Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  23

  “SHE’S GONE AGAIN, PHIL.”

  MacDonald strode into Becker’s office without knocking, banging the door against the wall, and stood looming over his desk with an anxious, frustrated frown. Behind him, Billy Steward had stopped in the doorway and stood glowering at MacDonald’s back, head up, chin at an inflexible angle, hair uncombed.

  “I found Billy still asleep at her kennel this morning, but he refuses to tell me anything—where she went, when she left, anything.”

  Billy’s lips tightened under Becker’s displeased glance, otherwise he did not move.

  Becker got up from the paperwork he was attempting to catch up on and came around to confront the young man directly.

  “Where is she, Billy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve gotta know something. You’d better spill it.”

  Billy shook his head doggedly. “I don’t know.”

  Becker turned back to MacDonald.

  “Too dammed stubborn. Was anything else missing?”

  “That sled that was on her truck and I don’t know how many dogs.”

  “She’s gone on a training run, then.”

  “If she has, why won’t he tell me?”

  Becker huffed angrily and walked back around to drop into the chair behind his desk.

  “Well, that tears it, then, doesn’t it? I didn’t ever expect Jessie to…”

  “That attitude’s as obstinate as Billy’s, Phil. You’re only seeing what’s hurt your feelings.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I don’t think she had anything to do with Tatum—or, if she did, it wasn’t her idea.”

  “The lab says he was killed with her gun.”

  “Which disappeared when she did the first time.”

  “Says she did. Her fingerprints were all over it. That dog won’t hunt.”

  “And the truck?”

  “Wiped clean.”

  “Isn’t that a little too much?”

  Becker sat staring at him in discomfort, thinking hard.

  “Which dogs are gone?”

  “What?”

  “Which dogs did she take with her?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Billy?”

  No answer.

  “I can go out there and find out. Which ones?”

  “Find out for yourself.” Billy told him grimly.

  “Why should that make a difference?” MacDonald questioned. “A dog’s a dog.”

  “No—it’s not. If she took some young dogs, she’s on a training run. Experienced dogs only would mean she’s probably gone somewhere else.”

  “You’re right. Do you know her dogs well enough to tell which are which? I don’t.”

  “Yeah—at least I know most of her racing team from the Quest. I can see if those are gone.”

  “Well—let’s go.” He swung around just in time to run into a clerk coming through the door. “Oof, sorry.”

  They stood for an instant nose to nose, until she stepped back and grinned wickedly, rubbing an arm. “Are you in my way?”

  MacDonald apologized again.

  “Hank Peterson’s here.”

  “For me or Phil?”

  “You—if you don’t run him down first.”

  “Aw, Carol…Where is he?”

  “Right here,” Hank said, stepping around her and Billy into the room. “He’s skipped out, Mac.”

  “Holman?”

  “Yeah. Slipped out sometime during the night. Manager says his car was gone when he got up at five.”

  “That motel manager never got up at five in his life.”

  “Somebody pounded on his door for a room.”

  “Well—that might do it. Any ideas?”

  “Not really, but Holman spent a couple of hours at Oscar’s last night. Talked to several people—including Oscar.”

  “You ask him about it?”

  “Nope. Thought I better leave that one alone.”

  “Good man.”

  “What’s this, Mac?” Becker asked, once more on his feet. “You been having Hank keep an eye on Greg Holman?”

  “Thought it might help us locate his wife, since he’s spread it around that he’s looking for her, too. Hank offered.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not yet. But, if he’s taken off, I’d be willing to bet that—”

  “He’s found out where she is?”

  “Could be.”

  Jessie was gone. Greg Holman was gone.

  “You don’t think they’re together?” Becker asked MacDonald, when they had searched Jessie’s dog yard, sheds, and tent for clues to her intended destination, and found nothing other than the fact that she was gone, along with a considerable amount of her racing gear.

  “I doubt it. She doesn’t trust him any more than she trusts Anne Holman. Billy says she seems to have given the dogs that are still here in the yard extra food and water, but it wouldn’t last more than today, so she must not intend to be gone longer than tomorrow at the latest. She left a note he would have found if she wasn’t here then.”

  Billy, seeing how concerned they were, had finally gone as far as telling MacDonald what he had concluded about the state of the kennel and its dogs. Anything else, however, he still refused to divulge.

  “You really don’t know where she went, do you, Billy?” the investigator asked, walking the younger man away from the others, toward the ruin of Jessie’s house.

  “No—I don’t.”

  “And we have discovered for ourselves that she’s definitely gone someplace. So you’re okay—haven’t broken any confidences.”

  Startled by the man’s perception, Billy looked at him and nodded, feeling a little better about the situation and of mending his relationship with Jessie, wherever she was.

  “Just give me one thing,” MacDonald requested. “Nodding or shaking your head will do. Did she leave on her own? I need to know that no one forced her away from here again.”

  Billy thought seriously for a moment, then nodded. What could that much hurt?

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Never content to leave the scene of a fire uninvestigated, as they talked, MacDonald had been kicking at pieces of blackened timbers, turning them over. Now, he suddenly stopped and bent to examine a part of the rubble that he could see had been disturbed. Lying near it, half buried in a boot print that had pressed it into the dirt, lay a 30.06 rifle shell. For all her care, Jessie had not counted those she had dropped and cleaned, or she would have noticed one was missing.

  MacDonald now scraped away some dirt and charred remains with his foot to expose the edge of what appeared to be a metal door.

  “Billy?”

  But Billy Steward was walking quickly away from him toward the storage shed and ignored his question—clearly determined not to tell anything more—if he knew.

  Clearing away rubble and lifting the door, the investigator found the short flight of steps that led down into the dark beneath what had been the cabin and soon identified a clean spot on one of the grimy shelves that matched the configuration of a rifle case.

  “So, we can guess she was armed,” Becker said. “Where the hell has she gone?”

  MacDonald had been turning the brass shell over in his fingers while he considered. Now he slipped it into a pocket of his jacket and took his best guess.

  “Unless Holman came back and told her where to look for Anne—I think she may have gone back out to that cabin she talked about. The one where she said she was taken and held, west of Trapper Creek. There’s some kind of tie-in there.”

  “Possible, I guess,” Becker agreed thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt to check, but she could have gone anywhere.”

  “I think it might be essential to check. It makes more sense than anywhere else I can think of. And if the Holmans, or either one of them, is there, and if they are either one or both responsible for all or part of this mess—she could be in real trouble.”

  “Sh
e’s no dummy. If she has a rifle, she knows how to use it.”

  “I expect you’re right. Shall we make a run to Trapper Creek?”

  “Can’t get to where that cabin is in a truck or your Jeep. Only snowmachines will get us off that road and into the hills.”

  “Oh, hell. I hate those things. But—okay, let’s rustle some up and see if we can get out there before dark.”

  “I’ve got a couple of Ski-Doos already on a trailer you can use,” Hank Peterson offered from where he had been standing with Billy, listening to the exchange. “Another one I can load, if you want me to go along. I’ve been out there and know where that cabin is.”

  “Good idea, Hank. How long will it take to get going?”

  “Soon as you can, go get into some suits and boots. I could get the machines and meet you in town.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Through the night, Jessie had run her team north through the still-frozen and snow-covered swampland and maze of creeks to the west of the Parks Highway and the Susitna River. At Trapper Lake, she had swung northwest and, as the sun rose, she had already crossed both Peters and Bear creeks and arrived at the area between the banks of the Kahiltna River and the Little Peters Hills. Turning east, she directed the team up the slope a little way till she found a flat, sheltered place by a stand of birch, where she stopped, fed and watered the dogs, and settled them to take a long rest while she was gone.

  She unharnessed Tank and, leaving him loose to accompany her on his own, began to climb the hill that would eventually lead her to the cabin in which she had long ago spent part of the winter. It was slow going through the deep snow on the more sheltered side of the hills, especially with the rifle she had taken from the sled and a day pack of ammunition, water, and a few supplies, but she took her time and was soon approaching the crest to the west of the cabin.

  Stepping out of the cold shadow of the hill into the sunshine made it seem warmer, though the temperature remained almost the same. Pausing for a minute, she looked toward the cabin, but there were too many trees in the way to see it. Without further hesitation, she made her way through the trees along the crest, carefully keeping Tank close and moving as quietly as possible. In about ten minutes she came to the burned remains of the Holman cabin and stopped to look around.

  The space near the trees where she and Anne had built the first fire to thaw the frozen ground had been tampered with—the dirt that had been dug out had been put back to fill the hole and flattened. Some snow had been kicked back over it, but without new snow to disguise the work the marks and boot prints were plain to see. Why, she wondered, would anyone go to that much trouble if there was nothing there, as Anne had said?

  Nothing else appeared to have been touched, though someone had come and gone on the trail that led toward the other cabin. Anne had left Knik Road still wearing the borrowed boots and work-stained parka, a fact which did not endear her to Jessie, and the familiar prints of the boots were there to be plainly seen on top of the marks of sled runners and the paw prints Jessie’s team had left. There was no question that Anne had been here again and, perhaps, still was.

  Continuing cautiously along the trail, it wasn’t long until Jessie caught the scent of wood smoke. When she drew near enough, she saw that it was coming from the chimney of her old cabin, drifting slowly through the trees in the still morning air. Stopping on the far side of a large spruce, where she would not be easily seen, she stopped and waited, watching for ten or fifteen minutes, to see if whoever had built that fire would come out. It might not be Anne. It was, she supposed, just as possible that Greg had found his way back here, hoping, like Jessie, to find his wife in this familiar setting. The smoke continued its lazy drift, but all was silent and still. There was no sign of anyone.

  Finally, growing impatient, Jessie slowly circled the cabin until she could see the front of it. Away from the cabin, near some trees, a snowmachine was parked. Again, she watched, but saw and heard nothing from inside the log building.

  At length she decided that, short of spending an indeterminate amount of time waiting in the cold for someone to come out, if she wanted answers she would have to initiate contact with whoever was in the cabin. If it was Anne, as she suspected, she might still be sleeping, expecting no one. The later it grew, the more unlikely it was that she could be surprised, and surprise would be a definite advantage for Jessie. Thinking ahead, she very gingerly chambered two shells in the rifle, muffling the sounds of the bolt action as best she could.

  The sun cast long lines between the shadows of the dark spruce and bare trunks of the leafless birch as she slipped through them, taking care how and where she stepped, for it was not simple to walk silently in crusted snow. Step by step, she approached, Tank padding quietly beside her, and finally stood on the step in front of the door, ready to throw it open.

  Closing her eyes for a minute, to allow her eyes to adjust for light that would be dimmer than the brightness of sun on snow, she waited, listening attentively. Hearing nothing, she took a deep breath and holding the rifle ready for use, reached for the handle, slowly turned it, and, shoving the door inward with all her strength, followed it quickly into the room beyond and hesitated just inside to look for an occupant.

  The blow that hurled her into darkness came so instantaneously she saw only a hint of motion to her left and had no opportunity to move or defend herself before she was falling against the nail points that protruded from the door to discourage plundering bears. Pain lanced sharply through both sides of her scalp. The pool of sunshine that had accompanied her through the open door onto the wood floor blurred, became murky, and winked out as if a switch had been flipped.

  24

  MACDONALD WAS HAVING NO TROUBLE AT ALL REMEMBERING what he disliked about snowmachines. His main objection had always been the amount of noise they generated. He liked to be able to hear what was going on around him and found it impossible over the roar and whine of the Ski-Doo he was cautiously guiding along the trail behind Phil Becker. He knew that part of the guidance problem he was having was the result of never having ridden a snowmachine enough to learn how to make it perform the way others seemed to do so easily. He also knew that it was a skill he would willingly—cheerfully in fact—forgo. Overcompensation in steering kept him swinging from one side of the trail to the other, while Becker glided straight ahead and Hank Peterson kept leaving the trail entirely to run circles around the other two, obviously experienced and exuberant in his enjoyment of running his machine through open country.

  It had taken over two hours for the three to reach the pull-out at Kroto Creek on Petersville Road, unload the three machines, and start for the Little Peters Hills. Enjoying the ride or not, it didn’t take MacDonald long to be able to operate his iron dog well enough to speed up a little, so they soon reached the turnoff at the Forks Roadhouse. Though no new snow had fallen since Jessie and Anne had made their trip over the same route, wind had blown snow onto the trail where it left the road, covering all but a snowmachine track that showed plainly in the drift.

  “No one’s run a sled over this in a couple of days,” Peterson observed, stopping to look and let his machine idle, so he could make himself heard by Becker and MacDonald, who did the same. “Jessie didn’t come this way. There’s snowmachine tracks, but they’re everywhere around here.”

  “Is there any other trail to that cabin?” Becker asked.

  “No, but she wouldn’t have to follow this with her dog team. It’d be shorter to break her own trail up the valley and come in from the west. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Won’t know until we get there, will we? Let’s go,” MacDonald called, frowning. The farther they went the more concerned he had become about the situation. Feeling remiss that he hadn’t anticipated that Jessie, independent and capable, might take off on her own, he was also having second thoughts about several other things. Hank Peterson had seemed just a little too willing to come along on this expedition. Was he leading them off on a wi
ld-goose chase—taking them away from where they should really be paying attention? Could he have had anything to do with either of Jessie’s disappearances? It also bothered Mac that, when they had stopped to ask Oscar Lee about his conversation with Greg Holman the night before, they found he had hired a new bartender and taken the day off. He had not answered his telephone either, adding to MacDonald’s apprehension.

  Though the day was bright and sunny, his thoughts were dark. Mike Tatum’s death had been no accident. He had been a threat to whomever silenced him. Like Jessie, MacDonald was beginning to distrust almost everyone that was in any way connected to all this trouble. Committed now to this trip into the bush, he, nevertheless, had an uneasy feeling about it. The farther they went, the more he wanted it over, to investigate the cabin in the hills and get back to town, where he was comfortable with his usual habits of careful planning and efficiency. He did not like following hunches. He knew he was a bit of a plodder, but also knew that his methods got results in the long run. Something about this spur-of-the-moment run to confirm a possibility didn’t sit right. That he couldn’t decide why it nagged at his sense of caution didn’t help either. Becker seemed satisfied with it, but…

  Phil Becker was not as content as MacDonald assumed. Fully aware of the worried frown on the investigator’s face, he was having second thoughts of his own. He felt somewhat responsible for Jessie’s disappearance, believed he should have anticipated that she might take it upon herself to investigate her abduction. Whether it had really happened, or she only believed it had, would make no difference to her curiosity and determination. He had ignored what he knew of her independence and hoped that a price would not be exacted from her for his mistake. Drawing his own conclusions from a lot of circumstantial evidence, he had allowed his disappointment to generate distrust. He was sorry for it now—and feeling more than a little guilty.