A Cold War

by Alan Russell

  “You ever see him before or since?”

  Kenny shook his head.

  Greg Martin was waiting for Hamilton in his Seward office. The sergeant wasn’t surprised to see him. As a courtesy he’d called Martin and left a message that some of his wife’s jewelry had turned up in an Anchorage pawnshop. Martin had probably already talked to the Anchorage cops or with AST. He’d likely come to Seward as a last resort. Martin knew Hamilton was still working his wife’s disappearance. Everyone else had put it on the back burner.

  The two men eyed each other warily. There were still hard feelings between them. Hamilton had never been fully convinced of Martin’s innocence in his wife’s disappearance. The guy certainly wasn’t as squeaky-clean as he’d tried to come across.

  Martin wasn’t any more enamored of him, he knew. The guy had blasted Hamilton to the press, categorizing him as “Barney Fife.” Of course, he hadn’t been any more charitable to the Alaska State Troopers, calling them “Keystone Cops.” When asked for a comment, Hamilton had replied, “Apparently what Mr. Martin knows about police work comes from old movies and television shows.”

  “May I sit?” asked Martin, his words more a challenge than a request.

  Hamilton gestured to a chair. He hadn’t seen Greg Martin in almost two years, but he’d kept tabs on him. Martin had aged; his boyish looks were transitioning to a more adult appearance. Now he was beginning to look his age. At thirty-two, he even had a few gray hairs.

  Welcome to my world, thought the forty-eight-year-old cop.

  “Thank you for calling me about Elese’s jewelry turning up.”

  Hamilton shrugged. “I told you I would keep you up-to-date with the case if there was any news. I make a point of keeping my word, even though you seemed to have some very public doubts about that.”

  “Tell me you’d be practicing your best etiquette if your wife was stolen away. Am I still your prime suspect?”

  “You’re still a person of interest.”

  “So nothing’s changed, right?”

  “It looks like your circumstances have changed. Those are some nice threads you’re wearing. Around here I rarely see Italian designer shoes.”

  Instead of hiding the shoes, Martin raised them up for his inspection. “So, what you’re really saying is that I’ve benefited financially from my wife’s disappearance?”

  “If the Bruno Maglis fit.”

  Martin laughed. “Would you rather I was wearing sackcloth and ashes?”

  “You aggressively pursued a payout of your wife’s insurance policy. I heard you threatened to sue them for bad faith to get the money.”

  “They were looking for any excuse not to pay. And I needed the money after you and your ilk tarred my reputation. No one was very keen on hiring the geologist who was involved with the disappearance of his wife. It’s taken me all this time to rebuild my career. And now I’m going to use that insurance money to help find my wife’s killer.”

  Hamilton raised his brows. “How are you so sure she’s dead?”

  “It’s no coincidence that her jewelry has now turned up. The timing tells me it’s something more.”

  “The timing of what?”

  “This,” said Martin. He waved the copy of the Anchorage Times he’d been holding and tapped the banner headline. The typeface was big enough that Hamilton didn’t even have to squint to read it. DONNELLY’S FIANCÉE MISSING!

  “You’re thinking there’s a connection between Donnelly’s fiancée and Elese’s disappearance?”

  “My wife’s jewelry turns up at the same time Nina Granville goes missing.”

  “There are a lot of people who think Nina Granville went missing on her own accord.”

  “Elese went missing in September,” Martin said, “and three years later, this woman disappears in September as well. I don’t think the timing is a coincidence. The abductor is counting on winter to cover his tracks.”

  “The abductions happened in different cities,” said Hamilton. “Your wife got taken in Seward, and this Granville woman went missing in Fairbanks. As for your wife’s jewelry, it turned up in Anchorage.”

  Martin pointed to the picture of Granville on the front page. “Look at this picture. Nina Granville and my wife could be sisters. They could almost be twins.”

  “Newspaper pictures always look alike.”

  Martin shook his head. “I looked up some other pictures of Nina Granville on the Internet. She’s a few years older than Elese, but they have the same dark hair, the same blue eyes, the same figure, and they’re virtually the same height and weight.”

  Hamilton reached for the newspaper and looked at the picture of Nina Granville. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. And there was no doubt she looked like Elese Martin—but that wasn’t something he said aloud.

  “You talked to the suspect who pawned Elese’s jewelry, didn’t you?”

  Hamilton scratched his chin and wondered who Martin’s source was. Someone in AST had probably passed on some information just to get rid of him. “I still have an interest in the case,” he said.

  Elese Martin had gone missing on his watch in his town. AST had taken over the investigation, but Hamilton had never been able to let it go. It stung his pride being painted as a country bumpkin with a badge. He was a good cop.

  “What did he say about the jewelry?” said Martin.

  “He traded the jewelry to a large, bearded man for pills.”

  “What kind of pills?”

  “Date-rape kind,” said Hamilton, “Rohypnol.”

  Martin sat up straighter. “I’ll bet he used those pills on Donnelly’s fiancée.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  “Everything fits: the timing, his trading the jewelry for the pills, the way Elese and Nina Granville look alike.”

  “That all might just be a coincidence,” said Hamilton.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I try not to jump to conclusions, either,” Hamilton said, and then pointedly added, “It’s my job to be skeptical.”

  “Four days ago he got his pills,” Martin insisted, “three days ago Elese’s jewelry was pawned, and yesterday Nina Granville turned up missing.”

  “You didn’t mention one piece of jewelry,” Hamilton said, “and that’s Granville’s engagement ring. You wear a ring worth a quarter of a million dollars, and you better believe it’s going to attract some attention, usually the wrong kind. That might explain her disappearance.”

  Martin shook his head. “When Elese was abducted, there was speculation that she was taken for her valuables, but since her jewelry just turned up now, I guess we both know that’s proved to be bullshit. I don’t think this woman was taken for her ring, either.”

  “The guy who pawned Elese’s jewelry said our suspect had a dark beard. He called him ‘Blackbeard.’”

  “Blackbeard,” said Martin, nodding his approval. “Right now Blackbeard is trying to do his Cheshire cat thing. He thinks all he’s left behind is his smile. We can’t let him get away with it again.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nina was used to pushing through pain. In high school she’d discovered distance running and had kept up a running regimen ever since. Endurance was her greatest strength. She was more the tortoise than the hare, able to press on for mile after mile. She tried to run in at least half a dozen marathons every year. The solitary bumper sticker on her car read 26.2. Other marathoners knew what that signified: the distance of a marathon was 26.2 miles. Quitting wasn’t something Nina did, but now she was being pushed to her limit.

  They had walked most of the night; Baer said they needed to be at the river at first light. He kept reminding her that if she was to have her finger successfully reattached, they needed to hurry. That had been carrot enough for Nina. But now that she was looking at the raft, she found herself balking. This wasn’t a Zodiac, but a platform of spindly trees that had been spliced together.

  “You can’t be serious,” she s
aid.

  “It will save us more than ten miles of walking.”

  “So will a grave.”

  “She floats like a dream. I built her with a lot of care.”

  Nina looked disdainfully at his creation and then at the river. Ice was forming at the water’s edge, and she could guess how cold the river had to be. “I’m no Huck Finn.”

  “You’ll get on the fucking barge, Cleopatra, whether you like it or not.”

  His voice dared her to challenge him; unspoken were the consequences of her refusal.

  Nina stepped aboard the raft.

  From the shore the current had appeared gentle, but once Nina boarded the raft, her perspective changed. The current was moving much faster than she expected—or liked. Because the craft wasn’t watertight, frigid water oozed up through all the cracks. She’d covered her feet and body with the plastic bags Baer had insisted on, but the spray still found a way to get through.

  Baer worked to keep them close to the shore. He had a long wooden branch that was in constant motion, whether as a rudder or a pole or an oar. Their passage was mostly calm, punctuated by mad dashes and frothing water. Nina’s tiredness staved off her panic more than anything else. She didn’t scream when they almost flipped over, even knowing that falling into the cold water could very well mean her death. Overcome by shock and exhaustion, it was all she could do to hold on.

  Her senses were already overloaded when Baer began singing “O Sole Mio.”

  This can’t be happening, Nina thought.

  They were on a rickety raft fighting the current of an Alaskan river, and Baer was acting like a Venetian gondolier. He stared at her and sang:

  “O sole mio

  sta ’nfronte a te!

  O sole

  O sole mio

  sta ’nfronte a te!

  sta ’nfronte a te!”

  Nina knew the tune, but not the words. To hear them here, though, under these conditions was more than surreal. In fact, Nina was sure it was the most bizarre thing she had ever experienced. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Was she traveling the River Styx with Charon at the helm? Or was this a Marx Brothers film taking place on the canals of Venice?

  Baer finished his song. “Hold on,” he warned, dipping his pole deep into the water.

  He fought the current, pushing and poling, until he brought the raft skidding and clawing atop a gravel bank. Wet and shivering, Nina jumped ashore.

  Baer secured the raft and untied the cargo. The bags had somehow survived their journey. He opened up the emergency bag, took out one of the tarps, and spread it on the ground. Then he surprised Nina with some dry socks, gloves, and a sweater.

  “Nothing will kill you faster than cold hands and feet,” he said. “Get off your wet things while I make a fire.”

  She removed her socks, gloves, and coat, replacing them with the dry items. It took Baer less than five minutes to build a roaring fire. Next to it he constructed a lean-to from branches and laid out their wet articles of clothing. Nina almost cried tears of happiness when he presented her with a PowerBar. Between the food and fire, she soon nodded off.

  Nina didn’t know how long she slept, only that it didn’t feel like long enough.

  “If you want to get back to the Hamptons,” said Baer, “we need to get moving.”

  Nina stood slowly, trying to hide how unsteady she felt. Since being abducted and drugged, she’d suffered enforced marches, the elements, and dehydration. All of that had left her exhausted. Baer led the way, seemingly effortlessly, pulling behind him his makeshift sled and all their possessions. Nina trudged along after him, following his trail.

  The space between them gradually lengthened. Nina’s entire body hurt. She was sure she was black and blue all over from being tossed around the cargo hold. Now she knew what it felt like to be tumble-dried.

  Each step was more difficult than the last. When she ran marathons, she’d developed tricks for continuing when she didn’t think she could. She would imagine some carrot. Maybe it was the idea of a smoothie or mocha iced coffee that she promised herself at the end of the race. Sometimes the idea of a bubble bath was enough, or the mental promise of sitting down to a hot fudge sundae or eating a tub of buttered popcorn.

  But her mind and body were both failing her now. She didn’t know what lay at the end of this workout, and she was afraid to find out. The promise of reattaching her finger wasn’t enough. Her tank was empty, and nothing she could think of could keep her going. She felt like a windup doll running down.

  “I can’t go on.”

  Nina wasn’t sure if she said the words aloud or just thought them. Only when Baer turned toward her was she sure that she’d spoken.

  “It’s only another six miles or so,” he said.

  “Can’t,” Nina said, coming to a complete stop.

  She began sinking into the boggy ground. If she didn’t move, if she didn’t pull herself out of the muck, maybe the swamplike tundra would just swallow her. The death march would be over.

  Even the elements turned against her; it began to sleet. Nina didn’t have the strength to bundle up or the inertia to put one of the plastic bags over her head. She was at the mercy of whatever the sky threw at her.

  “You need to drink,” said Baer. “You need to eat. Your body is shutting down.”

  He was probably right, but she didn’t care. She made no move to drink from her bottle, just continued to stand there, swaying with the wind. As the cold wind blew at her, she wondered if she should let it topple her over to the ground. She’d read somewhere that freezing to death was one of the more pleasant ways to die. Supposedly you just went to sleep and never woke up. She hoped that was true.

  “Here,” said Baer, thrusting his bottle at her.

  She looked at the bottle, but was slow to react, or at least too slow for Baer’s liking. He slapped her, and she staggered backward. Nina’s face burned, and she could feel the imprint of his gloved hand on her face.

  He extended the bottle again, and she took it and started drinking.

  “More,” said Baer.

  Nina methodically drank until she finished all the water, and all that remained was ice.

  He took the bottle back and said, “We need to get moving. If we don’t move, we’ll die.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I need—time.”

  He could hit her, but it wouldn’t make her move. And if he left, she wouldn’t run after him. Even death no longer seemed like such a threat.

  He studied her. Nina was sure he would hit her again or threaten her, but he did neither. She wished she could be the enigma that he was. She couldn’t get a read on her captor; he was foreign to her thinking.

  He must have seen something in her that convinced him that neither his blows nor his threats would get her moving. Bending down, he made space on the salvaged airplane door that he’d been using as a makeshift sled for their bags and provisions.

  “Get on,” he said.

  Nina was too tired to know if she was happy or sad that her journey was not yet ended. She sat down, and Baer rearranged some of the items on top of her lap.

  “If you don’t want to lose your fingers and toes to frostbite,” he said, “you better remember to keep wiggling them.”

  “I already lost a finger,” she thought, or perhaps said aloud.

  Baer began pulling the sled. Nina curled up, lowering her head between her knees. She didn’t want to see. The landscape around them seemed to be endless and endlessly dispiriting. It was hostile and foreign, and it frightened her. She draped her coat around her in hopes of escaping the sleet, cold, and wind, but there seemed to be no position where the elements didn’t find her.

  Just when she thought nothing could get worse, Baer started reciting his favorite poem:

  “Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

  Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.

  He was always cold, but the l
and of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

  Though he’d often say in his homely way that ‘he’d sooner live in hell.’”

  The howling awakened Nina from her cold stupor. She’d thought her skin was so frozen as to be insensate to anything, but the primordial cries sent a current up and down her body and made her sit up straight. Wolves, she thought. From her sled she looked around, but she saw no pack.

  The howls grew louder, and Nina reacted to them, picking up a piece of the salvaged airplane prop and holding it like a spear. Over the howls she heard a wheezing sound, and then realized it was Baer’s laughter.

  “You never heard dogs before, cheechako?” he asked.

  “Dogs? But I thought . . .”

  When she realized what he was telling her, tears started dropping from Nina’s eyes. The dogs meant one thing: her freedom. When they’d set out from the downed plane, Baer had said there would be a dog team waiting for them. They’d made it to the dogs. Everything was going to be all right. She and Baer would ride the dog team to the drop spot, and after he got his money, she would be released.

  “Thank God,” she finally managed to say. “Thank God.”

  “It’s time you got out of the sled and got your blood flowing,” Baer said. “It’s another half mile to the dogs.”

  Nina exited the sled on wobbly legs. She no longer cared how cold she was or how every part of her body hurt. Her nightmare would soon be over, and all of this would be behind her.