Refuge Cove

by Janet Dailey

  CHAPTER 4

  Still crouched behind the love seat, with the pistol aimed at the door, Emma heard John’s Jeep pull up and stop. Something struck the porch with a sharp thump. She heard shouted curses and a scrambling sound. After a moment that seemed far too long, his key turned in the lock.

  She rose, still gripping the gun, as the door opened. John stood on the threshold, a shopping bag slung over his arm. He wasn’t smiling. “Put that pistol down before you blow a hole in me,” he said.

  Knees weakening with relief, Emma lowered the gun.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, stepping inside.

  “Fine! Just scared out of my wits.” She laid the gun on the side table. “What just happened out there?”

  “Just a blasted bear on the porch. Probably smelled our bacon from this morning. I threw a chunk of firewood at him, and he took off.”

  “A bear?” Emma’s knees gave way. She sank onto the arm of the love seat. “Weren’t you in danger?”

  “He was just a half-grown youngster. Probably the first time on his own. But I couldn’t let him stick around. The sooner he learns that people are bad news, the longer he’s likely to survive.” He held out the shopping bag. “Here are your shoes. Half price this week at Tongass Trading Company. Try them on.”

  “Thanks.” Emma had already resolved not to tell him what she’d imagined happening on the porch. He’d only think she was being flighty.

  She took the bag and opened it. The blue and white running shoes were a quality brand. They looked well-made and comfortable. There were three pairs of good wool socks in the bag as well.

  “Here’s your change.” He handed her a thick fold of bills.

  “Thanks again.” She glanced at the bills, then slipped them into her hip pocket. She could count them later, but there appeared to be several hundred dollars. “That ring must’ve been real gold,” she said.

  “It was.” He walked to the window while Emma tried on the socks and shoes. “I checked around for Boone. There was no sign of him. But the sooner we get the police on his trail, the safer you’ll be. I have one question to ask you.”

  Emma had laced up the shoes. Standing, she took a few steps in them. They felt fine. “What kind of question?” she asked.

  “At your wedding, what do you remember about the preacher? Do you recall his name?”

  Puzzled, Emma searched her memory. “Boone introduced us, but I was too excited to pay much attention. It was Reverend Philpot, or Phillips, or something like that. He was tall and thin, with red hair in a braid down his back, and he was wearing this long black coat with a white collar. He did seem a bit strange, but—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because I know that man. He’s an old drinking buddy of Boone’s and he’s no more a reverend than I am. And that isn’t all. This morning I did some checking at the county records office. Emma, there’s no legal evidence of your marriage anywhere. As far as I can tell, you aren’t married. You had a fake wedding with a fake preacher.”

  The shock sent Emma staggering backward onto the love seat. She huddled there, her hands pressed to her face as the news sank in—welcome news, to be sure. Her desperate situation had just become simpler. No divorce. No annulment. She was free. But the shame was there, too. She’d been so blind, so hopeful, and so dizzy with love and dreams of the future. But Boone hadn’t even cared enough to give her a real wedding.

  * * *

  John watched her take the news, surprised at her reaction. He’d expected nothing from her but happy relief—smiles and laughter, maybe even a little dance of joy. Only now, as she lowered her hands to reveal a glimmer of tears, did he realize how deeply invested she’d been in her dream of a happy marriage and a family.

  Boone hadn’t just stolen her money and forced her to run for her life. He had made a mockery of everything she held dear. He had humiliated her, destroyed her trust, and shattered her pride.

  As he waited by the window, knowing better than to speak, a subtle change came over her. She blinked away her tears, straightened her spine, and lifted her head. When she rose and turned toward him, her expression was one of wounded rage.

  “You can drive me to the police station now.” Her voice was icily calm. “Whatever it takes, I’m going to see that Boone Swenson never hurts another woman for as long as he lives!”

  * * *

  Detective Sam Traverton was gruff and middle-aged, with a thatch of iron gray hair, an expanding beltline, and a manner that suggested he’d seen everything there was to see in his long career. He listened as Emma told her story, jotting a few notes on a yellow pad.

  “We can’t charge Boone with a crime until he’s caught,” he said. “We can pick him up if he comes into town. Otherwise it’ll be up to the state troopers to haul him in.

  “After he’s booked, he’ll be charged by the county prosecutor.” He gave Emma a knowing look. “Now I know you want this fellow hung out to dry. But you can only get a conviction with a charge that’ll stick. In this case, my money’s on fraud—or maybe theft by deception. Boone lured you up here under false pretenses and stole your money.”

  “But what about the rest?” Emma demanded. “Boone would’ve raped me, maybe even killed me, if I hadn’t escaped. At the very least, he should be guilty of kidnapping. And what about the drugs?”

  Traverton gave her a wearied look. “A good defense attorney would argue that he didn’t kidnap you because you went with him willingly. He might have meant to rape you, but he didn’t get the chance because you ran away. And when he chased you, it was because you’d set his trailer on fire. As for the meth—knowing Boone, that doesn’t surprise me. But you’d have to catch him with the goods to justify an arrest.”

  Emma’s heart sank. She’d hoped for so much more. “What about the gunshots?” she asked. “He almost hit us.”

  Traverton shook his head. “Again, unless you can find the bullets and match them to his gun, there’s no evidence that he was even the one shooting. If he uses your credit cards, we can get him for identity theft. But he’d be more likely to sell them for cash than use them—especially the passport. Those are worth serious money on the black market.” He reached into a drawer and took out a business card. “Here’s the contact information for a retired judge who doesn’t mind helping folks out with a little pro bono work. She might be willing to give you a hand with the credit card companies and the passport office.”

  He stood, a signal that the interview was over. “Since the wedding and your handing over the money occurred here in Ketchikan, that makes it my case. We’ll talk to Philpot and give the state troopers a heads-up to watch for Boone’s truck. For now, that’s about the best we can do.”

  Emma accepted the business card and put it in her pocket. She was fuming as they walked outside to John’s Jeep. “Theft by deception! What’s that worth, about two years behind bars? Boone could’ve killed me, John! Maybe he was even planning to. That’s why he wouldn’t bother with a real wedding. For all I know he’s done this before, and the other women never got away! What if he’s got a whole graveyard out behind that trailer?”

  “Whoa, there.” John stopped her at the curb, his hand just brushing her elbow. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Right now you need to stop Boone from using your passport and credit cards. Here’s my phone. You’ve got the card. Give that retired judge a call.”

  Stop doing my thinking for me! She bit back the words, knowing they would sound petulant and ungrateful. She already owed this man more than she could ever repay. With a sigh, she fished the card out of her pocket, took the phone, noted the number and the name—Vera Falconi. Turning away from John, she made the call.

  “Vera here.” The throaty voice was roughened by age, but the ring of authority was unmistakable.

  “Judge Falconi, my name is Emma Hunter.” At least she didn’t have to say that she was Emma Swenson.

  “Oh, yes.” The voice warmed. “Sam just called me about you. I’d be gl
ad to help, dear, but I’m busy for the rest of the day. Could you come by first thing tomorrow, say, around eight-thirty? Is that all right?”

  The thought crossed Emma’s mind that she should ask John whether he could drive her in the morning. But given what seemed to be the judge’s busy schedule, it seemed best to just accept and work out the details later. “Eight-thirty would be fine, thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure, dear. Tomorrow, then.”

  The call ended. That was when she turned and saw John’s rigidly controlled expression. His narrowed eyes and the straight line of his mouth reminded her of a dam holding back a flood of dark emotion.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Is there a problem with your driving me tomorrow morning?”

  “No. It’s fine.” He opened the door of the Jeep. Emma climbed inside. Something was bothering him. But she knew better than to pry. She’d already learned that John Wolf was a very private person.

  “The judge sounds like an interesting woman. Do you know her?” she asked as he settled in the driver’s seat.

  “I know her. Everybody around here does.”

  “Why do I get the feeling she’s not your favorite person?”

  “As long as she’s willing to help you, it doesn’t matter.” He started the engine. “What do you want to do with the rest of your day?”

  “I hadn’t planned beyond the visit to the police. I suppose I could buy a change of clothes and a disposable phone. But surely you’ve got more important things to do than baby-sit me. Just let me out and point me in the right direction. I can meet you somewhere later. Or did you have a different idea?”

  “Not different. Just something more.” He turned the Jeep onto the main road that led along the docks. “Once your shopping’s done, we could take the plane up and look for Boone’s trailer. If we can map the coordinates and give them to the state troopers, they could take a chopper in there and check it out.”

  “That sounds like the best plan I’ve heard all day,” Emma said. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  Emma was an efficient shopper. It took her less than forty minutes to pick out a new pair of jeans and two shirts, some spare underclothes, and a light rainproof jacket on sale at Tongass Trading Company next to the docks. While she was buying clothes, John bought her a disposal phone, which she insisted on paying for. Her cash was dwindling faster than she’d hoped, but that couldn’t be helped. If she stayed here more than a few days, she would have to look for a job.

  With her purchases stowed in the Jeep, they drove back through the short tunnel toward Refuge Cove, where John had left the Beaver last night. Now that there was a plan in place, his dark mood seemed to have lifted. He was almost cheerful.

  Businesses, docks, and warehouses were strung along the highway, which ran parallel to the long, blue stretch of water. John pointed out the airport, located on the shore of Gravina Island, across the narrows. A ferry shuttled vehicles and passengers back and forth from Ketchikan.

  Emma gazed across the water as a commuter plane landed on the runway and taxied to the small terminal. How could it be that only yesterday, a naïve woman, brimming with hopes and dreams, had stepped onto Alaskan earth, eager to marry the man she loved and start a new life?

  That woman was a different person now. Stripped of her dreams and hopes, she had just two goals—to survive, and to bring the man who’d crushed them to justice.

  A few miles beyond Ketchikan, the road looped around Ward Cove, with its deep harbor and surrounding town. Next to the water, on the north side, a complex of docks, sheds, and open space sprawled along the waterline. A few raft-style log platforms floated offshore, some with small structures on them. “That used to be the world’s largest pulp mill,” John said. “From the late fifties on, it processed logs into pulp. The place supported Ward Cove and Ketchikan with factory jobs as well as a major logging operation—that’s why you see so many logging roads in the forest.”

  “What happened?” Emma asked.

  “In 1997 the government shut it down because of environmental issues, and because the lumbering contract ran out. Seven hundred people lost their jobs. Times were pretty tough around here for a while. A lot of the old structures have been cleared away. I’ve heard talk of converting the property to an industrial park, but that’s mostly about money, or the lack of it.

  “I was a teenager when it closed. After it shut down, we used to break into the place and play crazy games like paintball, or just hang out and drink. All the kids did, even Boone. The cops chased us out of there a few times, but we always came back. There’s not much left of it now, just a few sheds and warehouses that are still good enough to be useful.”

  “I’d like to have known you then,” Emma said.

  “No, you wouldn’t. I was a mess.”

  Minutes later, the road turned into Refuge Cove. Separated from Ward Cove by a jutting bight of forest and muskeg, Refuge Cove was small and nestlike in shape, its entrance sheltered by reefs and wooded islands. Seeing it by daylight for the first time, Emma was struck by a sense of coziness. It was the kind of place that made her want to take a deep breath, fill her lungs with clean Alaskan air, and forget the ugliness of the past twenty-four hours.

  Narrow floating docks extended over the water, where private boats and sport fishing vessels were moored. There were a few small planes as well, among them the red Beaver she recognized as John’s.

  Extending northward from the tiny harbor was a stretch of pristine, rocky beach that curved along the water’s edge for as far as she could see. John had mentioned that this part of Refuge Cove was a state park, set aside to preserve the natural beauty of the coast. Inland from the beach, a line of tall evergreens sheltered walking paths and picnic tables. But at the water’s edge, where waves lapped at the rocks, the shore appeared untouched by time.

  While John filled the gas tank and gave the Beaver its preflight check, Emma took a short walk up the beach. The breeze was cool through the light quilted jacket she’d bought. It stirred her hair and teased her nostrils with the smells of saltwater, pine trees, damp earth, and fish. Tiny islands dotted the entrance to the cove, most little more than clumps of rock and tall evergreens.

  With the Beaver fueled and checked, it was time to take off. John balanced her while she stepped onto the float and climbed up into the passenger seat. His grip on her arm was light and impersonal, just enough to steady her. But the contact through her sleeve sent a tingle up her arm.

  Emma willed herself to ignore the sensation. John Wolf was an attractive man, masculine and mysterious. But he didn’t seem to be the least bit interested in her as a woman. And even if he was, she’d just had her heart crushed by someone she’d thought she loved. She was raw and vulnerable. It could be months, even years before she was ready for a serious relationship. And a brief fling would only burn her again, leaving her even worse off than before.

  He climbed into the pilot’s seat, put on his headset, and handed her a second set to slip onto her head. “Can you hear me?” His deep voice crackled through the earpieces.

  “I can.” Emma remembered last night, when they couldn’t converse over the roar of the engine. Now that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Buckle up. Here we go.”

  The engine thrummed to life. John turned the plane around, taxied out past the islands into open water, then headed into the wind and opened the throttle. Engine roaring, the Beaver shot forward. Emma’s stomach fluttered as the floats skimmed the waves and lifted off. They were airborne and climbing. Wind tore at the wings and fuselage of the sturdy old plane.

  “You can unclench your hands now.” John’s voice crackled through the headset.

  Emma glanced down at her white-knuckled fists and forced herself to laugh. Every nerve in her body was taut and quivering. But John seemed as relaxed as she’d ever seen him. Here in the plane, in the air, she realized, was where he felt completely at home.

  “Is this your own plane?” she asked
, making conversation to calm herself.

  “Yes. I bought it six years ago from an old man who couldn’t fly anymore. Sold a big share of my Sealaska stock to pay for it—these Beavers are classics. They don’t come cheap.”

  “You say you sold your stock?” Even with the headset, Emma had to speak up. “What’s Sealaska? I’ve never heard of it.”

  He took a moment to check the radio. “How much do you know about the Trans-Alaska oil pipeline?” he asked.

  “I know what it is, and that it was controversial for a long time. That’s about all.”

  “Back when it was being built, in the early seventies, the route lay across land belonging to the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian tribes. The tribal leaders were powerful, they were smart, and I’m guessing they had damn good lawyers. They dug in their heels and said no. After some long and painful negotiations, the tribes settled for a huge trade of stock and valuable land elsewhere. When the deal was done, they formed a corporation to manage their newfound assets—Sealaska—with all the families as stockholders. It’s very big and very modern these days. And it uses a share of its profits to help the people and support native traditions.”

  “I had no idea,” Emma said. “So the pipeline actually turned out to be a good thing for the tribes.”

  “Most people think so.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “My father was involved in one of the early protests at the pipeline. A man was killed. My father went to prison for it. He died there. My only memory of him is a sad face behind bars. My mother, who was beautiful, died of grief—which is a polite way of saying she drank herself to death. You might say that my own view of the pipeline, and Sealaska, for all the good it does, is . . . tainted.”

  He banked the plane into a sharp right turn, pitching the wings so steeply that Emma felt a jolt of terror. Only as the Beaver leveled out did she begin to breathe again. Through the windscreen she could see that now they were headed landward, toward the forested mountains.