by Sue Henry
As they hit an air pocket and dropped sickeningly, Jensen hit his head on the window frame.
“Ouch, dammit. Couldn’t you fly something a more reasonable size?”
Cas grinned, but kept his concentration locked onto maintaining the progress of the small plane.
“Did I tell you I found out how Wynne figured out where Jessie was?”
“No. How?”
The grin had vanished and Cas looked a little embarrassed.
“As I filed a flight plan for this trip to Homer, I realized that I did the same thing for the flight last Thursday. Didn’t even think, just filed it like always. My fault.”
“What’s wrong with that? I thought you had to file one and it was private information.”
“Well…if you do the books for the right people, and if you have a friend who owes you a favor…
“I made a phone call, just to check. The clerk I talked to stuttered and stammered some before he admitted that he’d copied the plan for his ‘friend.’ Of course, he didn’t have any idea why Wynne wanted it. Sorry, Alex. I should have either not filed one, or filed one for a different destination.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. We can’t catch everything.”
Jensen settled gloomily into his seat.
“Wynne did a good job of setting up Moule, didn’t he? Getting himself hired on to do the books for Peters so he’d be close to Moule was inspired. What a twisted plan. Pinning a completely different crime on him to get even would have been genius if he had pulled it off.”
“He might have, if he’d left well enough alone—hadn’t added that unnecessary tale about Moule using the computer for his wife to tell Peters. Even then, if we hadn’t just happened to be there when she told him, we might never have figured it out.”
“Close. It was close. Judy Wynne’s an interesting person, isn’t she? Telling us what she suspected was hard for her. Having that happen to a kid…well. Moule’s an animal—better locked up. I can almost sympathize with Wynne, but he’ll have the wrong guy in his face if he’s hurt Jessie.”
“Wynne has no way of knowing we’ve arrested Moule. It may make a difference to him, if you’re right.”
The plane lurched to the left as a gust of wind shoved it across part of the sky. The lakes of the peninsula below were gunmetal gray under the heavy cloud cover.
Caswell was glad to have Alex talking about the case. It eased the stress a little. Cas was sure he was unaware that he had been almost imperceptibly rocking in his seat, as if he could encourage the plane to a greater speed with his body.
As if he had tuned in to his friend’s thought, Alex frowned and complained, for the fourth time, “Taking a long time, isn’t it?”
“We’re going against the wind. Slows us down some, but not too much. There’s Anchor Point. We’re almost there.”
Jensen nodded glumly, clenching his fists, frustrated with nothing positive to do. He did not want to think. He wanted to be there, do whatever needed to be done. Jessie was irreplaceable. He was trying not to consider how alarmed he was for her—how terrified of losing her. That was true, he admitted, he was frightened for himself—afraid Wynne would hurt her—kill her—to force him to exact punishment on Moule. The man had no way of knowing that they already knew Moule was not the responsible party; he would still be acting under the impression that his plan was working. So was this what Wynne wanted—planned? That Alex should suffer this kind of dread and blame it on Moule? He had to admit that the fear that filled his mind and made him conscious of his own ragged breathing was very effective in creating an overwhelming desire to lay hands on the source of the threat—and soon.
For another moment he considered what Jessie might be feeling—then drove it from his mind. She could be helpless, hurt…anything. It did no good to imagine what he couldn’t know—and not knowing was the worst of all. He made himself concentrate on the streets of Homer that were beginning to pass under their wings.
A few minutes later they dropped out of the sky and onto the waters of the lagoon, skipping twice as the wind tried its best to toss them back into the air, and taxied to shore, where they tied the plane down securely.
“Remember that flight into Nome, when it was blowing so hard?” Alex asked, recalling a storm that had once chased them from landing strip to landing strip during the Iditarod until Caswell was finally able to set cautiously down at the only possible airstrip.
“Yeah. That was another rough landing.”
“Not your fault. Most people couldn’t have made it at all—me included. My lunch was in my throat and Becker lost his, as I recall. Now, damnation, where’s the car that’s supposed to meet us?”
It seemed to Jensen that they would never find a boat to take them across Kachemak Bay to Niqa Island. The Coast Guard cutter was unavailable—gone to Seldovia to rescue a fishing boat caught out in the tempest and threatening to sink. Everyone else had hunkered down in the harbor, boats of various sizes and configurations tossing like corks at their moorings, waiting out the storm. None of them wanted to chance the condition of the bay.
It took the Homer trooper who had picked them up at the lagoon the better part of an hour to find someone willing to risk taking a boat to Niqa.
“This is Ted Carver,” the Homer trooper told them. “He says he’ll take you across in his water taxi.”
“That thing?” Caswell questioned, dubiously examining the medium-sized craft the trooper had indicated, which was rocking hard against its fenders at the dock. “I think I’d rather take my plane. This thing doesn’t look like it’ll float very long.”
“It’s really quite seaworthy,” Carver told him, in his optimistic way. “I’ve been out in worse weather and it was just fine. You’ll get bounced around, but we’ll make it. You going out to see Jessie Arnold? You friends of hers?”
Goddammit, Alex thought in disgust. Is there anyone in the area who doesn’t know Jessie’s on Niqa? How did this guy find out? Worse, who’s he told? In his hurry he didn’t bother to ask.
Carter, in his yellow waterproof suit, began to work with the lines at the bow and stern of his craft. Turning to the two still standing on the dock, he pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned.
“Come aboard and we’ll get going. The bay isn’t as rough as it was last night and earlier this morning. You’re in some kind of rush, huh?”
Well, Caswell decided, stepping into the boat, he looks sturdy enough to keep it on course, at least.
Ignoring the stream of questions, Jensen also climbed in and took a seat next to Caswell in the partial shelter of the cabin that was open to the rear. Carter cast off and started his engine.
It was a long and extremely unpleasant ride. If the waters of the bay were not as tumultuous as they had been earlier, it was not apparent to either of Carter’s passengers. Twice Caswell was sure they were going to roll over, but the buoyant craft somehow managed to right itself to continue its battle with the waves. He resolved that he would rather be in his plane in a hurricane than bouncing around where he currently found himself. Trouble in the air, and a person had a chance to reach the ground safely. Turn-turtle on this violent turbulence of water and wind, and he knew he would quickly drown. It was hard to be not in control, and he couldn’t wait to get back on solid ground, as they were tossed and thrown from one side of the boat to the other, grasping at anything handy to keep themselves upright and out of the waves that regularly hurled themselves aboard, soaking everything, including their pants and boots. The skipper had handed them waterproof slickers and life vests, which they prudently donned, but from the waist down they were drenched by the time the battered water taxi drew even with Niqa Island and Carter turned to yell back at them over his shoulder.
“Where do you want put ashore? Millie’s?”
Jensen nodded. It was where he had left Jessie—and where he expected to find or start looking for her.
“You’ll have to wade in,” Carter informed them. “I can’t take the boat any cl
oser or it’ll get hammered on the rocks.”
They lowered themselves into the surf from the back of the boat and were instantly half frozen. Struggling over the hidden unevenness of the stones on the bottom, they all but crawled out on the shore, then turned to wave their thanks as Carter swung his boat around to make the run to Tutka Bay.
“I’m not going back across till it calms down some more,” he had said as they disembarked—a comment that left Caswell wondering just how close they had been to actual disaster.
“Remind me not to ride with that guy again,” he told Alex. “He’s totally nuts.”
Jensen wasn’t listening. After quickly emptying the water from his boots, he was covering ground toward the house, which stood dark and silent at the top of the beach—no smoke from the chimney, no light inside. Neither Jessie nor anyone else had come out to see who had arrived in a boat they couldn’t possibly have missed. Nothing moved but a jay that flew away from a bench on the deck and into the trees as the two men went up the ramp and around to the side door.
It refused to open at Jensen’s attempt. Something was holding it solidly closed from the other side.
“Jessie,” he shouted, pounding on the door with his fist. “Are you in there?”
He remembered the day he had come home to find her barricaded in the Knik cabin, but here no one came to open the door.
“Dammit. Something’s really wrong here.”
Hurrying around the building, they found the back door hanging open, swinging gently in the wind. Inside, the house was cold and damp, with an abandoned feeling—as if no one had moved through it for some time.
“Where the hell is she?” Alex, growing more concerned at her absence, allowed his irritation to show.
“Maybe she’s gone across to the other cove,” Caswell suggested, “found a more secure place to wait out the storm.”
“She’d have left a note. Look—all the supplies she brought are still here. She’d have taken some of it, wouldn’t she?” he said, and stumbled over pieces of something that rattled on the floor near the kitchen. He picked them up with growing anxiety.
“This was the cell phone,” he observed in agitation, and gestured toward a shelf. “Millie’s radio’s been smashed, too.”
Caswell had been examining the front door, curious as to what had kept it from opening.
“Look at this, Alex. Jessie’s rigged a couple of pretty clever bolts on this door. Something must have scared her.”
“What’s scaring me is that I know he’s here. No question. He’s been in here. She wouldn’t have smashed up her only communications equipment. We’d better hike on over to the other cove—fast.”
30
The man who called himself Gill ate a leisurely breakfast after he made sure that Jessie and Tank were no threat.
“Who are you? Who are you after? Will you just tell me what you want?”
He refused to answer any more of her questions, focused instead on his own plans.
Tearing off a long piece of duct tape from a roll he had found in a storage cabinet, he made Jessie use it to muzzle Tank.
“Here. Tape his legs, too.” He handed her more of the sticky silver tape, and reluctantly she did as she was told, afraid he would kill the dog he disliked if she refused to comply.
He made her sit in a chair at the table.
“You can eat, then I’ll make sure you can’t get away again.”
“I’m not hungry,” she told him angrily.
He merely shrugged. “You’ll be sorry later, but it’s up to you. Here, put on your outdoor clothes. When I’m through eating, we’ll get out of here.”
Taping her wrists and elbows securely, he then sat down to the food she had cooked and now wished she had poisoned.
“Bastard,” she hissed, and he got up and slapped a strip of tape over her mouth before returning to his meal.
“Ah, Jessie,” he said between sips of coffee when he had eaten his fill. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
She glared at him in silence and shook her head.
“You’re the motivation. Because of what’s happening to you, he’ll finally get what’s coming to him. It’s nothing personal. I admire you—haven’t particularly enjoyed harassing you. But it’s the only way to make him pay for what he did. Understand?”
Oh, God, Jessie thought, it’s Alex. He’s after Alex—not me. When Alex can’t reach me, he’ll come looking for me, and this monster will be waiting for him, but he won’t know.
Her stomach lurched and she thought she was going to be sick, but she took a deep breath through her nose, and willed her nausea to subside.
“Don’t look so worried, Jessie. It’ll all be over soon. I promise.”
When he had finished eating, he left the plate on the table and stood up.
“I’m not going to carry you,” he told her. “Get up and walk to the door.”
Tank struggled in his bonds at her feet. She didn’t move, but stood beside him, looking first at her captor, then down at the husky.
He considered.
“All right—but you’ll have to carry him.”
Tank growled as the fake Gill picked him up and laid him across Jessie’s taped arms. It wasn’t easy to balance him without the free use of her arms, but she clutched him to her chest and managed, terrified he would be shot if she couldn’t.
Carrying the roll of duct tape, her handgun, and his own rifle, the stalker opened the door and waved her through it. They went down the steep flight of steps in silence.
When he directed her around the shop and across a flat meadow to the east, she knew they were headed for the goat shed. A small structure half hidden behind two trees, it was made of rough planks that had aged to a natural silvery gray and was almost invisible from the rest of the buildings. Tall grass and a tangle of berry bushes had grown up around it, further concealing its presence.
By the time they reached it, Tank had slipped in Jessie’s arms until only her grip around his chest kept her from dropping him. It couldn’t be comfortable, but, seeming to realize it was necessary, he had remained quiet and didn’t struggle or whine. She was relieved, however, when Gill opened the door, gestured her in and she could lay Tank on the ground.
With no windows, the shed was dark. In the light from the doorway, she could see an open duffel that seemed full of odds and ends of equipment. At a glance, she identified some rope, the handle of what might be a hammer, and another steel trap. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, she turned her head to the other end of the shed and was shocked to see a bound figure of a man lying on a moldering heap of old straw. He was taped and gagged like herself, wearing the jeans and black sweatshirt she had first seen on the stalker in Millie’s beach house. He didn’t move, but gave her a look of sympathy.
“Brought you some company, Gill,” her captor told him. “Leave the dog and sit over there, Jessie.”
She did as she was told, went to sit by the man she had already figured out must be the real pararescue person, and noticed he wore no shoes and that the white sock on his right foot was covered with blood. The trap. This was the man she had heard spring the trap by the bridge. No wonder he hadn’t avoided it—he hadn’t known it was there, hadn’t set it.
Now what? Tensely she waited for what Gill’s impersonator would do next.
Laying down the guns, he taped Jessie’s knees and ankles together, and though she tried to stiffen her legs to keep a little flexibility, he cinched them tight. It hurt and she hated feeling so completely helpless.
“Now,” he said, standing over them, “just stay put. Don’t give me any trouble and you’ll both be okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The hell you’re not, Jessie thought angrily, knowing he would never leave them alive to identify him. She knew she had to get loose somehow, get away to warn Alex before he walked, unknowing, into another of this madman’s ambushes.
Tossing aside the tape, he turned to rummage through the duffel and took ou
t a box of ammunition for his rifle. He went through Jessie’s pocket and found ammunition for her .44.
As he went to the door, Tank growled and shifted his position. The impostor paused, looking down at the dog thoughtfully, and scowled. He raised the rifle slightly, and Jessie could tell he was considering the satisfaction of killing the dog he hated.
All she could do was fall forward and make an angry sound past the tape on her mouth, but it was enough to draw his attention in her direction. He gave her a contemptuous look.
“Okay, Jessie. I’ll leave him—for now.”
Going out, he slammed the door behind him, leaving the three of them in what seemed total darkness. For a few seconds, heart in her throat, she could hear him going away. Then there was silence, as the breath of the wind replaced the sounds of his passing with its own rustle in the tall grass.
“Let’s check outside before we race off to the other cove,” Caswell suggested to Jensen. “There might be something to tell us what went down here, or which direction she went.”
“Good idea, but let’s make it quick.”
They examined the area around the beach house thoroughly, then went to the beach, where the tide was low, the storm abating quickly, and the waters of the cove recovering their usual calm colors. Caswell found what was left of the footprints Jessie and her stalker had made, high up in the sandy part of the beach. Most of them had been at least partially erased by the rain and blowing spray, but he pointed out what remained of the revealing depressions to Jensen.
“Some of these are pretty widely spaced. Looks like someone—more than one someone—went along here in a hurry.”
