by Henry, Sue
She was mentally sorting her dogs and considering the practicality of taking along two or three of the young ones that were doing well and would benefit from a camp out away from home, when her current team of eight came up over a small rise and was suddenly strung out along the top of a bank that fell off to the left for about ten feet into snow-covered trees and brush below.
All would have been well, had it not been for Smut, a slightly skittish young dog in the second pair on the line, who looked down and misstepped, frightened by the unexpected steep drop. She lost her footing and tumbled over the edge with a panicked yelp. Just in front of her, Pete, the leader, was jerked off his feet and slid over after her before he had any idea what was happening, which took his young running partner Taffy along, too. Behind Smut, experienced Tux dug into the snow with all four feet, but the momentum of the front half of the team yanked him very close to the edge. When everything stopped, three of the team hung in their harnesses, threatening to draw down the rest and the sled with them.
“Whoa. Whoa up,” Jessie called, stomping on the brake and jamming in the snow hook, which halted the sled just in time to keep it from hitting Darryl One in his usual wheel position next to the brush bow. He stopped abruptly to keep from crashing into Tux.
“Back. Come back, guys. Come on back,” Jessie encouraged, not letting go, pulling back with all her weight, while easing off just a little on the brake to see if she could move the sled backward and keep the gang line taut at the same time. Fortunately, Pete was the only experienced dog that had fallen over. Tux, Darryl One, and Lucky all responded by trying to back up, but the two remaining trainees, Shorts and Jimmy, confused by the situation, forgot anything they might have learned about reversing direction and simply stood still or tried to pull forward. The sled stayed where it was, and Jessie couldn’t move it an inch.
Vainly looking around for a tree—or anything available to anchor a line—she was about to try to work her way forward to rescue the dogs, afraid they would strangle in their harnesses, though as long as she could still hear them yelping and whining complaints she knew they were merely uncomfortable and afraid, when Billy’s team, with Tank in the lead, stopped behind her.
“Good one,” Billy called. “Didn’t think you’d taught ’em that yet.”
“Oh, stuff it. Get up here before the rest of us slide over, too.”
He came, grinning, and helped retrieve the dangling dogs, while Jessie held the sled.
In a few minutes, both teams were back on the trail with no injuries, though Pete cast cautious looks back at Smut for a time. Jessie would have sworn he felt insulted and knew exactly who was responsible for the indignity of the accident.
You’re not paying enough attention, she told herself. Training required more concentration than she had been giving it today. It was time to forget about Anne and trips into the wild, and focus on what was going on in her team. Trouble would have to wait.
At the end of a long access road near Big Lake, a pickup pulled off into the afternoon shadows of a turnaround space in the trees. Its motor died, and a window was rolled down so the driver could watch and listen intently for a few minutes. Seeing no one, hearing nothing but silence, a figure in dark clothing, with a face-covering ski mask, climbed out and moved quickly down the drive toward a double-wide house trailer, walking only in tire marks on the road and carrying a small canvas bag.
Carefully keeping to the tracks previously left in the snow, the figure tried the door to the double-wide with no success. Still cautiously leaving no new tracks, it moved around to one end of the trailer, where the marks of tires indicated the parking space of a now-absent vehicle. From there it took one long leap across snow empty of any mark to land behind the trailer, where it began to examine the windows. Removing the screen from one that was open a crack, the figure pushed it wide enough to allow entrance, pulled itself up, and crawled through onto a bed, conscientiously removing snow from its boots to avoid leaving telltale damp spots on the floor.
Inside, it went along a hallway to the living room, then directly across to a small television set on a low table near the door. Dropping to its knees, it lifted and turned the set around with gloved hands, careful to leave no marks in the dust on the table. Opening the canvas bag to retrieve several items, the quick hands efficiently used a screwdriver to remove the back and attach a device to the on/off switch. Other wires were linked to a plastic container of explosive accelerant. Replacing the back and turning the set to its original position, the figure rose and checked both television and table for any suggestion of tampering.
Finding none, it went back the way it had come, slipped out the window, closed it to a crack, replaced the screen, and retraced its path around the trailer, once more making the leap to the vehicle parking space, then walked swiftly along the road to the pickup. Climbing into the cab, stripping off the ski mask, the driver started the engine and backed onto the public road.
In minutes, only someone who was knowledgeable and looking for signs of an unwelcome visitor might have determined that a breakin had occurred. No one was.
No one was there to see the unsuspecting owner come home that evening a little later than usual, after a couple of hours in a Wasilla bar. Parking a little crooked in his usual space next to his double-wide trailer, he climbed out and sorted through his keys.
Going in, he tossed his coat on a chair, took a beer from the refrigerator, and reached for the switch on the color television, with nothing particular in mind to watch. For him the talking pictures were company—a voice in the otherwise solitary house.
The result was colorful, but not what he expected. With a deafening explosion the set blew up and, instantly he and everything around him was on fire. Blinded and screaming, he whirled and thrashed in agony, trying to escape the intense heat and fierce pain that clung to his flesh, seared the clothes from his body, consumed his skin. Direction totally lost, he stumbled over the chair that held his burning coat and fell heavily to the floor.
No one was there to hear when he drew a breath that sucked nothing but flame from the carpet into his lungs, and his shrieks abruptly stopped. But the trailer continued to burn, eventually attracting the attention of another resident, who looked out the window of his lakeshore home, caught sight of the blaze, and called the fire department.
6
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, JESSIE WAS loading dogs into the compartments of the dog box on the back of her pickup. Custom designed for mushers, the compartments faced outward on each side, two high and six wide, and were constructed for safe transportation of sled dogs. They had holes in the doors to let each dog look but not jump out and to allow plenty of ventilation. Large enough to let the dog stand up, lie down, turn and move around in safety, they were lined with straw for individual comfort and warmth. Filled to capacity, Jessie’s dog box would carry twenty-four dogs at once, a traveling doggie motel of sorts.
Billy, who had come early to the kennel to discuss the training schedule he would keep while she was gone, had helped to lift the large empty sled on top of the box and secure it for travel. In a space between the two lines of dog compartments, Jessie and Anne had loaded harness, gang lines, and all the other equipment and supplies they would need for three days away, with some extra food and clothing for emergencies.
As Anne came out the cabin door to put the lunch she had been making in the truck’s cab, Jessie was selecting dogs for a team of eleven, including three of her most reliable young ones, Lucky, Cola, and Elmer. Skittish Smut would definitely stay at home, but dependable Pete had already been put into a compartment beside the Darryls, One and Two, who would run in their usual wheel position nearest the sled. Tank would lead, of course, and stood near the truck like a supervisor, watching as, two at a time, Billy brought the chosen dogs and helped Jessie lift them into their individual compartments. Already loaded, to fill out the team, were Mitts, Sunny, and Wart, all experienced distance-racing dogs that had gone to Canada with Jessie to run
the International Yukon Quest from Whitehorse to Fairbanks a month before.
Billy was crossing the dog lot with the last dog, Bliss, in tow, when the rest of the kennel began to bark. Jessie saw Mike Tatum turn his car into her long driveway. He pulled up behind her truck, effectively blocking it, before getting out.
“Oh, shit,” said Anne, realizing who it was and disappearing rapidly up the steps and into the cabin.
“Hey,” Tatum yelled after her. “Come back here. I’ve got some questions for you.”
The door slammed shut, and Jessie, distinctly hearing the deadlock thump into place, knew it was up to her to face his angry scowl.
“Goddammit. Get her back out here,” he demanded.
Billy reached the pickup and stopped, holding Bliss by the collar and staring in mute disapproval at Tatum.
Jessie turned away, reached for the dog, then changed her mind and nodded to the compartment in which Bliss would ride. Ignoring the investigator, she watched Billy lift the dog into the space and close the door. The hole in it was immediately filled with a curious canine muzzle.
“Did you hear me? I want to talk to Marty Gifford.”
“Well,” Jessie told him, calmly moving to Tank, the only dog not yet loaded and giving Tatum a scornful glance, “that’s your problem, isn’t it? I’m not Anne Holman’s keeper.”
With a furious clenched-fist gesture, he started past her toward the cabin.
“You were not invited onto my property, Tatum,” Jessie, with no inclination to call him “just Mike,” informed him and stepped into his path. “Definitely not into my house.”
“Get out of my way. You’re obstructing an officer in—” he began, but she cut him off sharply.
“You have a warrant?”
“You got something to hide?”
They glared at each other, practically nose to nose, Tatum clearly expecting her to back away. She moved an inch closer and folded her arms. “I guess that means you haven’t.”
Billy came to stand beside her and help to present a silent, united front.
“Look,” Tatum all but shouted, “I’m investigating a fire here.”
Tank, standing next to Jessie, gave a low warning growl and showed his teeth.
“Restrain that dog, or…” The investigator took a step backward.
She laid a hand on Tank’s head.
“There hasn’t been a fire here,” she said, deliberately misinterpreting his statement. “If it’s about Oscar’s, I’ve already told you what I know.”
“Not that fire. There was another one set last night and I’m going to talk to—”
“Where?”
“None of your—”
“Make it my business.”
For a long moment, it was a standoff. Then Tatum huffed in annoyed frustration.
“Ms. Arnold—” he started, jabbing a finger toward her that elicited another rumble from Tank.
“Don’t threaten me,” she warned, narrowing stormy gray eyes and moving her hand to Tank’s collar. “I don’t care for that kind of thing—and neither does my dog, if you noticed.”
The finger was reluctantly lowered and Tatum took another backward step.
“Look—you don’t know who you’re harboring.”
“I’m not harboring anyone. Anne Holman is my guest.”
“What she is, is a liar, arsonist, and probably a murderer. Where was she yesterday and last night?”
“I told you, I’m not her keeper.”
“Dammit—” He hesitated, for the first time realizing that they had been loading dogs into a truck they intended to take somewhere. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Now that’s really none of your business. But, since you asked so very nicely, I’m taking some of my dogs out for a training run.”
“Where?”
“Off the Glenn Highway.”
“Looks like more than that to me.”
“I don’t care what it looks like to you.”
“If you leave town, I’ll assume that—”
“You can assume anything you damn well please,” Jessie told him, finally loosing the leash on her temper. “If you think you can arrest me—or Anne—then do it. Otherwise, get off my property—now.”
“I’m not arresting you, but I can take you both in for questioning.”
“Try it. I don’t have to talk to you, Tatum.”
“Resisting arrest—”
“If you’re not arresting me, how can I be resisting?”
He was so angry his face was white and, for a second or two, when she knew he wanted to hit her, a swift image of Greg Holman flashed into her mind. Then, without another word, Tatum spun abruptly and stalked back to his car. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, he furiously overcranked the engine, then backed the length of the drive at top speed, whipping the car into a turn at the end that bounced the vehicle back on the paved road in a spray of snow and gravel, and headed toward town. No one moved until he had disappeared from sight and the whine of his engine faded.
Jessie took a deep breath, let it out, and turned to Billy.
“Whew. Thanks for the backup,” she told him, then dropped to her knees in the snow to smile at Tank and give him lots of petting. “You, too, buddy.”
“Who the hell was that?”
“An arson investigator with a personal problem.”
“Jeez. Hope he doesn’t come back while you’re gone.”
She stood up and shook her head. “I doubt it. But if he does, you call the troopers and ask for Phil Becker. You know Phil. He understands Tatum’s attitude—he won’t let him bully you. The number’s on the list over my desk.”
Still concerned, she frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think it would be okay with your folks if you stayed here while I’m gone? I wouldn’t mind someone keeping an eye on things.”
“Sure—I can do that. Make it easier to feed and run the mutts, anyway, if I don’t have to go back and forth.”
Twenty minutes later, the dogs riding comfortably in back, Jessie slowed the pickup to cross the railroad tracks as they approached Wasilla. Beside her in the passenger seat, Anne looked back one more time in the side mirror, convinced that Tatum would be following them.
“But I heard you tell him that we were going out the Glenn Highway. That’s not the way to the cabin.”
“So we changed our minds. You want him to know where we’re going? I don’t.”
She made a left turn and headed northwest through town on the Parks Highway, away from the area she had mentioned to Tatum.
“Oh. Okay.” Anne fell silent, noticing how the small town had changed and grown in her ten-year absence.
Jessie was not unhappy to have her constant chatter and questions cease for a few minutes. She had not been happy to have Anne insist on taking along a day pack stuffed with things she swore she could not leave behind, but had ignored it in order to get going without further argument. The sled, with a passenger, would be heavily loaded and Jessie privately hoped to leave most of whatever the day pack contained locked securely in the back of the truck when they took off on the wilderness trail that would require some hard work at sled handling. One of the reasons she had left the area ten years before was the lack of enough good training trails for her dogs. It was much better to live in an area where many mushers shared trails and kept them well groomed. She did not intend to be overloaded now.
As they neared the edge of Wasilla, where Jessie planned to stop for gas, someone behind them began to honk.
“Oh, God. It’s Tatum again, isn’t it?” Anne shrieked, trying unsuccessfully to get a look at the driver in the rearview mirror.
Jessie was pulling into a service station on the right.
“Oh—no. Don’t stop,” Anne wailed. “Oh, Jessie, please don’t stop.”
“Oh, cut it out, Anne. It’s just Hank Peterson. I’ve got to get gas, and I want to ask him about that fire last night. Just stay here. I’ll be right back.”
S
he got out and shut the door on Anne. Peterson, who had pulled in behind them, walked forward to where Jessie waited at the pumps, opening the cap on her tank.
“Hey, Jessie. Where you off to?”
“Overnight training run west of Trapper Creek off the Petersville Road. You know anything about another fire last night?”
She inserted the gas hose nozzle and watched the numbers begin to roll over on the pump as the tank filled.
“Not much. Hear it gutted a double-wide out near Big Lake.”
The mention of Big Lake caught Jessie’s attention.
“Was it set?”
“That’s what they said on the news this morning.”
“Whose place? Anybody we know?”
“I didn’t. Guy named Mulligan got toasted—couldn’t get out.”
“Cal Mulligan? You sure?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. You know him?”
“No—just about him. Two of his kids died in a fire ten years ago.”
“Sweet Jesus. Bad luck. Did you hear that investigator called Oscar in for more questions?”
“Why? He didn’t burn his place.”
“Well…” Hank kicked at a pebble that skittered away under Jessie’s truck, and didn’t look up at her. “It looks like he was having money troubles. Rumor is that he’s behind on his payments, and the bank’s been threatening to shut down one or the other of his bars. Nobody saw him in town when the Other Place burned, Jessie.”
