Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “Dammit, Hank. He shouldn’t have to prove it. We know Oscar.”

  “Yeah? Well—could be we don’t. You can’t always tell, I guess. Maybe—maybe not.”

  The gas pump shut off with a snap, and Jessie returned the nozzle to its holder with a sinking feeling, wondering how and why Hank should so easily doubt Oscar’s word and actions.

  The idea that Oscar might commit arson to avoid foreclosure on his pub continued to bother Jessie as she drove the seventy miles to the turnoff at Trapper Creek. She couldn’t make herself accept it. He had once told her that if he ever had to choose between his two places, he’d take the Other Place—that it was his favorite partly because he’d built it from the ground up and partly because he liked the customers who collected there. If that was true, and if he had been tempted beyond reason by a need for cash—which she didn’t believe—then wouldn’t it make more sense for him to burn the bar in Wasilla that he liked less? Or would being twelve miles out of town be a deciding factor, if he were faced with a choice?

  Dammit, I’m beginning to think like Hank, she told herself, refused to examine the idea further, and turned her thoughts to another concern—the fire at Big Lake.

  Anne had not asked what Hank wanted, when Jessie climbed back into the pickup and, not wanting to get into another interminable and unconvincing discussion, she hadn’t mentioned Cal Mulligan’s death in the fire. Tatum’s determination this morning to interrogate her friend now made more sense. The two fires involving the same man—ten years apart or not—would obviously seem connected. If nothing else, at least in his obsessed mind, this new fire would link Anne to the old one for the simple reason that she had returned before it occurred and she had known Mulligan.

  But Anne couldn’t have had the time to go to Big Lake, find out where Mulligan was now living, and set fire to his double-wide trailer—could she? Jessie glanced down at the odometer of her truck. Had there been any unexplained miles added since she’d driven it to the airport to pick up Anne? Impossible to tell, because she hadn’t checked it then. Had there been less gas in the tank today? Who knew? She hadn’t paid attention or looked at the gauge before filling up today.

  You were gone for hours yesterday afternoon.

  Anne couldn’t know how long I’d be gone. I could have come back anytime.

  But how long would it take for her to drive?

  Well—twenty miles from Wasilla to Big Lake, a generous thirty—thirty-five from my place. Forty-five minutes? Maybe two hours total turnaround time at the most.

  Plenty to have borrowed your truck, gone out there, and been back long before you came home.

  Not possible. The fire was last night. She was at my place all evening.

  And there are no ways for fires to start long after the person who sets them is gone?

  That’s crazy.

  Okay. If you say so. Still…

  She glanced at Anne, who was quietly watching the wilderness rush past on her side of the highway, seemingly in a world of her own, and let it go. The only response Jessie knew she would get from questions was a resentful and defensive argument. There was no way to prove anything at this point. Hank’s information might easily be all rumor. She decided to pretend she hadn’t even heard about the Big Lake fire till they had finished this crazy trip Anne was so set on making and were home again.

  Ahead, she caught sight of the sign that indicated a turnoff for Talkeetna to the right and Trapper Creek to the left. Very soon she could be back on the runners of a sled in the wilderness world she loved best. Might as well enjoy it and forget the rest for the time being. No one’s going to die if I forget about it all for now, she thought, and bit her tongue.

  7

  THOUGH SHE WAS TEMPTED TO TURN RIGHT AT THE HIGHWAY junction and make a visit to the Talkeetna Roadhouse for a cup of coffee, Jessie turned left off the Parks Highway, away from the road that led to the well-known community fourteen miles to the east at the confluence of the Susitna, Talkeetna, and Chulitna rivers.

  Talkeetna had long been a famous name in mountain-climbing circles as the jumping-off point for expeditions to Mount McKinley, or Denali, as most Alaskans called it. Most climbers used the West Buttress route, which originated at about seven thousand feet on the Kahitna Glacier, and were flown there in ski-wheel–equipped aircraft by several air services that specialized in the glacier landings necessary to ferry them and their gear to and from the mountain and also provided flight-seeing for tourists. During the summer months the rivers were alive with fish, fishermen, and tourists.

  The dry goods and grocery stores, service station, gift shop, restaurants, bars, hotels, and bed and breakfasts of Talkeetna lined old-fashioned Main Street, the only paved road in the small, thriving, and notably independent community of log cabins and clapboard houses, which dead-ended on the Susitna riverbank. Its residents had a reputation for resisting all outside efforts to infringe upon or change anything about their chosen lifestyle.

  Jessie had always enjoyed stopping there, where people were friendly and laid-back, and took care of their own. Even after she had moved closer to Wasilla, almost every year she drove back up the highway to camp at Talkeetna, where hundreds gathered once a summer to indulge in a long weekend of fiddle-fingering, banjo-plucking, foot-tapping bluegrass music. But on this trip, abandoning her thought of coffee and a quick hello, she turned the other way instead, past the big two-story Trapper Creek Inn and General Store, the Trading Post, library, museum, gift shop, and RV park near the junction—most still closed for the season—and drove west on the Petersville Road.

  Anne had uncharacteristically said little on the drive north, commenting infrequently on landmarks she recognized. She sat up attentively, however, when they went around a bend in the road and the lower part of Mount McKinley began to flash into view between the trees that lined the highway. The top of the tallest mountain in North America was, as usual, hidden in clouds; but its visible ridges gleamed in sunlight pouring in from the south, each fold a contrast of deep bluish-purple shadows. The color was unique to the northern latitudes, as was the glowing winter light, created by the low angle of the sun reflected from hundreds of miles of snow-covered wilderness. It made the very air seem almost tangible.

  The Petersville Road, which soon turned to unpaved snow-covered gravel, ran west and a little north from the junction for fourteen miles to Kroto Creek, beyond which the road was not maintained during the winter. They passed a subdivision or two that had not existed when Jessie had lived in the area and a few tourist cabins, some open for the benefit of cross-country skiers and snowmachiners who drove from Anchorage and the MatSu Valley communities for weekend fun far from town.

  As she parked among several trucks with snowmachine trailers by Kroto Creek, Jessie could see a number of tracks that continued west on the unplowed section of the road, and she reminded herself that she would have to be alert. Snowmachines made so much noise that their drivers couldn’t hear mushers coming toward them on a trail until it was sometimes too late to avoid them. Unexpected meetings between snowmachines and dog sleds on narrow tracks periodically resulted in disastrous accidents that killed or injured dogs.

  In half an hour, she and Anne were ready to go, team hitched to the gang line, sled packed, and both women dressed warmly against the cold, for a chill wind was blowing from the north, bringing more than a hint of glaciers on its breath and adding a significant windchill factor. The soft new powder was blown into the air around them like a mist, and its fine grains scoured their skin when they faced directly into it.

  Anne was wearing borrowed winter clothing of Jessie’s, having brought none of her own. Through the years Jessie had accumulated a collection of warm wearables, most of which she wore on training runs and in the yard as she cared for her dogs, for they exhibited the prints of dog paws, food stains, and general grime that would not wash out. The somewhat grubby green parka Anne had on was also decorated in several places with duct tape to keep its down from leaking out th
rough holes caused by dog nails and teeth and the sparks from fires Jessie had built on the trail. She had pulled a black ski mask over her head before raising the hood and tying it securely under her chin. Thick down mittens covered her hands, and a pair of heavy winter boots a little too big made walking awkward. Jessie thought it was odd to see her clothes on someone else.

  I’d better get a new parka before I begin to resemble a bag lady, she told herself.

  “You may not be fashionable,” she told Anne with a smile, “but you won’t freeze.”

  “I’ll be fine—really. Where do you want me?”

  “The sled’ll be a little crowded, but there’s a sleeping bag for you to sit on if you want in the back. The rest of our stuff is packed in front. Get in and I’ll tuck the other bag over you.”

  “I’ll take the padding. I’ve bruised my butt in sleds before with nothing between me and the flat bottom—don’t want to have to eat standing up.”

  When she was settled securely, the sled bag snapped up far enough to keep out blowing snow, clutching the day pack she had adamantly refused to leave behind, Jessie checked to be sure the truck and dog box were locked, pulled the snow hook, and let Tank start the eager team west along the road, following the snowmachine tracks.

  Pete and Lucky followed Tank, behind them came team dogs Sunny and Wart, Mitts and Elmer, Bliss and Cola, then Darryl One and Darryl Two in wheel position next to the sled. Each of the three young dogs—Elmer, Bliss, and Cola—was paired with an experienced partner and, as Jessie watched, were doing well in pulling their share and keeping in line with no problems. She was glad she had brought them. It made her feel less guilty over disrupting her training schedule and would have been part of her plan for the next week or two anyway. This night or two spent away from their usual boxes in the yard was just happening a little earlier than she had calculated, and on a different trail. As the team trotted quickly forward, the dogs, full of energy and eagerness, soon broke into a lope. For a few minutes, she let them go as fast as they wanted on the straight, flat surface of the snowy road, getting this enthusiasm out of their systems early. After a mile or two, she called Tank to a slower pace. There would be plenty of work for them on the off-road trail ahead.

  The Petersville Road, on which they traveled, had been built by gold miners in the 1920s. When homesteading began in 1948, permanent settlers had began to collect in the area, and the population had continued to grow slowly for the next twenty years. With spectacular views of Mount McKinley on clear days, it had remained popular with those who wanted to avoid anurban existence and live close to nature, and who didn’t mind driving seventy miles to a shopping center.

  Ten years earlier, the idea had appealed to Jessie when a cabin was offered to her for the winter. Though she had had no particular trouble carrying enough supplies to the isolated cabin for a long cold season, the rough trails and distance had finally convinced her she would do better closer to Wasilla, where it was not so far to a doctor, dentist, and, especially, a veterinarian. She had also grown tired of hauling water or melting snow for all her needs and those of her dogs—she had never realized exactly how much water was required of one lone musher, until it came only in five-gallon cans that had to be transported on a sled or melted over a fire built of wood she had to chop.

  In five miles, they came to Forks Roadhouse, where the road swung north again toward Petersville and the mining country that lay in the folds of the hills under looming Mount McKinley. Here, rather than continuing to follow it, they swung left onto snow-buried track leading to the Little Peters Hills that lay to the west. This trail was familiar to Jessie, though she had not been over it in years and no longer recalled each rise, drop, and turn as she once had. It ran along the southern exposure of the Peters Hills, crossing creek after frozen creek in the gullies of the rolling landscape.

  Peter must have staked a pretty big claim somewhere nearby, Jessie thought, as they crossed what she recognized as Peters Creek. A lot of things were named for him, whoever he had been—some kind of topographer with the USGS at the turn of the century, she thought she vaguely remembered. But dozens of other creeks had been named by the miners who worked them in their search for gold. She remembered the names of some of them as she rode the sled runners into the wilds: Black Creek, Sand Creek, Big Creek, String Creek. Beyond the Peters Hills, in the valley between it and the Dutch Hills, were Coal, Slate, Grant, and Trout creeks, along with Thunder, Dollar, Lucky, and Short creeks, and a place called Nugget Bench. Someone had evidently thought they had staked a winner there; but many gold-rush names, she knew, were deceptively optimistic. Windy Creek and Pickle Creek had piqued her imagination during her time at the borrowed cabin and—even more—Hungryman Creek. Some miner must have had an interesting story about the name for that one, and had obviously survived to tell it and name the creek. There was even a tributary called Creek Creek. Had everyone run out of names?

  The trail they traveled had not been used recently, perhaps not for days, and was worse than Jessie remembered—an unmaintained route full of twists and turns now covered with new powder that concealed many hazards. She took it slowly and carefully, afraid some rock or root under the surface would snag a paw and injure one of the dogs that was still anxious to pull, as always at the start of a new run. She also had no intention of battering the sled any more than was absolutely necessary to get them to the Holman cabin. Replacing the sled would take money she needed for many other things.

  The team was now breaking trail through new snow but had no trouble, for it wasn’t too deep. Somewhere under the fresh powder was a track that had been packed by passing snowmachines earlier in the winter. The dogs had all settled into a steady trot, and even the young ones were minding their manners and doing well. Perhaps eight inches of snow had piled up in the past two days, but it was possible to follow a slight depression that indicated a trail left by snowmachines before the storm. Parts of this dent were filling with drifting snow, but the wind was less severe here than on the more open road.

  On either side of the road the country was flat, with scattered stands of thin spruce, alder, and a few birch between swampy areas that were impassable during the summer. Permafrost, a few feet under the surface, refused the questing roots of the spruce, forcing them to remain shallow and the trees above them thin, with stubby branches. Jessie had always thought they looked more like dark pipe cleaners than real trees.

  As they traveled onto the flanks of the Peters Hills, the trail began slowly to rise. The few scattered birch disappeared, leaving spruce and alder; and there was lots of brush on the rolling slopes around them. She remembered that this was a prime berry-picking area in the fall.

  Jessie stopped the team as they gained one of the first ridges, to look back the way they had come. A faint whine caught her attention, and she watched two drivers pull their snowmachines into the snowy parking lot at the roadhouse. More than half the sky had now cleared, though clouds still shrouded Mount McKinley’s summit. The wide Susitna Valley spread itself out for miles, a glory of light in the sunshine that created a million sparkles on the new snow on the ground and in the wind, a blue finger of shadow reaching north from each slender spruce. How, she wondered, could anyone say that winter was boringly colorless? It had a thousand hues, each different, clean, and lovely.

  A raven swept onto a nearby tree branch and quarked a ragged call, perhaps alerting others to the passing sled as a potential food source, if they were lucky. He was doomed to disappointment, for Jessie seldom left anything behind on a trail, and a scrap or two wasn’t enough to justify their following her for miles. The bird seemed to realize this, for, spreading its wings, it soared off, sliding down the wind toward the roadhouse, where it might find better pickings.

  The bulk of the enormous mountain to the north was now hidden by the slopes of the Peters and Dutch hills, but twenty miles across the valley, Jessie could make out a notch in the trees where the road led into Talkeetna.

  “Why’re we
stopping?” Anne asked, squirming around in the sled to look over her shoulder.

  “Just looking,” Jessie told her cheerfully, impatience erased by the enjoyment of running in such a spectacular setting. When she could have moments like this, it made all the work of raising and training sled dogs worth the expenditure of resources, time, and effort.

  “How much longer?”

  The question surprised Jessie. “Don’t you remember?”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “We’re not even halfway yet.”

  “I don’t remember that it seemed so far.”

  As Anne settled back, Jessie took one last look at the huge valley before calling up the team, bemused at how quickly people forget places they’ve known. Had Anne ever really seen the glory of the country when she’d lived here? I never noticed if she did or not, but she wasn’t much of an outward-looking person then—and even less now—Jessie realized a little sadly. What a loss.

  Most of the dogs had rested, lying down on the snow when she didn’t immediately encourage them forward again. While her back was turned, however, young Elmer, a hardworking dog with one floppy ear and a sense of humor, had begun to persistently gnaw at the protective fleece booties she had put on his feet. He disliked wearing them, couldn’t seem to learn to leave them alone, and had developed the adroit trick of ripping open the Velcro fastenings with his teeth and pulling them off every chance he got. Jessie turned back just as he had successfully stripped them from both front feet.

  “Elmer—no,” she admonished and, setting the snow hook, stepped from the sled to replace them. Instantly she was thigh-deep in powdery snow and had to wallow clumsily forward to reach him.

  He lay with his front paws and muzzle on the booties he wished to abandon, moving nothing but his eyes as he looked up at her, knowing he had transgressed—again.

  “No,” Jessie told him. “Booties stay on your feet.”

  He watched attentively as she replaced them, then he shook one foot to see if the bootie would, perhaps, fall off. When it didn’t, he gave up and left them alone for the time being. But Jessie suspected that at the next opportunity he would repeat the removal.