Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Perhaps the boy would come back sometime. It might be prudent to go on being dumb and blind for the time being, to wait and see.

  The coffee had been in the pot too long and tasted scorched. He rose from his chair, dumped the last couple of swallows out into the sink, and rinsed the cup. Opening a drawer, he fished inside for the plastic bags he saved from the grocery, found two with no holes in them, and put one inside the other to make a double thickness.

  Going back to the table, he put the notebook in the bottom of the doubled bag, then, one by one, tossed the bundles of money in on top of it. Carefully tying a knot in the top, he carried the package to the porch and back through the garden to his bean patch, where he stuck it back in the hole from which he had taken it. Smoothing the dirt back over this secret, he took his long-handled tool from the side of the shed, pulled himself back to his feet, and continued to till the soil around his beans until the job was finished to his satisfaction.

  He slept very well that night, waking only once to visit the bathroom, but he did not bother to open the window to peer across at the empty house next door.

  —9 Cold Company (2003)

  COLD COMPANY. Copyright © 2002 by Sue Henry. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Microsoft Reader February 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-136803-5

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the folks who have assisted with information, materials, and support for this book, including:

  Major Michael Haller, Public Affairs Office, Alaska National Guard, for arranging a terrific flight-seeing trip up the Knik River Valley to the Knik and George Glaciers. Many thanks as well to the crew of the Army National Guard Blackhawk helicopter who provided such an incredible ride.

  Karl Borglum, assessor for the Matanuska-Susitna Borough, for maps and directions in helping me track down the early history of the MatSu Valley, specifically Knik Road.

  Fran Seager-Boss, archaeologist and cultural resources specialist for the Matanuska-Susitna Borough’s Cultural Resources Department, for her valuable time and expertise in providing me with maps and other resources on the early history of Knik Road, its homesteaders, and its residents.

  Bruce Merrell, Alaska bibliographer, Anchorage Municipal Libraries, Alaska Collection, for his patience and time in discovering sources of MatSu history, even though I spread them in heaps on the library floor, all but blocking traffic in that particular section.

  Lisa Olson and Rebecca De Armoun, information officers for the State of Alaska Department of Fish and Game, Sport Fish Division, for information on fishing regulations for South Central Alaska, specifically the Knik River.

  Chuck Foger, Crown West, Inc., authorized dealer for Precision Craft Log Structures and Lodge Logs, for information on acquiring materials and building log structures.

  Jamie and Mark Robinson of Statewide Wholesale, for information concerning Design Master “Floral Fragrance” and the particular qualities of artificial scent for roses.

  Bobbi Downs, Flowers by June, for retail information on the availability and pricing of artificial scent for roses.

  Nancy Sydnam, friend and pilot, for assistance with information on the conditions and the use of flying frequencies in and around the Knik River, Knik Glacier, and George Lake area.

  Dick Betts, skillful pilot, who at eighty-one still enjoys the Alaskan wilderness in his Piper Super Cub, for assistance on how a small plane might crash on a glacier, though he has never been so unfortunate.

  Gerry Bunker, for information and pictures of his (and Caswell’s) Maule M-4.

  Barbara Hedges, for once again adding to my knowledge of Alaskan birds.

  My son, Eric Henry, Art Forge Unlimited, for creating the map for this book.

  The Abbott clan, and all my friends and family, for years of caring support and belief.

  And most especially to Leo McCauly, my good neighbor, for answering many questions on matters relating to the building of basements and log cabins—without laughing—much.

  In memory of my mother,

  Lois Hutchison Hall,

  whose most enduring gift to me has been

  the love of words, books, and mysteries

  Map

  1

  SPRING WAS MAKING ITSELF HEARD IN THE CHUGACH Mountains south of the Matanuska Valley in Alaska. Among the bright new leaves of birch and the dark branches of spruce that shared the flats below the Knik Glacier, the songs of resident and migrating birds resounded. Swallows, thrushes, siskins, and warblers flitted through the trees, and joyful chirps of celebration filled the newly warm air of the season. Kingfishers and crows punctuated the chorus in raucous lower tones. Infrequently, from its perch on a tall spruce, a raven dropped an unusual bell-like tone or injected a grumpy complaint into the chorus, resentful of the invaders that now intruded on a territory it had claimed all winter.

  Adding to the cacophony, melt from snow that had slowly receded to the rocky slopes of the high peaks above the tree line on both sides of the valley provided sustained background music in dozens of streams and waterfalls. Runoff poured down steep hillsides, tumbling pebbles with gleeful burbles and cleaning out last year’s hoard of fallen leaves in its rush to join other rivulets in carving larger, deeper furrows into lower ground. Cutting through the gravel and sand of long-departed ice fields, ribbons of water twisted their way into the upper reaches of the Knik River, raising its flow to cover bars and banks the cold months had left dry and bare.

  High above the river flats, beyond the steep flank of Mount Palmer, the Knik Glacier rose at five thousand feet in a giant ever-retreating river of ice that scoured a path, grinding away at the mountains through which it ran, moving inexorably if imperceptibly, sculpting out a channel between the ridges. Each winter’s cold slowed its motion, and snow added to its bulk. Still it moved forward into the river valley at an angle that brought its foot into solid contact with the slope of Mount Palmer, forming a dam of ice that closed off part of its own melt and that of several smaller glaciers that surrounded Lake George immediately to the west.

  In the spring, when the snow and ice began to melt again, this dam contained the resulting water, which backed up and gradually filled the lake until it extended far beyond its winter boundaries. As summer set in and the weather grew warmer, the glacial dam would become unstable and periodically calve away in great towers of dense ice hundreds of feet tall, which would fall crashing into the lake with a roar that reverberated between the peaks.

  Where glacier and mountain met to form the dam, water was already gradually finding its way into a narrow crack between the two. Just a few drops followed each other through the opening first, melting ice as they ran, widening the passage until their drip became a trickle. Soon it would be a stream. Then, finally, with a huge grinding rumble, the weight of thousands of gallons of water would become too much for the weakening dam and break it apart. Carrying chunks of the ice that had contained it, floodwater would pour into the valley below with a force that had been known to tear out the bridges and roads of early settlers. In March of 1964, the strongest earthquake ever recorded in North America severely shook South Central Alaska and altered the Knik River Valley terrain enough to moderate the yearly flood and lessen its force. The water still broke through with a roar that shook the ground and filled the river from bank to bank with roiling turbulence, but the destruction it had visited upon the works of man was reduced.

  Even before this flood, however, the river rose dramatically with the spring melt and spread powerful icy waters over sha
llows and sandbars that had lain untouched and freeze-dried through the silent winter. Released from its ice-locked prison, the water scrabbled and clutched at stone-strewn flats with icy fingers, relearning old channels and inscribing new ones. Seizing fallen branches and logs to convey downstream, it carried some into tangles among the roots of trees that now waded in the shallows, hammered at bridge pilings with others, and finally deposited its vast collection of floating debris miles away in the salty waters of Cook Inlet.

  The restless river explored the gravel of new paths with avaricious fingers, learning what was possible to steal and what lay too heavily or was too embedded for its grasping waters to pilfer. Large boulders might groan and shudder, but most lay patiently, waiting for the river to give up and fall back below their level of dignified solidity.

  Other things, however, it was possible for greedy waters to loosen and, in time, sweep away. The desiccated skin and bones of a fox fell with the collapse of an undercut bank and drifted off in a swirl of sticks and leaves. Little by little, sand was scoured from around three half-buried beer cans, tossed aside by a pair of hunters the preceding October, and one by one they bobbed away, slowly filling with water until they rolled beneath the surface to bounce unseen along the riverbed. A dead tree that had hung for several seasons over the water’s edge lost its tenuous hold on the earth and, with hardly a splash, fell into the current. There it revolved slowly as it was coaxed farther from shore and finally borne seaward on the flood.

  Far upstream the rising river tugged at a bit of fabric on a now-submerged sandbar, uncovered as the sand and silt above it was swept away like smoke in the water. At first it was only a square inch or two of dirty cloth, but inquisitive liquid fingers soon persuaded most of a stained blue shirt from its resting place. Gradually, through the long afternoon, sand and gravel were washed away until a shape foreign to the natural surroundings was exposed. A sandal floated from a bare foot and was snatched by the current. A tangled mass of long light hair swayed like some strange water plant, the scarf that had once bound it gone to follow the sandal.

  When afternoon turned into evening, the length of a slender arm and hand were last to be revealed. A bracelet of purple bruised the wrist and two nails of the delicate hand were broken off short. The braided Celtic pattern of a silver ring circled the shrunken flesh of the index finger. As the water’s flow gently moved the hand, the ring slipped off and, caught by the swirl of an eddy, was washed into the sand of the bank and half buried. The river continued to wash over the still figure, cleansing some of the remaining soil from the blue shirt to expose rusty brown stains, pulling at it until, at last, the body rolled over and lay face up, staring with cold sightless eyes toward fading light reflected from the surface.

  The chorus of birds had fallen into silence as they vanished to roosts in the surrounding forest. Only the late-spring thaw continued its relentless murmur in the gathering darkness, joined once by the haunting call of an owl, then by the howl of a wolf somewhere high on the mountain.

  Except for a pale three-quarter moon and one faint star caught in a veil of cloud, it was full dark when the persistent river finally lifted the human form from its shallow resting place and tumbled it gently down into secret water.

  2

  LATE ON A MILD BUT CLOUDY EVENING OF THE SECOND week of June, Jessie Arnold stood looking with satisfaction into a deep rectangular excavation in the yard of her property on Knik Road. In the bottom of what would soon become a basement for the new cabin she was helping to build stood Hank Peterson’s Bobcat, waiting where he had left it to finish the digging on his return the next day. Two piles of wooden forms lay nearby, ready to be assembled in the hole before the pouring of a concrete foundation to support the log walls that would soon rise above it.

  A light breeze had been whispering through the trees throughout the afternoon. Now it had all but died, leaving stillness in its wake, and from somewhere in the surrounding woods Jessie could hear the distant protest of a chain saw that one of her neighbors was using, taking advantage of the extended June light to catch up on his chores. A pesky mosquito whined in her ear and she swiped casually at it with one hand, used to the omnipresent annoyance warm weather encouraged.

  Summer solstice was little more than a week away, a significant date for Alaskans. Many who live in lower latitudes all but ignore the hinges of the year, but people who make their home in the far north are extremely aware of them. June may be the welcome beginning of summer, but always in the minds of northerners is the knowledge that each day succeeding the solstice will be several minutes shorter. By mid-December, South Central Alaska’s nineteen hours of mid-June daylight will have shrunk to five and a half, and the majority of each day will be spent in darkness, the country locked once more in frozen silence.

  Jessie and winter had no quarrel with each other, for they were well acquainted and she was always ready to enjoy Alaska’s compelling wilderness with her sled dog teams. But with each spring’s return, she found her energy level rising as the days lengthened and the arc of the sun’s increasingly northern path brought it higher in the sky. This particular summer would be filled with the construction of her new house. Impatient to get on with it, she was pleased with the pit she was examining. Before log walls could go up, the basement must go down. It was a significant and much anticipated beginning.

  A late and rainy spring had kept the ground too wet and muddy for earlier digging. The soil was still damp, but contractor Vic Prentice had finally declared it acceptable, unwilling to wait longer. “If we don’t get going now there’ll be snow on our heads before we get it buttoned up.” So all day the roar of the Bobcat had filled the clearing.

  It had been gray and cloudy, threatening more rain that thankfully had not fallen to halt the work. But now, as the sun began to set, it sank below the overcast into a clear band of sky in the west, and sudden concentrated rays of golden light were cast across Jessie’s cabin site like a benediction. A few midges, dust motes, and a mosquito or two floated lazily in the gilded brightness. The tall birch of the surrounding grove split the light with protracted fingers of deep blue shadow that contrasted with the richness of the sunshine. Against the shadows and threatening clouds the new yellow-green birch leaves caught the light so intensely that each one seemed to have an inner glow of its own, and they shimmered as one last breath of the dying breeze set them briefly astir.

  The persistent mosquito, or one of her voracious sisters, returned to interrupt Jessie’s appreciation with a high-pitched whine of complaint. Time to put on more repellent or go indoors, she told herself. But once again she waved the insect away and continued her inspection of the hole in her yard, reluctant to relinquish the pleasurable reassurance that a new cabin was about to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the old. She could almost see what it would look like when it was finished, clean and new, fitting in companionably with the old-growth timber of the surrounding woods. Then, struck with amusement that a thing as mundane as a hole could be so inspiring, she smiled at her own enthusiasm.

  Stepping forward to the very edge of the pit, back to the sun, she shaded her eyes with both gloved hands to take one last look, for the light of the setting sun had cast the depths into such dark shadow it was difficult to make out the earthen walls Peterson had carved so skillfully. As the movement brought into her line of sight a narrow section of the far wall that had been hidden by the Bobcat, an object suddenly stood out from the darkness of the vertical wall and caught her attention. From what she could make out, it was somewhat rounded in shape and pale enough in color to stand out against the rich brown of the dirt around it. A rock, she assumed. There had been several light-colored rounded stones dug up during the afternoon’s excavation. What she was seeing was probably another. She decided to go down and remove it before quitting for the day.

  Walking around the hole, Jessie went down the ramp Peterson had scraped out as access for his Bobcat. As she moved out of the sunlight into shadow, the scent of the rec
ently disturbed earth rose up sweetly to meet her, and she was reminded of her plans to use some of this rich soil on her vegetable garden. She crossed the flat bottom of the pit, some of the damp loam sticking to her boots, and stopped to examine the object that had caught her eye.

  It lay a little less than halfway down the wall, perhaps four feet from the upper edge and six from the bottom of the pit. The small amount of what was exposed seemed smoother and of a different texture than the stone she anticipated. She frowned and started to reach up for it but then hesitated, a hint of puzzled recognition slowly dawning.

  Carefully, with one gloved hand, she was brushing at the dirt that clung to the object when, without warning, a large clod suddenly came loose from one side and fell to the ground at her feet. Jessie reacted with a gasp, clenched her fingers into a fist, and pulled them back hard against her chest as she took a step away and gaped in disbelief at what hung still half buried in the wall before her. The falling soil had revealed that the complete shape was not symmetrically curved as expected. Half turned in her direction, a round dirt-packed eye socket seemed to stare blindly over her head at the now-fading light of the setting sun, and a jawbone full of teeth appeared to grin in ironic if silent approval of its unexpected liberation. It was an old skull, nothing left but bone, pale and long abandoned by its owner, but unmistakably—alarmingly—human.

  For a long minute, Jessie stood unmoving, scarcely breathing, her mind a blank confusion. Then another breath of the dying breeze rustled the birch leaves and one of her dogs yelped sharply from the kennel yard above her on the other side of the clearing. With a shiver, she blinked and looked away from her unwelcome discovery. “Someone walking on your grave,” her grandmother had called such a shudder. Not this time, she reassured herself; this burial place belonged to someone else.

  The bright golden rays of sunlight had disappeared and the world around her was once again a dreary gray. Her image of a new cabin had faded with the light and the depression in which she stood was just a hole in the ground, a hole that unexpectedly contained what had once been a person. Who? How had this body wound up in her yard? Like it or not, there were things she must do about what she had unearthed. There were people she must call, who would come with questions she could not answer, and delays she would be forced to tolerate.