled. Attrition is high; one-third of the mushers who leave the starting gate scratch from the race and never cross the finish line. But for those who cross that line, the personal satisfaction of a challenge accepted and met is a validation that needs no other reward.

  Care must be taken, however. One man, Frank Turner from Whitehorse, has run each and every Quest since the first in 1984. He won the race in 1995, establishing a record time (in either direction) of ten days, sixteen hours, and twenty minutes. Turner is proof that sled dog racing is addictive, and the Yukon Quest a challenge that many cannot resist measuring themselves and their teams against—again and again.

  “And there sat Arthur on the dais-throne, And those that had gone out upon the Quest, Wasted and worn…stood before the King.”

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson,

  “The Holy Grail,” Idylls of the King

  —7 Beneath the Ashes (2001)

  BENEATH THE ASHES. Copyright © 2000 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 978-0-06-136796-0

  This one’s for my sons, Bruce and Eric,

  protagonists of my favorite,

  most gratifying, intriguing,

  and continuing

  suspense stories

  Acknowledgments

  With sincere thanks to:


  Greg MacDonald, fire investigator for the Fire Prevention Division of Anchorage Fire Department, for generous information and assistance on the technical details of arson.

  Bridget Bushue, for the loan of her fire boots.

  Susan Desinger, at the Forks Roadhouse, Mile 18.7 Petersville Road, Trapper Creek, for information on the Peters Creek area of the Susitna Valley.

  Marcia Colson, at the Loussac Public Library, for help in my attempt to identify the Peters for which Peters Creek, Petersville, Peters Hills, Little Peters Hills, Peters Dome, Peters Glacier, Peters Pass, and Peters Bench were named. William John Peters was a topographer and explorer in charge of USGS exploration in Alaska from 1898 to 1901. At least Peters Glacier, north of Mount McKinley, was named for him in 1902 by Alfred Hulfe Brooks (for whom the Brooks Range is named). There is an indication, however, that Peters Creek, which lies on the south side of the mountain, may have been named in 1906 for an otherwise nameless prospector.

  Mark Pfeffer, for sharing Susitna Valley snowmachine tales, sublime to hair-raising. More powder to you, Mark.

  Jeff Baldwin, supervisor of technical services, MTA Solutions, for information about Iridium Satellite telephones and their use.

  Barbara Hedges, for information on the wonderful birds of the Alaskan winter.

  Bear Claw, at Great Northern Guns, for information on the Winchester Model 70 Pre 64 rifle, its 30.06-caliber ammunition, and the sentimental value it might hold.

  And Sue Hilton for being such a great friend.

  The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.

  —Pierre Corneille, Rodogune

  Prologue

  IT ISN’T DYING THAT FRIGHTENS MOST OF US, BUT THE IDEA of an agonizing death can give us shuddering cold sweats in the dark. Awareness of our vulnerability makes us gawk and wince at flaming pileups on the freeway, prompts us to entreat our gods for a painless departure in the ignorance of our beds. It is the nightmare notions that break us. And, of all fearsome concepts, the dread of fire is appalling in its ability to reduce us to gasping, gibbering, herky-jerky puppets.