by Sue Henry
32
AS IF TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE LATENESS OF THE SPRING, summer had lingered in the Matanuska Valley. Though each early September day was shorter by a few minutes than the last and the nights were growing cold enough so they would soon leave a crust of ice on standing puddles, the weather was, for the most part, warm and sunny. Above the headwaters of the Knik River, in the stands of birch on the lower slopes of Mount Palmer, here and there a branch was changing to yellow-green. Soon an icy wind would sweep down off early snow on the summit, snatching leaves and scattering them over the ground in a rich mosaic of gold and amber.
The crowd of birds that had filled the woods with their songs were fewer in number, as many fled south, anticipating the frosty breath of winter that could whistle into their summer haunts and habitats, sneak up behind them to rudely ruffle feathers the wrong way. High in a cottonwood, a raven clung to a bare limb, waiting with patient satisfaction as the country emptied and gradually reverted to its solitary keeping. Now and then, it croaked at its temporary companions, encouraging their departure: Get out. Go away. Whatever’s left is mine.
The level of the river had fallen dramatically when Lake George emptied itself and drained away, leaving a tangle of braided channels to once again define sandbars in the headwaters of the Knik River, though their pattern was new. Glacier ice still melted and trickled into them, but the music of streams and waterfalls on the steep hillsides had hushed as temperatures began to fall below freezing on the high peaks of the surrounding Chugach Mountains. Soon the last of them would dry up entirely, watery voices silenced until spring.
On the isolated eastern side of the valley, where Friday Creek ran into the river, a brown bear sat on his fat bottom in the bushes, gobbling berries for dessert after a summer of foraging. Though he would remain while the sweetness lasted, lately he had begun to think of wandering back into the hills toward a warm, comfortable den he vaguely remembered was waiting somewhere up there.
Farther downstream, a moose and her calf waded along the swampy shore of Swan Lake, submerging their heads where the sedges grew thick and could be ripped, roots and all, from the mud. Water streaming from their jaws, they chewed placidly—the mother flicking an ear and turning a slow head to investigate the splash of a Canadian goose landing for a rest stop at the beginning of a long migration.
In the trees that lined the western bank, a squad of squirrels was leaping branch to branch, industriously gathering cones from the spruce and stashing them away for snacks between cold-weather naps. Soon, in snug nests, they would curl together for warmth and snooze away the worst of the approaching cold. A few tenuous birch leaves drifted down from branches that quivered as a result of their acrobatic passage along daredevil routes.
A group of foxes could be well designated a conceit, rather than a skulk, for they exhibit a certain arrogance of spirit and a confidence in the superior cunning of their kind. The fox that came trotting from the woods at one end of a narrow curve of riverbank was a prime example, bright as brass in the glow of the afternoon sun, which hung lower in the sky than it had in June. Swift and graceful, assuredly tidy from rigorous grooming, it traversed the sandy space and paused to lap daintily from the swirl of an eddy on the edge of the river.
When something rustled the brush on the hill, the fox raised its head and cocked an ear, alert to the possible need for flight, but the disturbance was not repeated, so it hesitated by the river for a moment to investigate a thing that had attracted its attention. As it had lowered its head to drink, there had been a sudden gleam from something shiny in the dark line the water made to mark its level on the sand.
Cautiously, it sniffed at the half-buried object and sneezed at its cold metallic scent. Here was nothing threatening, it seemed, so the fox extended a forepaw to nudge the curious thing it had discovered. A bit of dry sand slipped and was whisked away in the whirl of the eddy’s flow, revealing a small circle of braided silver in a Celtic pattern foreign to the natural setting in which it lay.
Sniffing again, the fox established that the object was not edible, but before losing interest it gently nudged the curiosity in the edge of the water once more. The remaining sand that held it gave way, carrying the silver circle with it. Tumbling down, cleansed of sand that was swept away in fine grains, it came to rest on the bottom of the eddy and vanished, covered by another fall of sand the water greedily teased from the bank.
With no reason to delay, the fox continued its journey along the curve of the river’s bank, leaving a trail of neat and regular paw prints in the sand until, with a quick, graceful bound over a fallen log, it disappeared into a yellowing stand of birch.
Author’s Note
Though this mystery is a work of fiction, the Robert Hansen case that is mentioned was real. He was Alaska’s most horrific serial killer and one of the first to be profiled by the FBI.
Two books were written about Hansen: Butcher, Baker: A True Account of a Serial Murderer by Walter Gilmour and Leland E. Hale (Onyx, a division of Penguin Books USA, 1991) and Fair Game by Bernard DuClos (St. Martin’s Press, 1993).
Cover blurb from Fair Game: “The young and beautiful were his prey. Young and naïve, they flocked to boomtown Anchorage chasing dreams of easy riches. They thought they’d hit the jackpot when they met soft-spoken Robert Hansen. A businessman with plenty of money, he baited his trap with the promise of a joyride in his private plane. They landed into a nightmare. The twisted big-game hunter would fly them deep into the remote Alaskan wilderness. There the savage hunter took over. He terrorized his hapless prey, then raped and murdered them.
“After snaring his quarry and gunning them down, Hansen would bury them in shallow graves on the frozen tundra. For ten years, he carried out his depraved sport undetected, until one of his terrified victims managed to run far enough and fast enough to escape.
“Here is the shocking true story of Alaska’s most notorious serial killer, and how a group of determined detectives brought him to capture with the assistance of VICAP, the FBI unit made famous in The Silence of the Lambs.”
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, K
nik 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.
About the Author
SUE HENRY, whose award-winning Alaska mysteries have received the highest praise from readers and critics alike, has lived in Alaska for almost thirty years, and brings history, Alaskan lore, and the majestic beauty of the vast landscape to her mysteries. She lives in Anchorage.
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Praise for Anthony and Macavity Award-winner
SUE HENRY and
COLD COMPANY
“What a thrill…Henry has once again succeeded in crafting an engrossing story…I’ll be aboard for the next installment.”
Anchorage Daily News
“Chilling adventure…[A] spellbinding thriller…Engaging and well-crafted. Henry has won well-deserved praise for the way she brings the history, lore, and beauty of an expansive wilderness to her heart-pounding plots. This is no exception.”
Green Bay Press-Gazette
“Real thrills set against the wild beauty of Alaska.”
Minneapolis Star-Tribune
“Chills and thrills aplenty…the perfect escape for a hot summer day.”
Myrtle Beach Sun-News
“A gripping mystery.”
Sunday Oklahoman
“[Her] grasp of tense storytelling and strong characterization matches her with Sue Grafton. Give her a try—she’ll challenge your powers of perception and deduction.”
Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph
Books by Sue Henry
MURDER ON THE IDITAROD TRAIL
TERMINATION DUST
SLEEPING LADY
DEATH TAKES PASSAGE
DEADFALL
MURDER ON THE YUKON QUEST
BENEATH THE ASHES
DEAD NORTH
COLD COMPANY
Forthcoming in hardcover
DEATH TRAP
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061859748
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