Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  “I’m not climbing back and forth through this powdery stuff every time we stop for a minute,” she told him firmly and, wading back to the sled, unsnapped a bag to rummage for the roll of electricians tape she used when she needed something narrower than duct tape. Though she thoroughly searched the bag, she could not find it anywhere.

  Gone with my favorite hat, she told herself, shaking her head, and finally, irritated, took the roll of duct tape instead. Tearing off two strips with her teeth, she waded back to Elmer to cover the cuffs of his booties with tape, securing the Velcro fasteners. “There, now you won’t be such a sly dog, will you?” He examined the silvery additions, then glanced up at her, head cocked to one side. As she wallowed back to her place on the sled, to start the team moving again, she had to smile—it was evident that he was already mentally at work on this new challenge.

  The trail followed the gulch that held Black Creek for about five miles, over another ridge, before dropping down to run along the north edge of a frozen, snowy swamp. Where Sand Creek ran into it, Jessie bore left toward the Little Peters Hills and the cabin she had borrowed for the winter and the one beyond it that Anne Holman had for a while called home. At the far edge of the swamp, next to an alder thicket, she halted the team in a sunny spot and called a lunch break.

  “Don’t know about you,” she told Anne, “but I’m starving and the mutts need water. Let’s make a fire and melt some snow for them—and make some coffee for us.”

  An hour later, they had eaten, fed and watered the dogs, and crested the hill and were looking down on the Kahiltna River, spread out frozen below them.

  “It won’t be long now,” Jessie told her passenger. “At least to the cabin I lived in—then it’s only another mile to yours.”

  It wasn’t long. Running along the ridge of the hill, they soon dropped back to the Susitna Valley side and came to a low log cabin sheltered by a small stand of spruce.

  “Whoa, guys—whoa,” she called to bring the team to a halt. From the runners of the sled, she examined the cabin and considered a quick look around, but quickly changed her mind as she assessed the deep, unbroken snow around it.

  Boarded-up windows and front door told her the place was empty. No one lived there now and, from the look of it, hadn’t for some time. On the edges of the boards that covered the door, she could see some long scratches from the claws of a bear in its attempt to gain entry, but it had evidently been unsuccessful, for the planks remained in place. It had probably been discouraged by the dozens of six-inch nails that had been driven through those planks, their points facing outward.

  Snow had drifted deeply against the north wall, and the roof was piled high. The metal chimney lacked any sign of welcoming smoke; all was very still; and the cabin looked abandoned and sad, not as she had expected, for it had been a happy place for her ten years ago. Like many deserted small cabins in the area, it left her with a feeling that it huddled there, patiently awaiting its own demise—would gradually fall apart, decay, and once again become part of the wilderness around it.

  “Hey, let’s go,” Anne demanded from the sled.

  No nostalgia for her, Jessie thought. “Yes—okay.”

  We’ll stop on the way back tomorrow, she decided, or the next day—whichever. She clucked the dogs into motion toward the Holman cabin, a mile farther along the trail.

  It was growing colder. The sun had followed them over the last hill and now shone on the west side. Though it shed very little warmth this time of year, even the illusion of it disappeared on the east side that they now traveled. The frosty blue-purple shade was darker in the shadows of the few sparse trees. It would be good to reach their goal and get a fire built in the stove to warm the cabin in which they would spend the night. Anne wiggled restlessly on the sled, looking ahead eagerly at each corner they turned in traversing the mile of hillside, headed southwest on the east-facing hill.

  They came at last to a sharp bend that Jessie remembered, knowing that, as soon as they rounded it, she would be able to see the Holman cabin ahead through the trees.

  They turned, but she could see nothing but trees—dead trees, black and scorched. The cabin was gone.

  “Oh, Anne, it’s burned down,” she said in surprised regret.

  Halting the dogs, she stood staring at the spot where the cabin had been, then glanced down at the face of her friend, expecting to find similar consternation there.

  What she saw was anything but. Anne was slowly nodding and smiling.

  “Yes,” she said, “I knew it was. Greg burned it—when we left.”

  8

  IN THE SOFT BLUE OF THE SAME EVENING, JUST AFTER sunset, when the neon signs and street lights of Wasilla appeared brighter than they actually were, a compact rental car swung into the parking lot of Oscar’s in-town pub. A large man in jeans, scarred leather work boots, and brown Carhart’s jacket, who would have looked and felt more at home in a pickup, pulled himself up out of it, stretched widely to relieve assorted discomforts—the result of confinement in a too-small space—and ambled toward the pub’s front door.

  A wall of noise hit him inside—happy hour at full volume—the place full of clamorous people who had stopped for a drink or two on their way home from work. Loud conversations combined with the crack of pool balls to make it almost impossible to hear the wail of a Garth Brooks hit on the jukebox. The smell of hot popcorn, slightly scorched, hung in the air.

  Oscar Lee, who had fired his incompetent bartender and replaced her with himself, was efficiently working to keep up with the demand for liquid refreshment—proficiently mixing drinks, pulling drafts, and prying the tops from beer bottles to satisfy the thirst of his customers. The grin on his face, however, revealed that he was thoroughly enjoying the press and the relaxed good humor of the crowd, half of whom were regulars from the Knik Road area.

  “Hey, Oscar. When’re you gonna start work on a new Other Place?” a Budweiser drinker called from a seat halfway down the bar.

  “Soon as the ground thaws,” he answered, placing a pitcher and four glasses on a barmaid’s tray, along with change for a twenty.

  “Gonna have a pub-raising?”

  “Sounds like a good idea. You gonna wire it for me, Jake?”

  “Sure. I’ll work for beer.”

  “Cheap at twice the price.”

  “Okay—two beers, then.”

  The man from the rental car took the only empty stool, at the far end of the long bar, and glanced around as he waited for Oscar to deliver a bourbon and water to an already waiting customer, then pause in front of him to lay down a cocktail napkin.

  “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Got Coors?”

  “Sure.”

  The beer and a clean glass quickly appeared, along with a basket of buttery popcorn, but he ignored the glass and sipped slowly from the bottle, examining the faces around him for any he recognized.

  On the next bar stool, a petite, lacquered blond in a green blouse set down her margarita, lit a cigarette, and looked up at him with a friendly smile.

  “Nothing small about you, is there?”

  He shrugged in response and smiled his agreement.

  “New in town or on your way through?”

  “Just passing.”

  “So—welcome to beautiful downtown Wasilla.” She offered a hand, cool and damp from the condensation on her glass. “Gloria Sorenson—Glory to my friends.”

  He shook it briefly. “Greg…Holman.”

  “Where you from, Greg?”

  “Colorado.”

  “Nice country. I went to college in Laramie. We used to drive down to Denver for weekends.”

  Holman nodded and sampled the popcorn, which needed salt, still searching the room for anyone he knew.

  When he didn’t respond, Glory gave him a quizzical, half-amused look. “Don’t say much, do you?”

  He grinned. “Haven’t much to say.”

  “Well…that’s okay. Who you looking for?”

&n
bsp; “Thought I might see somebody I know.”

  “You been here before?”

  “Used to live around here ten years ago.”

  “This place wasn’t Oscar’s then.”

  “The Hangout.”

  “That’s right.”

  Greg Holman gave up searching the crowd and turned back to the bar. “You know Jessie Arnold?” he asked casually.

  “Hey, everybody knows Jessie. She’s an Iditarod musher.”

  “That’s the one. Still live around here?”

  “Has a place out on Knik Road. She a friend of yours?”

  “Just like to say hello.”

  “She’s listed—Arnold Kennels.”

  “Thanks.”

  He drained the beer bottle in two swallows, left a tip for the bartender, and, before his new wannabe friend Glory could think of another question, disappeared through the door into the night.

  Billy Steward had spent the day on two long training runs with the usual mix of experienced and inexperienced dogs, which several times had resulted in tangles and confusion among the ranks. Late in the afternoon, on the way back to Jessie’s cabin from the second run, everything was finally going smoothly when young Smut suddenly decided she didn’t want to pull anymore and began to drag against the tug line.

  “Smut—let’s go, Smut,” he called to let her know he had noticed her misbehavior.

  When she ignored him, he stopped the team and walked forward to see what was causing the problem. Maybe she had a sore foot, though she hadn’t been limping or favoring one. Stripping off her booties, he examined all four feet but found nothing amiss. The rest of her, which he checked carefully with knowledgeable fingers, was fine as well.

  “There’s nothing the matter with you, girl. You’re okay. Let’s try it again.”

  When he started the team, she continued to refuse and tried to sit down against the forward pull, becoming a burden to the rest of the team.

  “Dammit, Smut. Cut it out.”

  Halting them all, he went forward to stand beside her.

  “What the heck’s wrong with you?”

  The dog lay down in the snow and wouldn’t get up, resting her muzzle on her forepaws. It was clear she’d decided that she’d done enough for the day.

  This was not acceptable, but Billy, tired from a full day of mushing, feeding, watering, and caring for dogs on the trail and back at the kennel, had no intention of putting a lot of time and energy into babying Smut out of her decision and back into action. Without further effort, he impatiently unhooked her from the gang line and put her in the sled, snapping the bag shut so that nothing but her head stuck out, then called up the rest of the team.

  It took them less than an hour to arrive at the cabin, but Smut, always skittish and somewhat reluctant, had now learned that if she grew bored or tired of running, or didn’t like the trail, all she had to do was lie down and refuse to pull and she would be carried home by her teammates in warmth and comfort. She was developing an attitude that would be impossible to correct.

  Smut would probably never have made a good member of a racing team; some dogs just don’t have the heads for it. But it would take weeks of frustrated attention before Jessie would finally give up, drop her from training, and use her space on the line for other, more promising dogs. A good home would be found for Smut with someone who wanted a pet, not a working sled dog. Only the best eventually become the racing dogs that delight in pulling sleds for distance races all the way to Nome in the Iditarod or over the challenging trails of gold-rush country in the Yukon Quest. Luckily, a kennel of over forty, and puppies from several litters a year, gave Jessie enough choices to fill her teams with eager, dependable dogs. The others were sold, becoming a cash resource that made it possible to raise and train those that loved running and would quit only under the most adverse conditions. Many not even then.

  Billy finished his long day by watering and feeding all the dogs, though he was too tired to socialize with them. Going up the steps in the glow of the halogen yard lights that came on in response to a motion sensor and lit half the dog yard, he noticed a white square of paper jammed between the door and its frame above the doorknob. Unlocking the door, he took it inside, turned on the lights, kicked off his boots, and unfolded it.

  Jessie,

  Mike Tatum has a wild hair up his ass over the Mulligan fire last night. I’m not sure what’s got him going, but I think we’d better talk about it—and about your friend, whatever her name is. Please call me when you get back from wherever you are.

  Thanks,

  Becker

  The message had nothing to do with Billy. He laid it down on the round oak dining table, where Jessie would see it when she came home, and forgot it.

  Hungry, he baked a frozen pizza, ate all of it, then followed it with a large dish of chocolate ice cream, while watching an HBO movie on television. He fell asleep on the sofa before it was over. At ten-thirty, he came to enough to turn off the lights and the television, pulled an afghan over himself, then slept so soundly that he didn’t even move at just after one in the morning, when the dogs began to bark in the yard.

  The crash of something falling in back of the cabin near the storage shed finally roused him. At first he couldn’t figure out where he was, but he knew it wasn’t his own bed at home. In the dark of Jessie’s living room things looked strangely unfamiliar in silhouette against light from the yard that fell through the window in a pale square on the floor. Yawning and shaking his head, he got up and padded sleepily to look out. In the yard lights, he could see nothing but the dogs that were awake and still barking by their boxes. Tux stood silently staring toward the back of the house.

  What the hell?

  He walked through the dark cabin to the window in the bedroom and looked out into the night. The woods were black and still. Nothing moved but a few branches, swayed by a light breeze; and, as he watched, a clump of snow fell from the side of a spruce, trailing granules like sugar through the air. Everything not covered with snow showed up dark. As his vision adjusted to the dark, Billy noticed a line of tracks in the snow that seemed to have circled the cabin, coming close to it in a couple of places—below the window and near the back door—then disappearing behind the shed.

  On the opposite side of the storage shed was Jessie’s puppy pen and a smaller shed that she warmed and used for mothers with new litters. From somewhere there he heard a banging, like the pounding of a hammer on something of a wood-and-metal combination. Someone was trying to break into either the maternity or the storage shed—probably the latter, since the maternity shed was empty and unlocked at the moment.

  Suddenly wide awake, his first impulse was to go out to confront the intruder and see what was going on. But he remembered the anger Tatum had displayed in the yard earlier that day and had second thoughts. Jessie had said if the investigator came back he should call Phil Becker. It seemed a much better idea.

  Grabbing a flashlight from the pocket of his coat by the front door, he went quickly to the cordless phone on Jessie’s desk, found the number on the list pinned to the wall, and called the troopers.

  Though Becker was not in the office, they promised to get a message to him. In a few minutes, the phone rang under his hand, and Billy snatched it up before the ring was complete, hoping it wouldn’t be heard outside, where the pounding was still going on.

  “Billy. What’s wrong?”

  “Jessie said to call you if the investigator came back. I don’t know if it’s him, but somebody’s trying to break into Jessie’s shed.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the house. Jessie’s truck is gone, so maybe he doesn’t know I’m here—he’s making a lot of noise.”

  “I’m on my way. Stay where you are. Don’t turn on a light and keep quiet.”

  In less than fifteen minutes Billy watched the patrol car pull into the drive. It would have been silent, had it not been for the cacophony of welcome from the dogs. The pounding had stopped soon
after Billy’s phone call, and he had heard nothing more from outside. The dogs had settled down and the yard lights had gone off.

  They blinked on again when Becker parked by the front steps and got out. Billy cautiously opened the front door, but Becker waved him back and, carrying a large flashlight, went swiftly around the cabin to the shed. From the window Billy watched as he thoroughly examined the shed and the snowy ground around it. He then followed the tracks out of Billy’s sight around the cabin.

  “You can turn the lights on,” he told Billy, when he came in a few minutes later. “Whoever it was is gone—but he’d have known I was here anyway from all the yapping going on.”

  “Gone? Did he get in? What fell? Something crashed out there and woke me up.”

  “Yeah, he got in. Jessie needs a better lock on that door. This one was pretty easy to bash open with a chunk of concrete. Get some clothes on so you can come look and see if anything’s missing.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Aren’t you in and out of there?”

  “Yeah, but Jessie’s got a lot of stuff in there I don’t use.”

  “Well, you can try.”

  Billy did try but he couldn’t see that anything was gone or had even been moved.

  “Looks just like it did when I locked up tonight. Except for the door, I mean.”

  Becker nodded as they closed the shed and went back to the cabin.

  “May have scared him off before he could get what he was looking for. Jessie can check what’s supposed to be there. Where is she, by the way? She get that note I left?”

  Billy pointed to the note on the table. “She’s on an overnight with the dogs—and that friend of hers.”

  “Where? Mike Tatum was out on the Glenn all morning hunting for them.”

  “Well…” Billy hesitated. “She sort of told him the wrong place,” he admitted, with a sidelong glance to assess Becker’s reaction.

  The young trooper grinned. “Sounds like he gave her a bad time.”