Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  She agreed, then took the opportunity to lead the subject in the desired direction. “Hank Peterson been around? Thought I might shoot a little pool.”

  “Nope. Hasn’t been in yet today, but he sometimes doesn’t show up till after dinner.”

  “He’s a pretty regular sort of person.”

  “Sure worked hard trying to save the Other Place. Hadn’t been for him, I’d have had an even ruder shock on my way home that night. Might have found the place burning down all by itself.”

  “He came to help put out my fire, too. Was he born here, or is he an import, like most of us?”

  “Born right here in the MatSu Valley, like me. Lived here all his life.”

  “You and he must know just about everybody.”

  “Pretty much, I guess. Except for a lot of new people.”

  “You ever meet a big guy named Holman? Greg Holman?”

  “That mountain man from out the road, who surprised everybody and married Marty Gifford all of a sudden, then moved back to the hills?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Kind of an odd pair, I thought. He was so straight and she was such a party girl. He stopped in here a couple of nights ago—had one beer and left.”

  “Really. Did Marty ever party with Hank?”

  “Not that I knew, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She was pretty wild, but that’s been years ago.”

  Ten years to be exact, Jessie thought. “Has Hank always been in construction?”

  “Yup. Started working with his dad when he was just a pup. Took over when the old man died—and that was no loss. Old Henry Peterson was another real son of a bitch. He beat that kid black and blue till they finally put him in a foster home. About killed his old lady.”

  “Any brothers and sisters?”

  “An older brother who took off the minute he turned eighteen and never came back. But don’t mention it to Hank. He’s real sensitive about that brother.”

  She thought for a minute before asking, “Was Hank ever in any kind of trouble?”

  Oscar looked at her and frowned. “Why’re you asking, Jessie? Just take him as he is. He’s an okay guy. You interested?”

  She could see that it might appear so and that any more questions would pigeonhole her interest in Oscar’s mental file.

  “Naw.” She made herself grin. “Just curious. He’s a friend—good pool player—that’s all.” Draining the Killian’s, she slid back the bottle and nodded at the questioning raise of his eyebrows. The distraction of opening her another beer wouldn’t hurt.

  As he set the fresh bottle in front of her, the door opened to let in three young men, who headed for the pool table, drawing Oscar away to take their order for a pitcher of draft. Relieved, Jessie sat nursing her second beer and thinking over what she had learned.

  It didn’t seem to bring her any closer to locating Anne, but it raised a few more questions in her mind about Hank Peterson without telling her anything that might link him to Greg Holman. Everywhere she turned there seemed to be connections. It was hard to decide what was relevant and what was not. People who lived in small communities for long periods of time were connected in numerous ways—everybody seemed to know everybody else and what they did. None of the associations she had found so far might be important—or they all might.

  She would particularly like to know what Peterson had been doing with Greg Holman today, but saw no way to find out, short of asking one of them. Maybe it was something to turn over to MacDonald. The connection between Cal Mulligan and Buzz Martin certainly was.

  As she considered, the door opened again. She glanced over to find MacDonald coming through it, and felt she had conjured him. Close behind him was Hank Peterson and they were evidently continuing an involved conversation, for neither of them looked around enough to notice her sitting there at the bar but headed for a table toward the back of the room, sat down, and leaned toward each other, still intent on their discussion.

  Was there anyone Hank wasn’t following through doors this afternoon? What the hell was he talking about so seriously with MacDonald? Holman?

  For a few minutes, Jessie watched them in the mirror behind the bar as they gestured, appeared to agree on some things, and disagree on others. As Oscar delivered beer to their table and took a bill back to the cash register to make change, she realized that if they hadn’t seen her, they soon would. This meeting puzzled her less than that of Peterson and Holman, for MacDonald was investigating the fires, after all, and might have a reason for wanting to talk with Hank. But, wanting time to think over what she had learned, Jessie decided she’d rather not be noticed.

  Leaving the price of her two beers and a tip next to the half-empty Killian’s, she quietly slipped out the door and, leaving them to their discussion, headed for home. It was time to feed her dogs anyway, and she could call later and leave a message for MacDonald that she wanted to see him. She couldn’t know just then quite how much she’d regret passing up the opportunity to talk to him.

  18

  THE DOG YARD, TENT, AND SHEDS LOOKED JUST AS SHE had left them, when Jessie arrived back at her place on Knik Road. But Tank came to greet her and seemed nervous, moving back and forth between her and as far as he could go toward the storage shed, leaning against the restriction of his tether.

  “What’s the matter, guy?”

  She unclipped his collar from the line and let him loose. Immediately, he trotted to the front of the shed and sniffed the ground. Following, she looked to see what he was examining with such interest.

  With everyone who had walked through her yard in the last few days, it was almost impossible to separate footprints from each other in the snow and on the ground, but on the edge of one muddy puddle were two prints that partially covered those she herself had made earlier that morning getting equipment from the shed for the training run. Looking carefully, she saw that they also appeared in the snow around the front of the shed and seemed to come and go from tire tracks of a vehicle that had pulled into the drive and parked. Someone had evidently checked to see if the shed was open and found it locked, but had not broken in this time. Could it have been the same person who left the gym bag with its incriminating contents?

  As she rubbed Tank’s ears and told him what a good dog he was to let her know that someone had been there in her absence, the sound of a vehicle in the drive caught her attention and she turned to find Phil Becker pulling to a stop beside the tent.

  “Hey,” he said, coming across to where she stood and bending to drop a friendly hand on Tank’s head. “I stopped by earlier. It looked like all your dogs were here, so I figured you weren’t out on a training run.”

  “Did that earlier. I was in town. When you were here, did you walk across to the shed?”

  “Yeah—checked to be sure it was secure. How’d you know?”

  “You’ve got big feet, Phil.”

  He grinned. “That’s true. You’re keeping a close watch. That’s good.”

  “I had help. Tank led me right to your tracks.”

  “So much for stealth in a dog yard.”

  “Well, he’s sharper than most. Was there something you needed, Phil, or are you guys just keeping an eye on me?”

  “Ah—yeah—little of both, I guess. Have you seen Tatum any time today?”

  “No. And I’d better not. Why? Have you lost him?”

  “Well, sort of. He was supposed to come in for a briefing at noon, but he didn’t show. Mac and I were just wondering where he’d got to—and what he’s doing.”

  “Probably cooking up something else for me, or hunting Anne.”

  “Maybe. But he doesn’t usually just ignore meetings he’s set up.”

  “Well, wherever he is, I haven’t seen him. Listen, Phil, I’m puzzled by a couple of things that have nothing to do with Tatum. Come on in and I’ll tell you about it.”

  As soon as they were comfortably seated at the card table, each with a bottle of Killian’s, Jessie began her questions.
/>   “How well do you know MacDonald?”

  “Oh, come on, Jessie. You’re not having trouble with him now, are you?”

  “No—no. He’s fine. I like him. Just wondered about him, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Becker nodded, plainly relieved. “I know him casually, I guess. We don’t have as many fires out here as they do in Anchorage, so I’ve only worked with him once or twice. He moved up from Juneau five or six years ago. He’s a likable sort—seems good at his job. Don’t know much more, because we don’t socialize much with the fire department people. They stick pretty much together—you know. Why?”

  “I just wondered if he was from MatSu.”

  “You know, I think he might be. Seems like I remember someone saying he went to high school here.”

  “So he would know some of the people involved in this case?”

  “Like who?”

  “Hank Peterson?”

  Becker thought for a minute before answering. “Yeah, he’d probably know Hank. Everybody knows Hank, don’t they?”

  “Do they?”

  “Well, yeah. He’s done a lot of odd jobs around the Palmer-Wasilla area—construction, snow plowing—dug a lot of holes with that backhoe of his.”

  It reinforced what Jessie had learned earlier from Oscar.

  “Does everyone know MacDonald, too?”

  “Not so many, because he left—went away to college and didn’t come back until he was already working arson investigation. He’s in Anchorage now, anyway, not out here.”

  “How about Greg Holman?”

  “You mean does everyone know him, or does he know MacDonald?”

  She hesitated, considering. “Both—either.”

  “He wasn’t raised here—didn’t live here—so not very many people knew him. But lots of them—at least the ones that spent any time in the local bars—knew his wife, your friend Anne. She was in and out of several of them pretty steady before she married Holman, from what MacDonald says.”

  “I really need to talk to MacDonald, Phil,” she told him, frowning in frustration. “There are things that just don’t make sense in all of this. But there are things that keep connecting it together, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for instance, I went looking for Greg Holman this afternoon. When I found where he was staying, I saw him and Hank Peterson together. Then, later, at Oscar’s place in town, Hank came in with MacDonald and they seemed to be having a serious conversation about something.”

  “Maybe Mac was interviewing Peterson about the fire at the Other Place.”

  “Possibly—but it seemed different than that. They seemed to be discussing something like they were trying to figure it out. I don’t know. I’m probably imagining things. But I’d sure like to know what Hank was doing with Greg Holman—and with MacDonald. Will you tell Mac I’d like to see him? I’m taking a team for an early training run and have to make a trip to town, but I’ll be here for two or three hours around noon.”

  “Sure. You’re probably imagining a lot, Jessie. Mac has been working a lot of hours on these fires. He’s likely to show up with anyone who could be the least bit connected. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. He’s okay.”

  But though she knew he believed what he had told her, something about his reassurances didn’t sit comfortably in Jessie’s mind. Something she couldn’t get hold of nagged, and she couldn’t seem to let it go. She kept turning over the disjointed situations that seemed related in ways she couldn’t understand as she went about her evening kennel work, scrambled some eggs with bacon for dinner, and finally went to bed early, tired with concerns and speculations, determined to try another angle the next day and see if she could learn more about how and where Anne Holman had disappeared. She had to be somewhere and, if Jessie could find her, perhaps she could put a few of the confusing pieces together in a pattern that would make more sense.

  Coming home from Oscar’s, she had turned into her driveway and stopped to look back along Knik Road, wondering how Anne had disappeared so quickly and completely on such an empty road late at night. She must have somehow found a ride into town with someone who either didn’t notice the fire in its early stages or who didn’t want to be involved. She couldn’t have walked far without being noticed by someone, and none of the people Jessie had asked in a few phone calls remembered passing anyone headed for town on foot rather than toward the cabin fire. Another alternative was that someone expected Anne to show up and was waiting for her in a vehicle, whether she knew it or not. The preplanning this idea indicated did not ease Jessie’s mind, for it would have to be someone who knew there was about to be a reason for Anne’s leaving, and that meant she could have set the fire with help.

  Jessie decided that tomorrow she would try to contact more of the firefighters with the question. Someone must have seen something.

  She would also tell MacDonald about seeing Greg Holman and Hank Peterson together and see what he would make of it. Did he know that Robert Martin’s nickname was Buzz—that he had been a mechanic for Cal Mulligan? The fire at Oscar’s Other Place and the one that had killed Mulligan now seemed definitely connected in Jessie’s mind. That they had both died must be more than coincidence, but who was responsible, and why should anyone wait ten years to kill them, if it had anything to do with the situation surrounding the old fire in Mulligan’s garage? Why kill Martin anyway? What could he possibly have to do with it?

  Shana, she thought suddenly. Could Shana Mulligan have waited and now be getting even for the death of her children? Where was she? Still in the area? It was another question for MacDonald—something else to add to her list of things she wanted to know.

  But I had nothing to do with any of this, she thought. Why involve me, set me up, and burn my house? Was Tatum manufacturing evidence again? Was Anne?

  Sick of worry and loose ends, she gave up and went to sleep, resolved to find some answers tomorrow, one way or another.

  It was very dark and silent at three in the morning, when a shadow slipped swiftly from the trees to the back of the large tent in the yard on Knik Road and the dogs began to bark at the presence of an intruder. The yard light blinked on automatically at their movement, and Jessie woke, rose, and padded quietly to open the door and look out, carrying her handgun.

  Seeing nothing, she called to the dogs to quiet them, but, as their barking continued for a moment or two before dying, she did not hear the small distinct sound of a razor slicing across the lower part of the canvas wall, opening a long slit, then another, perpendicular to it, which allowed the shadowy figure to slide easily in and freeze into a crouch behind the easy chair—part of the dark.

  Satisfied that there was nothing unusual in the noise that had awoken her from a deep sleep—a moose, a scuffle, nothing more—Jessie locked the door and returned, yawning, to her bed, placing the handgun in easy reach. Settling in, she shrugged the blankets around her, wriggled herself comfortable again, and in a few moments had gone back to sleep—with only a passing thought that the room had seemed colder coming back than when she had gone to the door and wondering if she should have turned on the space heater, but sliding into dreams before she could act on the thought.

  Silent and unmoving, the shadow waited, listening intently, until everything was still and the small purr of the woman’s unconscious breathing was the only sound. Then, with infinite care, it rose, alert and vigilant for any movement or awareness of its presence. Slowly, silently, it removed a small bottle and a folded bandanna from a pocket and unscrewed the lid. A step at a time, it crossed the room until it stood over the bed in which Jessie continued to sleep.

  It took only the tiny gurgle of liquid poured from the bottle onto the fabric—a foreign sound that did not belong to the usual night noises—to rouse her again. But before she could move to reach for the gun, a knee, with the weight of a body behind it, pressed her down and the bandanna was applied to her mouth and nose with a strong, forceful gloved hand. A sharp an
d unpleasant smell was drawn into her lungs with her gasp of surprise and resistance, making her head swim. She tried to hold her breath and move, but was only able to flail with the arm that was not pinned under her. Grasping at the hand that held the bandanna, she attempted to yank it away from her face, but failed, growing steadily weaker as she struggled and drew in more of the consciousness-draining fumes. Her last awareness was of her complete inability to move, or even think clearly, that there were sounds and the weight that was holding her down had gone away, but the gloved hand remained, holding the fabric to her mouth and nose. Faintly, far, far away, she could hear her dogs barking again in the yard. It didn’t seem to matter much. Then there was nothing.

  19

  THERE WERE LINES OF PALE LIGHT, THIN VERTICAL LINES within a square, and tiny fragments that floated in them like a swarm of infinitesimal insects so small they were almost invisible. It was quiet. Nothing made a sound or moved, except for those bits of whatever they were, hovering like a swarm in the lines of light.

  Jessie stared at them through half-open eyes and was perfectly content to do nothing, know nothing, just watch their slow movement in the air. The lines of light seemed familiar somehow, but she couldn’t make herself care enough to work out a reason for that feeling. They were simply there, far away and vaguely interesting.

  Tired of looking, she closed her eyes and drifted away again, dreamed she was riding her sled behind a team on the frozen surface of the Yukon River. It was too dark to see anything but what was revealed in the narrow beam of her headlamp, and the reflective tape on the harnesses of her dogs caught the slender beam of light and winked back at her as they trotted forward, pulling the sled toward…Where was it she was going? Dawson? Right—she was headed for Dawson. So it must be the Yukon Quest she was running. But how could she be so tired this early in a race? It must be almost over. But the long run down the Yukon came after Dawson, didn’t it?