Deadfall

by Sue Henry

  Completely blind, she was compelled to feel her way, with hands and feet, across the large open space that held a multitude of random hazards on its dirt floor to trip or bewilder her—boat motors, coils of rope, boxes of parts, a table, lumber, things with jagged edges and odd shapes she couldn’t identify. She barked a shin on a metal pipe, scraped the back of one hand against something rough, and was frustrated at the slowness of her passage through the threatening, invisible obstacle course.

  From other, daylight trips to the island, Jessie vaguely remembered a workbench along the north wall and finally reached it without doing herself serious injury or knocking anything over to create a revealing disturbance. With infinite care for things that could fall and smash, or sharpnesses that could slice her reaching fingers, she began to search the bench for something that would help her break the lock. She identified nails, wrenches, a box of some kind of bolts, cans of paint, several large saw blades with knifelike teeth that made her stomach lurch, a machete, the chain for a saw with its wicked piercing edges. Was everything sharp? When her hand grazed a scythe, she felt it bite the side of one finger. Jerking it away, she sucked at the tiny unseen welling of blood, and its metallic taste made her feel a little ill. Hesitant now, she forced herself to reach beyond it and was rewarded when her hand fell on the handle of what turned out to be a large, heavy claw hammer. Perfect. As closely as possible, she retraced her path through the maze of unseen objects to the door, avoiding the length of pipe that had bruised her shin, and, sighing in relief, slid through the door, opening it just enough to let herself and Tank out into the rain again.

  All was quiet. She leaned against the shop door and waited, her senses alert. When they warned her of nothing unusual, she moved, cautiously and deliberately, around the building to the foot of the steps that led up to the apartment, then stopped, knowing she would box herself in with this venture. Just go, she told herself, and began to climb quietly. It seemed a hundred steps to the landing, but eventually she stood outside the door and, with her good hand, took hold of the lock to feel for the best spot to apply pressure with the claw of the hammer.

  It swung from the hasp and twisted in her hand—unlocked.

  Shocked into holding her breath, she struggled to remember—and was certain that she had locked it when she left. Examining it with her fingers, she understood. The lock had been cut open, with a hacksaw or some other kind of shear.

  She stood completely still, unable to move for a moment or two. Was this another trap? It would be reasonable for the stalker to leave the door unlocked and, expecting her to make a try for the supplies inside—wait there to take her unaware. Was he on the other side of the door, greedy for her to open it and walk into his trap? Should she go quickly back down the stairs and disappear without the supplies she needed? Fade into the forest and be safe?

  She almost did that. But, half turned away from the threat, she suddenly knew that it was only fear—a paranoia of her own creation. She had no way of knowing what lay beyond the closed door unless she opened it.

  Then, to her chagrin, she realized what was wrong with the picture. The lock hung in its hasp, holding the door closed. There was no way to put it there from the inside. She had come close to letting herself be frightened away for nothing. But there was another door to the right of where she stood. This one opened directly into the apartment’s kitchen and had another exterior lock. If it had not been opened to let someone in there could be no one waiting.

  Jessie moved along the landing to this second door and felt for the lock. It was there, secured. Drawing a deep breath, she went back, steadied her hands, and lifted the damaged lock from its hasp. Opening the door, she went in, and could tell immediately she was alone—the place was cold and silent.

  The alarm she had experienced did not entirely vanish, however. She felt more than a little claustrophobic, and knew that what she wanted most was to get back outside and away. Adrenaline heightening her senses, she decided to take a risk in favor of speed. Finding a box of kitchen matches on the woodstove, she struck one, shielding it between her hands, and looked around. A candle stood in its holder on the table. She lit it and blew out the match.

  Hurriedly tugging the case from a pillow, she took it to use as a bag and, as quickly as she could, began to put useful things into it. From the pantry in the kitchen, she dumped in several cans of whatever was on the front of the shelves—soup, green beans, tomato sauce, peaches. A box of crackers followed, and a jar of jam—sugar energy. Shoving aside a plastic container of rice she couldn’t cook, she found a small canned ham.

  Tank would also be hungry. She snatched three cans of beef stew and several envelopes of powdered milk.

  The pain in her right hand had settled down to a dull ache and her head ached, too, from hunger. Turning to the medicine cabinet above a washbasin, she took Band-Aids, gauze, adhesive tape, a bottle of Tylenol—from which she shook three and gulped them down without water—alcohol swabs, and a wide elastic bandage, leaving behind scissors and a thermometer. Nearby was a towel that she grabbed, along with someone’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap. Thinking for a moment, she threw in the box of matches and three candles, wrenched from their holders. She found a small flashlight with weak batteries, had no time to search for replacements, but took it anyway. From a kitchen drawer, she collected a can opener, a spoon, and a paring knife. She filled a plastic bottle with water at the kitchen sink.

  The pillowcase was growing heavy. What else did she need? Going back into the other room, she glanced around quickly. The light of her candle caught the yellow color of a thick length of nylon cord, which she tossed in. Anything else? No. What she had collected would take care of most of her needs for the moment. It was time to get out.

  As she blew out the small flame and swung around toward the door, a can in the pillowcase hit the cast-iron stove with a loud metallic clank. Damn, she thought. That could be heard even from outside, if there was anyone listening. She took one step and, as if she had created trouble with that thought, there was a thump from somewhere deep in the building. She froze, heart jumping in her chest.

  Then she could hear someone moving—the footsteps of someone taking no time to be quiet, hurrying on a wooden floor, and knew instantly where the sound was coming from.

  Oh, God, she thought, there’s someone in the sauna.

  This time, she knew, it would not be Rudy.

  25

  “No, sir. He doesn’t look anything like the man who brought the flowers for Miss Arnold. That man was taller and had a thinner face. He wore dark glasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. But he was polite—only stayed a minute. No, this isn’t him.”

  The receptionist from the hospital shook her head decidedly as she refused to identify J. B. Moule as the person who had brought the lilies, pictures, and note after Jessie’s accident.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Porter,” Jensen sighed, with a sinking feeling. “We appreciate your coming in so early this morning to take a look. Do you think you’d recognize the man you saw if we do find him?”

  “Oh, yes, I know I would. I thought at the time that he looked very much like my nephew, Brian. You just call me when you catch him, young man. And I’m sorry this isn’t the one.”

  She patted Alex’s hand in motherly apology and went purposefully out the door.

  “Well, so much for that theory,” he told Caswell. “I guess I was running on overtime on Moule.”

  “We still got him off the street,” Cas assured him. “Things aren’t all bad. Peters won’t be disappointed. I’d still like to ask him whether it was Tuesday or Wednesday, though. Making that sort of mistake bothers me.”

  “We could stop by, since we should go into the lab anyway,” Jensen suggested. “There’s a lot we need to know. How did those negatives get into his closet? I don’t understand how he made those boot prints if he didn’t have something to do with this. Do you suppose he’s telling the truth and someone really did steal his boots and did the rest
of this to set him up? I want to talk to Timmons. He’s almost never wrong. And we have no answer to how and where the computer-printed notes were done. The computer, at least, hasn’t showed up in Moule’s possession, but it has to be somewhere.”

  “I know it doesn’t happen very often, but stranger things have happened than Timmons being wrong. Let’s go check out the time cards with Peters first, or it’s going to eat at me.”

  At nine o’clock, they found Al Peters on the second story of his almost finished building, supervising the installation of windows—something besides concrete, for a change.

  “You find Moule?” he asked, before they could tell him why they had come back.

  “Yeah,” Jensen assured him. “You’ll be glad to know he won’t be back to work this season—maybe not for the next few, if you’re lucky.”

  “Hey, nobody’s gonna complain, believe me.” Peters grinned at the carpenter with whom he was working. “Hear that, Bud? Moule finally got himself put away again.”

  “Fuckin’ fine” was the carpenter’s only comment, as he spit on the ground and walked away, but Jensen thought it probably exemplified the feelings of most of Moule’s co-workers.

  “Hey, so what can I do for you guys?” Peters asked. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to tell me you got enough to put him back inside, did you?”

  “Nope. We need you to check again on that day you said he came to work late. Each of us wrote down a different day, and we need to check an alibi against one of them.” Caswell grinned at him, sheepishly ashamed of what he perceived as a senseless, unprofessional error.

  “No problem. Let’s go down and I’ll make you a copy of his time card. Then you’ll have it…uh…like official.”

  They left the building and crossed to the mobile home that Peters used as an office. Inside he quickly found the time card and made a copy.

  “Wednesday,” Cas confirmed. “It was Wednesday. Sorry, Alex. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You should be more perfect than the rest of us?” Jensen kidded.

  As he was about to thank the contractor for the extra trouble, the telephone rang and Peters picked it up.

  “Oh, yeah, Judy. I’ve got the stuff ready. You coming in?…Oh, really…. Well, yeah. I guess I could drop it off…. No, that’d be okay…. Oh, he did? When was that?”

  He frowned and scratched the back of his neck with his free hand.

  “He say what Moule was doing? No…. Well, he won’t be back. Got himself arrested again…. Yeah. Okay, see you in a while.”

  He hung up, grimacing.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. Damn, that man does get up my nose.”

  “Moule? What’d he do now?” Jensen asked.

  “That was Judy Wynne. You remember—she was here when you came in before. She and her husband, Ross, keep the books for us.”

  Jensen nodded. “Thin-faced woman.”

  “Yeah. Supposed to come in today to pick up the time cards for last week, but can’t leave home because Ross’s gone off someplace. They’ve got a crippled kid. You know…mental? One of them has to be there all the time with him.

  “Anyway, Ross asked her to tell me that he doesn’t appreciate Moule coming into the office and using the computer when he’s here trying to work. Weird. Can’t think what Moule could have been up to.”

  Caswell gave Jensen a wide-eyed look, in recognition of the warning bells that were suddenly ringing in both their minds, before he asked quietly, “What computer?”

  Peters caught the tone of his voice and narrowed his eyes.

  “Something else?”

  “Maybe. What kind of computer?”

  “Here.” He pulled the cover off a Macintosh that stood on the desk Judy Wynne had been using when they saw her at the office. Next to it stood a laser printer.

  “And Moule printed something out on this?” Cas asked.

  “That’s what Ross told Judy. Brought in a disk and didn’t even ask—just told Ross to move across the room, booted it up, and printed something out. Then he shut it down and left.”

  “When was this?”

  “A week ago Saturday, about nine in the morning, according to Judy. Ross said he was surprised that any of the workers were here, let alone Moule.”

  Jensen had been doing some rapid calculations in his head.

  “That was the day the note appeared in the birthday present. Have we missed something here, Cas?”

  Caswell, on the other hand, was looking skeptical.

  “Doesn’t make sense. Why would he make such an overt move? Almost as if he wanted a witness. Was anyone else here when Moule supposedly printed out that…whatever it was?”

  “No, just Ross.”

  “So there’s only his word it ever happened. There’s something really screwed up here, Alex.”

  “Anything I can help with?” Peters offered.

  “I’d like to talk with Mrs. Wynne,” Jensen told him. “Better yet, I’d like to talk to Ross Wynne. He’s the one who says he saw Moule use this computer.”

  “Well, I gotta make a run out to take her the time cards. Why don’t you come along and I’ll introduce you. She said Ross wasn’t home, but at least you can talk to her and find out when he’ll be back.”

  The Wynnes lived in a duplex several blocks south of International Airport Road and west of Arctic Boulevard, an area of older tract houses and multiple-family dwellings. It needed paint, as did the ten-year-old compact car in their driveway with a crack in the windshield that, encouraged by cold weather, had transected it from side to side, a condition with which many Alaskan residents were familiar. One small ding, the minute winter blew in, would immediately spread to the frame. Jensen sometimes thought the state’s vehicles were all held together with safety glass and duct tape, and was amused to notice a piece of that silvery tape holding a damaged taillight to the body of the car.

  Judy Wynne was small, with dark hair and watchful eyes that seemed to fill the upper half of her face. She was so much thinner than she should have been that she reminded Alex of pictures he had seen of concentration camp victims. She looked worn and tired, and there was something in the resignation with which she answered their knock that made him feel that she had seen more than her share of pain and its results. But as she opened the door, her back was straight and she held her chin up, ready to confront whatever the world brought her. She was slightly confused that Peters had come with company, especially when he introduced them as troopers and asked if they could talk with her.

  “What about?” she asked, an anxious look replacing the polite smile with which she had greeted her boss. Then, before he could answer, she burst out, “He’s done something bad, hasn’t he?”

  “Who?” Peters asked.

  “Ross. Ross’s done something.”

  “Ahhh…no, Judy. These men just wanted to ask you about…”

  “Could we come in, Mrs. Wynne?” Jensen asked. “It would be better if we could sit down and explain.”

  She gave him a long, insightful look that spoke volumes of how she was interpreting his request, then invited them in with a nod and led them into a small living room. Other than a battered sofa, two straight chairs, and an ancient coffee table, it was almost empty. A television set occupied one corner, tuned to a children’s show, the sound turned down to a barely audible murmur. In front of it, a young man in his early twenties sat in a wheelchair, staring slack-faced at the garish, colorful cartoons that were an ironic contrast to the stark room. He didn’t even glance up to see who had come in.

  Jensen halted at the sight of him, causing the other three to turn questioning looks at him.

  “Wynne,” he said. “I know that name from…John McIntire. And this…?” He directed his question to Judy and raised a hand toward the young man. “This would be…”

  “This is Michael—my son. Michael,” she said quietly, as if emphasizing his name made him real.

  Her eyes, holding Jensen’s, were as honest
as clear water, the expression in them still.

  “He was hurt,” she said, and the eternal grief of mothers who lose children rippled that still pool, though Alex could tell she had no tears left to shed for this particular agony—or none that she would let a stranger see. For a second or two, time stopped in that small house, for him and for her, as they looked at each other and spoke without words.

  I have lost enough, she told him. Don’t make me lose any more.

  And he replied, I wish I didn’t have to, but I have no choice.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned, walked to one of the straight chairs, carefully, as if she might lose her balance, and sat with her hands in her lap, waiting.

  Peters looked at Jensen. “You want me to make myself scarce?”

  “No. If it’s all right with Mrs. Wynne, I’d like you to stay. We might need your help.”

  She nodded. “It’s all right.”

  Caswell walked across to a window and stood, his back to the room, looking out into the backyard. Jensen and Peters sat on the sofa. Michael had not moved or acknowledged their presence.

  Alex took a deep breath and spoke gently.

  “Your husband isn’t at home. Is that right, Mrs. Wynne?”

  She nodded.

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  She didn’t speak immediately, and Alex identified a wariness in the way her eyes narrowed, and she pinched her lips together as if she would rather not answer him.

  “He left on Sunday afternoon…late.”

  “And he didn’t say when he’d be back?”

  “He said he had something to take care of, and that he’d be back as soon as he could.”

  “Where was he going?”