by Sue Henry
Two shelves of a rough bookcase were filled with a well-thumbed collection of Playboy magazines. Caswell, going through a chest of drawers, came up with a few joints in a plastic bag and some loose marijuana; less than was legally allowed. A dusty, unloaded shotgun hung on the wall by the door. To Holman’s amusement, Cranshaw seemed to have cornered the market on baked beans and Jack Daniels; three cases of each were stacked in one corner. “You suppose he won’t have one without the other, so they come out even?”
While the other three replaced Cranshaw’s possessions, Alex went through the storage shed outside. There were several gas and oil cans, full and empty, a can of kerosene, and some tools on a shelf. Wood-working and engine-maintenance tools, they looked well cared for and oiled against rust.
A neat stack of wood, split for the cabin stove, was piled against an outside wall. In front of the shed were tracks of a snow machine in the new snow.
“Might have loaned it to anybody, Alex, or left it in town,” Holman responded to his inquiry. “Jim Miller may be using it, instead of his own, to go back and forth to feed the mutts.”
“Find out, will you, Matt.”
The search confirmed nothing, positive or negative. They found neither Jessie’s gun nor any suspicious drugs.
They closed up and walked back to town, Jensen sunk in silent thought all the way to the checkpoint, which was busy with mushers coming in from the burn.
“I’ve got to get hopping here,” Holman told them. “You going out?”
“Soon as I make a call,” Alex answered. “See you up the line?”
“Yeah. I’ll be jumping close to the front as I can get. Checkers’ll know where I am. I’ll ask about Miller and the machine.”
“Thanks, Matt. See you later.”
They watched him hustle off to organize the rest of the race.
“Amazing,” said Caswell.
“Get the bird warm,” Alex told him. “I’ve got one call to make.”
He returned quickly and started speaking before he was fully inside the plane. “Anchorage says Martinson was arrested for assault last year, a month after the race. Broke a guy’s jaw in a Wasilla bar fight. Dismissed when the other guy admitted he started it and refused to press charges.
“Now get this,” he continued in a growl. Tension drew lines in his forehead as he stared out the plane window at the section of riverbank where Jessie had vanished with her dogs two hours earlier. “It’s been kept quiet, but Ryan was named in a case in Fairbanks, along with some other guy who was selling steroids to high school and college jocks. This guy claims he got the stuff from Ryan, who says he prescribed it for the guy’s dogs with no idea it was being resold. They’d have a hard time convicting Ryan of anything, but the state board license review called Minnesota to check. At one time, before moving here, Ryan was licensed in both states. But he lost his Minnesota license in nineteen eighty-one for abuse of prescription pharmaceuticals. And the last nail—Steve Smith was the witness who turned in the pusher in Fairbanks. His kid is a bodybuilder.”
There was silence in the cockpit when he finished, then a long, low whistle from Caswell.
“Well,” he said, “doesn’t look good for Ryan, does it, Alex?”
“Yeah, let’s go have a chat with him. Now.”
Flying toward Takotna, they looked down on loops of the river as it wound its way north through the rolling hills toward Ophir. Compared to the misery of the Farewell Burn, these hills were good mushing country. Dogsled travelers would be able see for miles back across the way they had come. After running mostly northwest since Nikolai, from Ophir the trail would turn almost southwest, into the gold country, where mining still went on to a limited degree.
During the early part of the century, hundreds of miners made their way into the area. Creeks around these all-but-empty districts bear names that recall the search for gold: Fourth of July, Maybe, Goldbottom, Yankee, and Tango.
Caswell flew his small plane low enough to watch for mushers on the trail, giving the troopers the opportunity to get a feeling for the country. More than halfway between McGrath and Takotna, Jensen sited a lone racer, knowing it would not be Jessie, since she would be with Ryan.
As he lost sight of the team, Caswell spoke into the radio. “Put on the headset, Alex,” he instructed. “It’s Holman.”
“Jensen. We got an emergency. Jessie just brought Ryan into Takotna on her sled. Moose ran through both their teams and kicked the hell out of his. Three dogs dead, four injured. He caught it pretty good, too. Got a kick in the head that will need stitches, and it stomped him enough to break a few ribs. He’s unconscious at the checkpoint. We’re getting a plane up with the McGrath EMT to take him to Anchorage, but it’ll be half an hour. Can you get in and take over there?” He paused for breath.
“Affirmative. Is Jessie all right?”
“Yes. Repeat. Yes. She’s fine. But, Alex . . . she thinks someone drove the moose into them with a snow machine.”
“We’re almost there now.” He glanced at Caswell, who nodded vigorously. “Did you find out about the times here and in Ophir?”
“Yeah. Harvey, Ellis, Schuller, and Martinson all went through Takotna between three and five this morning. Ellis, Schuller, and Harvey checked into Ophir between seven and ten. They’re still there, but Martinson hasn’t showed up yet. Cranshaw went through Takotna ten minutes before Jessie got there with Ryan.”
“But he left an hour ahead.”
“Right.”
“And Martinson’s overdue to go . . . how far?”
“Thirty-eight miles.”
Alex considered it, with a little mental finger counting.
“Anything on Cranshaw’s snow machine?”
“Miller says it’s missing. He was using it to feed the dogs and took it to his place last night. Gone when he got up this morning.”
“Would it be possible to . . . ?” Alex started to ask.
“Borrow a snow machine, come back to run that moose through Jessie’s team, return, avoid Takotna, and go on into Ophir?” Holman finished. “Just barely, but a big risk of being seen somewhere.”
“And Cranshaw’s machine hasn’t been seen?”
“Right. But they’re everywhere in this country. People borrow them all the time, especially during Iditarod. Kids joyriding. We’ve had five reported in the last four days, including two today from north of town.”
“Coming in.” Caswell interjected, as the plane lost altitude.
“I’ll get back to you through the ham as soon as I know what’s going on. Thanks, Matt. Wait—one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“How long will the leaders stay in Ophir?” Jensen asked.
“Not long. By the time you could fly up there, the first three’ll be gone.”
“We could catch Martinson.”
“Probably, unless . . . He could be in some trouble out there.”
“One of the reasons I want to find him. I want to know where he’s been. Over and out, Matt.”
21
Date: Thursday, March 7
Race Day: Six
Place: Takotna checkpoint
Weather: Severe clear, light to no wind
Temperature: High –2°F, low –14°F
Time: Midafternoon
Ryan was out of the race. In the checkpoint cabin, Jensen examined him. Though he was not comatose, he was fading in and out of consciousness with no real awareness of what was going on around him. The moose’s hoof had caught him behind the ear, a glancing blow that opened about four inches of scalp. There was no depression of bone, but Alex was sure he was concussed. His breathing was normal, so the broken ribs had evidently not punctured a lung. They put gauze and a snow pack on his head, monitored his pulse and breathing, and waited for the EMT, who arrived within the thirty minutes Holman had estimated.
&n
bsp; The man examined Ryan quickly and thoroughly and started an IV before they carried him to the plane. In less than ten minutes it was back in the air, heading south.
The checkpoint vet and Becker had gone on a snow machine, with an empty freight sled bouncing behind, to collect Ryan’s sled and bring back the dead, injured and still healthy dogs. Becker would search the area, though the tangle of trails and overlapping tracks offered small chance of revealing clues that would identify any particular snow machine.
In the empty checkpoint, Alex turned to Jessie, who stood beside him, watching the plane disappear. Her parka and hands were caked with Ryan’s dried blood. A smear of it lined one cheek. He laid his arm around her shoulders.
“Come on. Let’s clean up and talk about it.”
“Because of the way the sound traveled,” she said a few minutes later, as they sat with Caswell to discuss the incident. “I heard the engine before the moose went through my team. I expected to see a snow machine coming at us when the moose burst out of the brush. Then the sound went farther to the southwest. But when I was taking care of my hurt pups, I heard it again going north, till it stopped, like it was shut down.”
“But you thought it was more than one machine,” Caswell commented.
“I know,” she answered carefully. “But I don’t think so now. I think I was only listening some of the time, hearing just parts of it in between what was happening. It could have been just one.”
She told them about missing marker tapes, Tank’s leading them back to the trail, how she had found Ryan with his injured team, and struggled to get him on her sled and into Takotna.
“I was really scared when he kept passing out. He was bleeding so bad and all I had was gauze from the first aid kit that wasn’t half enough. I got him in his sleeping bag before we left. Looks like it went through a war. I thought we’d never make it back.” She looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
“Jim’s not as bad as he looks, Jess,” Alex told her. “You know how head wounds bleed. He’ll be okay.”
“You know what I think?” she said slowly. “I think someone moved those markers so I’d get off the trail, then ran that moose right into us.”
Alex met Caswell’s half-frown.
They both spoke at once.
“If there was only one machine . . .”
“Did you see anyone else . . . ,” Alex continued at the other man’s nod, “anywhere after you left McGrath?”
“Not till we got here.”
“From the plane, I saw someone a long way behind you.”
“Probably Mike Solomon. He was going to leave next, I think.”
Outside, Jessie’s team began to bark. As if he had been conjured, they heard Solomon pull up.
“Good,” said Jessie, getting up. “I can go on with Mike.”
The troopers stared at her.
She spoke to Caswell. “I’m pretty stubborn. Ask Alex.”
She went out the door. “Hey, Mike,” they heard her say. “Got a minute?”
The ghost town of Ophir is a series of old, abandoned houses and buildings of logs and weathered gray boards. At least two of these were once roadhouses, but many have been pulled apart for their building materials, so hard to come by in a country where trees grow slowly and are limited in height by permafrost. Fire had claimed most of the other structures through the years. An old dredge lies silent and motionless near the trail.
They dropped onto the river ice rather than land at the airstrip, which was over two miles out of town.
The checkpoint cabin was not large, but it had been so solidly built from squared logs back in the thirties that it still served as a retreat for a couple from McGrath, who came in every year to man it during the race. Outside, they found the sled and team of only one musher, Martinson. As they ascertained its ownership, the checker stepped through the door.
“Where is he?” Jensen asked, with a nod toward the sled.
“Asleep inside.”
“When did he get in?”
“Two hours ago. When he pulled in, Ellis was just leaving.”
“Did he say what took him so long?”
“Said he got lost.”
“That’s right. I got lost,” said a belligerent voice from the door behind them. “What’s going on out here?”
Martinson, pulling on his parka, stepped out to confront Jensen and Becker.
“What the hell are you harassing me for this time?”
“Mr. Martinson—” Becker started.
“Come on,” Martinson interrupted. “You’ve been at me every time we crossed paths since Rohn, and you’ve made damn sure we crossed them. What the hell do you want?”
“We want,” said Jensen, stepping forward, “to know where you’ve been and what took you so long to get here. We aren’t harassing you. We have the right to ask anything of anyone to figure out who is attacking mushers in this race. You aware that Jim Ryan was stomped by a moose outside of Takotna?”
“Yeah, Bob told me.” He gestured toward the checker. “What’s it got to do with me?”
“It’s possible someone drove that moose into him.”
“If they did it wasn’t me. I wasn’t anywhere close. They’ll tell you what time I went through Takotna, and I took a bad turn between here and there. Lost over two fucking hours while I went the wrong way and back. Damn snow-machine tracks. Rested and fed my dogs before I came on through to Ophir.”
“According to our calculations you had just enough time to go back to the place Ryan was attacked, then return here, avoiding Takotna for the second time.”
“But I didn’t. Do these dogs look like they had been run that many extra miles?”
The team didn’t look exhausted. Though all the dogs lay on the snow, resting, many of them had their heads up, watching what was going on at the sled. One wheel dog stood up and whined.
Jensen didn’t mention the snow machine.
“Did you see anyone while you were off the main trail, or on the rest of the way here, for that matter?”
“Not a soul.”
“But you can’t prove where you were.”
“No, but I didn’t spend my time going backward.”
“I’d like to have another look at your sled.”
“What the hell for? Can you do that without my permission?”
“No,” said Jensen shortly, having had about all he could take of the man’s contentiousness. “We could have the checker do it, though. Matt Holman has made it mandatory in McGrath, will here if I ask him. Let’s just say it may be to your benefit to let us and I’ll make it damned hard on you if you won’t.”
With his grudging permission, they went through the contents of his sled and found nothing. He carried a rifle, rather than a handgun, but it was cleanly packed in a soft case in the side of his sled bag and had not been fired recently.
Alex shook his head at Caswell, who had tied down the plane, come up from the river, and was watching the procedure with interest.
“Well?” demanded Martinson, who had not assisted, but had glowered and insisted that they precisely repack the gear they had searched.
“Nothing to indicate you are involved,” Jensen told him. Then, resenting the musher’s attitude and still suspicious enough to be stubborn, “But nothing to say you’re not, either. I haven’t scratched your name off my list, Martinson. A little cooperation would go a long way with me. You might think about that.”
The musher said nothing to the troopers in response, but spoke instead to the checker. “I’m going on out, Bob. There’s no rest to be had here. I’ll pull the dogs over down the trail a few miles.”
The checker waited for Alex’s sharp nod before he agreed, having seen everything essential while the sled bag was open.
In ten minutes all that was left of Martinson were the tracks of his
sled and team heading out of Ophir. Becker stood looking at them, concern on his face.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I’d like to think he’ll get lost and we won’t have to put up with him again.”
“I’d better check the plane,” Caswell commented. “Did a pretty slipshod tie-down.”
Jensen turned to look back down the trail toward Takotna.
“Might as well tie her down good. We’re not leaving here until Cranshaw shows up.”
Two hours later, a little sooner than they expected, Cranshaw pulled into Ophir. The minute he stopped the sled, the dogs lay down, ready to rest. Bomber was not a man to baby his team.
As the checker went through the familiar accounting routine, Jensen watched Cranshaw’s sidelong glances at the waiting troopers and listened to the noisy, unnecessary chatter he exchanged with the official. The business over, he seemed to gather himself, turned, and walked straight up to Alex.
“Bill says there was some kind of accident with Ryan and a moose.”
“Yeah. He’s on a plane to the hospital in Anchorage with a head injury and broken ribs.”
“Aw shit.” He looked away toward the trail he had just quit, framing his next question. “Is Jessie okay? Did she go on?” His tone was flat, but Jensen sensed a tension.
“She’s fine. She’s on the trail with Mike Solomon.”
“Good. Good. Hate to see her drop out now. Well, got to feed the mutts,” he said, half-turning to his team.
“Just a minute, Mr. Cranshaw. We have a few questions.”
“Not now, okay? The dogs are hungry and I got to get ‘em settled for a couple hours’ snooze. Then we’ll see about it.”
“We’ll see about it now, Mr. Cranshaw. If you don’t mind. We’ll only take a few minutes. If we don’t get back in the air, we won’t make it to Iditarod before dark. Do us a favor here.” The crack of authority in his voice contrasted with the polite words, and Cranshaw swung back sharply, a hint of challenge on his face.
