by Scott Blade
Peter waited. He saw Cutty's store in front of Widow on a street corner. Widow entered the store.
Peter knew Widow would be returning the pack with no damages because he had taken a look at it. But that wasn’t going to stop Cutty or one of his front store guys from doing what Cutty taught them to do, which was to delay and inspect and ask about any little sign of damage from their use. They went through a whole orchestrated show, trying to get the client to admit they didn’t notice that loose thread or that scratched buckle or that jammed zipper.
Widow wasn’t going to fall for any of it. Peter knew that. He figured the longest Widow would be in the store was ten minutes.
He took out his cell phone, walked back into a dark, shaded corner of a building, and dialed the last number in his call directory.
The Broadcaster asked, “Peter. That was fast. Is he gone?”
Peter squeezed the phone. He wasn’t the kind of man who feared anyone. He was a big guy himself. He had been in fights. He was a good fighter. He never lost a fight. Not once. He was so good and so big and intimidating that he worked as street muscle for hire—once upon a time. He had been around the block.
Peter feared the Broadcaster.
Peter said, “Not yet.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“We just landed in Kodiak. He’s returning some gear he rented now.”
“Is he leaving after that?”
“I think so.”
The Broadcaster said, “It is your responsibility to get rid of him.”
“I understand.”
“Do I need to remind you what I can do to you?”
“No. You don’t.”
“Good.”
Peter thought he better ask questions that feigned interest. He wanted to be a team player. He wanted the guy on the phone to know that he was dedicated to doing his part.
He asked, “Did you find anything out about him yet? Did you run his name through any databases yet?”
“I don’t run names. I ask someone underneath me to do that.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant." The Broadcaster interrupted Peter. "Nothing’s shown up so far. But don’t worry. We’ll check all of them. This Jack Widow will show up.”
The phone went silent for a long moment.
Peter said, “I get the feeling he’s a cop.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just the way he carries himself. I know cops. And this guy seems like a cop.”
“A cop in the middle of the wilderness? Doesn’t seem likely. Then again, an undercover cop who wanted an angle into our situation certainly could do it that way. But he’d have to have known Liddy would be out there by himself. Plus, the bear you mentioned. What, did this Widow guy get the bear to go along with it all? I doubt it.”
Peter said, “Yeah. You’re right.”
The Broadcaster said, “Still, you did the right thing calling me as soon as you did. We can’t be too careful. Even now.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“I want you to know I don’t overlook good work. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“Just because I don’t tolerate failure doesn’t mean hard work won’t be rewarded. You understand?”
“I do, boss.”
“Good. Then you heard the part about not tolerating failure?”
Peter said nothing.
The Broadcaster said, “Don’t ever let Liddy leave without you again! The next time he ventures out and you’re not with him, you’re done.”
Peter swallowed hard and said, “Okay. What do you want me to do about this Widow guy?”
“Make sure he leaves. Make sure he knows not to come back.”
“Limitations?”
“Don’t kill the guy. Don’t put him in the hospital. We want him to be able to walk away today. No questions asked. But we also don’t want him coming back.”
“You got it, boss.”
The Broadcaster hung the phone up, and the call was gone.
Peter stared at the time on his phone’s screen. He figured five more minutes at the most for Widow to return the rucksack and jump through Cutty’s hoops and exit the store.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and waited.
14
Widow spent ten minutes on an encounter with a store clerk named Edmond, a name that seemed out of place in the town of Kodiak. Making friendly banter, Widow asked the guy where he was from, to which he replied, “Here. Never been anywhere else.”
The store clerk went through a whole inspection process with the returned, rented rucksack. He laid it out on a glass counter like in a jewelry store and emptied the contents. It was all routine and mundane by design so that the customer would get bored and step away and browse the stores other items in the hopes that either the customer might buy something on impulse, or they wouldn’t pay attention to anything that Edmond might do to the rented equipment. It was a tactic used all over the world in shops by store owners and their employees. The act itself ranged from a little dishonest to a flat-out illegal. But it happened a million times a day.
It didn’t work on Widow. He stayed right where he was and watched.
Edmond took out a clipboard with two stapled pages. It was typed with empty check boxes at the end of statements, like any rental inspection.
Edmond went down the list, pulling out items, inspecting them thoroughly, front and back, top and bottom of everything. He checked the boxes as he went along.
Widow watched him do it. He watched each and every item. The items all seemed in order and clean and intact and in the same condition he checked them out in. Every item but one.
Edmond stopped on a metal coffee mug that came standard with Cutty’s Camper Pro package. This was the package Widow rented. He chose it because it came standard with the largest supply of coffee beans. It also came with a campfire percolator, which he would need to make coffee.
Edmond held the coffee cup up to the light and inspected the outside and then the inside. He arched an eyebrow and stared into the cup. He inspected it a long time. He looked like a guy staring into the barrel of a gun, checking to make sure it wasn’t jammed.
Edmond made a sound like an overrehearsed, overdramatic sigh, which Widow figured he had done a thousand times before.
Widow asked, “Problem?”
Edmond put the mug down and said, “No. It just looks far more worn than it did before.”
“I drank a lot of coffee.”
Edmond said nothing to that.
Widow said, “That’s what it’s for. Right?”
Edmond said, “Coffee stains are hard to get out. I’ll have to mark this as 'Needs cleaning.'”
“That gonna be an issue?”
“No. But I’ll have to take the fee out of your deposit.”
Widow stared back at him in disbelief but stayed quiet.
Edmond returned to inspecting the other items, and then he checked out the interior of the rucksack. He checked the buttons, snaps, buckles, and zippers. Everything was in order.
Finally, Edmond returned all the items to the rucksack and set it down behind the counter. He signed the bottom of the inspection report and reversed it and slid the clipboard over to Widow. He handed Widow the pen.
“Sign the bottom, please,” Edmond said.
Widow took the pen and signed on the line. He set the pen on top and slid the clipboard back to Edmond.
Edmond left it there and stepped over to a cash register behind the counter and pressed some buttons, and the drawer popped open. He reached in and came out with a short manila envelope. He took out the envelope and closed the drawer. He opened the envelope and pulled out a wad of cash. Widow recognized it. It was a hundred dollars in four twenty dollar bills and a ten and two fives. It was his money, his original bills he deposited to rent the gear in the first place.
Edmond peeled off one of the fives and returned the rest to Widow.
Widow took it and stare
d at him. He said, “The cleaning fee for a stained coffee tin is five dollars?”
“That’s right.”
Widow stared at him in such a way that the guy started to sense his life might be in danger. Which it wasn’t, but the thought crossed Widow’s mind.
No sense lingering on about it or loitering there over five dollars. So Widow pocketed the remainder and shoved his hands into his pockets. He spun around and walked to the door to leave.
Edmond called out behind him. “Don’t you want your receipt?”
Widow stopped at the door and shrugged, back turned to the clerk. He walked out and back onto the street.
Widow looked left and started to look right but stopped on movement across the street on the opposite corner. There were a series of shops across the street. One of them, a bakery’s front door was slowly closing behind a figure that darted inside. The figure had darted fast like he was hiding from someone. It was impulsive for sure. Widow stared, but he couldn’t see the figure. So he ignored it.
At the same second, a car horn honked in the distance, and a motorcycle engine roared to life down the block.
Widow left Cutty’s and headed west. He zigzagged a few streets and rounded a curve that led him over a hill. He was looking for the ferry that went back to the mainland. He remembered it was down by the docks but far from where Peter had given him the warm goodbye.
He passed through shoppers and people just out for a morning stroll. There were plenty of guys in fishing gear, some in hunting gear, walking the streets. A beautiful woman crossed out in front of him. She was walking and talking on her cell phone. She was dressed like she didn’t belong there. She was in heels and a skirt. There was a shopping bag under her arm. She talked on her phone and paid Widow no attention.
She didn’t look like anyone he knew. It was just that she was attractive that made him think of Sonya Gray.
Suddenly, he wondered about her. They had been in Alaska together just last year. She would be surprised that he was here again.
What was she up to? Was she working a new case? Was she thinking of him?
Widow glanced right and saw the first and only post office he had seen the whole time he had spent on the island. And a thought occurred to him. Maybe he should get a postcard for Gray? When’s the last time he did that? He couldn’t remember.
Widow smiled and crossed the street over to the post office. It was a tiny white building with a deep-red door and glass windows everywhere. He dipped inside.
The interior was small. There was a single countertop with those blue and white colors all over the place. There were chest-high aisles with rows of envelopes and package boxes all of various sizes.
Behind the counter was enough space for two post office workers, but there was only one. A short woman of about late forties sat behind the counter. She had dark skin. She looked to be direct native decent, perhaps Sun’aq, which was the dominant native tribe originally from the island. She had big happy eyes and a smile on her face to match.
Above her was a long plastic display lit up by a backlight. The US Postal Service seal was on it along with information about pricing for shipping and mailing.
She looked at Widow and spoke almost as cheerfully as her smile.
“Hello. Welcome, sir. Can I help you with something?”
Widow walked up to the counter and laid a hand on top. He smiled back at her and realized that he had been wrong. She wasn’t seated. She was standing. She was just that short. She might’ve been five foot zero, maybe.
He said, “I’m thinking about getting a postcard for a friend of mine.”
“Oh cool!” she said. The smile didn’t budge.
“What’s that cost from here?”
“Where does he live?”
“It’s for a she. And she lives in Washington, DC.”
“A postcard is thirty-five cents from inside the US.”
Widow asked, “From here?”
“As long as it’s going from inside the US to anywhere inside the US, it’s same price.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Among the fifty states.”
“Good to know.”
She asked, “What kind of postcard are you looking for?”
“What kind do you have?”
The postal woman pointed to a far corner behind Widow. She came out from behind the counter, pointed behind Widow, and said, “The postcards are over there near that aisle. But we have some holiday cards in the back.”
He asked, “Holiday?”
She stared up at him. She had to crane her head way back to look into his face.
She said, “You know, for the Christmas season.”
“This early?”
“We get the cards this early so we can put them out next month.”
“You guys put out Christmas-themed postcards in October?”
“No Christmas themed. We can’t just endorse a religion like that. We do 'Seasons Greetings' and winter holiday–themed cards. You know? No Santa Claus on a card, but some of them have snowmen or snowy scenery.”
Widow nodded and said, “I don’t need anything like that.”
The postal woman walked Widow back to the corner where there was a spinning rack filled with postcards.
She asked, “What’s the nature of your relationship with this woman?”
Widow thought for a hard moment. “Friend.”
“Okay. Well, here there are generic postcards,” she said and pointed at a row from top to bottom of postcards. “They’ll all work for a friend.”
She spun the rack and stopped and gestured again from top to bottom.
“Here’s a variety of types of cards. Parents. Siblings. Children. Some are humorous. Some are regular.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The postal woman said, “My name is Uki. If you need anything.”
Widow smiled and said, “Thank you, Uki. I’ll let you know.”
She nodded and spun around and walked back to her post at the counter.
Widow turned to the cards and started going through them. He thought about Gray. What kind of postcard should he get her? He sifted through the cards, spending too much time reading over them. Some had words. Most were just pictures of Alaska.
He spent some time in the humor section. He laughed out loud a couple of times, but in the end, he chose a colorful postcard with two Kodiak bears on it. They stared off into the sunset over the mountains. Most of the card was bright and chirpy and jovial. Even though Gray and Widow had been in Alaska following a deadly investigation, he regarded his time with her as more intimate and romantic.
He picked up the card and walked back down the aisle. He looked at Uki, who stood ready behind the counter to ring him up. A foot before he stopped walking, he glanced to his left at an old corkboard on the wall. It was nearly buried behind post office posters and advertisements.
Widow stopped and set the postcard down on the countertop, but he kept his attention on the corkboard.
“Will this be all for you?” Uki asked.
Widow said, “Give me a second.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
Widow left her at her post and slid down the counter to the end. He stopped dead in front of the corkboard on the wall. He stared at it.
On the corkboard were a bunch of community advertisements. Some looked professional. Some looked like they were created at someone’s kitchen table with construction paper and a black sharpie. There were ads for work needed and work wanted. There were ads for roommates wanted and roommates needing a place to live. There was one about a missing dog with pictures of the dog and a bunch of torn pieces of paper off the bottom, which was the owner’s personal phone number. There was a thousand-dollar reward for finding and returning this dog. There were ads for automobiles and snowmobiles and fishing equipment. There was one ad with a photo of a homely looking woman who was "seeking a man"—exact words.
None of these ads were what interested Widow. What stopped him in his tr
acks was something he hadn’t seen in years. It was an eight-by-ten poster that read, "FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted," at the top. Underneath, there were ten black-and-white photographs of men. Each with a name, age, description, last-seen report, and the crimes they were wanted for.
Widow stared at it a long minute like a moth to a bug zapper. He was entranced by it. It was like he was staring at an important puzzle piece, and his cop brain was telling him something, but he couldn’t connect the dots.
Uki asked, “Everything okay?”
Widow looked up and saw she had moved to that end of the counter. He asked, “You guys still put out the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted list?”
“We do. Although, it’s mainly digital now. We mostly do it out of tradition. We’re big on law and order here. Alaska is more of a red state, you know?”
Widow nodded and returned to the counter. He went back to the postcard and slid it over to her side of the counter.
“I’ll take this.”
“Do you want me to mail it for you?” Uki asked.
“Yes. That would be great.”
Uki looked down and reached her hand under the counter and came out with a pen. She set it down in front of Widow.
“Fill it out, and I’ll drop it in the mail for you today.”
Widow took the pen and filled out the postcard. He closed his eyes and pictured Gray and her little house with the Bonsai trees and her dog and her view of the Potomac River. He pictured the address on the mailbox.
He opened his eyes and filled out the information on the back of the postcard. Then he froze. He didn’t know what to write to her.
Miss you was what he wanted to write, but he didn’t. Thinking of you was another accurate impulse, but he didn’t write that either. Wish you were here was also a true statement, but he didn’t write that either.
Widow stood there for a long moment, pen in hand, ready to write, but what? He couldn’t think of the right thing to put.
Uki said, “Maybe you should take it with you. Something good will come to you. Just drop it in any public mailbox along your travels.”
