Deadfall (14 page)

Still smiling, she went on up the trail that now crossed ground that was more level and soon joined the other path, which had meandered its way up a less demanding route.

The machete now became useful, for this part of the way to the other cove had been cut directly through a dense thicket of salmonberry that grew rapidly in season, constantly attempting to reclaim the trail with long, thorny runners. Here and there, Jessie swung the heavy knife to cut the ones that had overreached themselves and intruded into the way. It would have been easier without the shotgun, but, hanging it over her shoulder, she soon found a rhythm with the blade. At first she could feel the ache and pull of bruised arm and shoulder muscles, but as she warmed to the physical activity, that soon lessened.

On one runner she found a few late berries, past ripe, somehow missed by the birds, but still clinging to the vine like rubies that shone in the half-light under the trees. The seven or eight that dropped into her hand were swiftly conveyed to her mouth, their sweetness bursting on her tongue. She gathered enough of the youngest leaves to steep later in the day, for they made a pleasantly flavorful tea.

The rest of the trail ran without impediment, curving back and forth, up and down through the forest, until it began a definite descent toward the eastern cove. Broad expanses of devil’s club, flat leaves turned skyward, filled the open spaces between the tall trees—drums for the soft tapping fingers of the rain.

Jessie and Tank came to open ground high on the bluff above the cove. Beneath one of the last trees, she paused to look out across the broad expanse of Eldred Passage to the south and east. The heavy overcast hid the sharp peaks of the Kenai Range and fog shrouded the mainland around Tutka Bay, but much of the arm of ocean and its islands was visible
and obscurely beautiful through the curtain of mist and rain—like a pencil sketch on soft gray paper.

Still following the path, they went down between tall grasses, crossed a tiny bridge over the trickle of a creek, and passed between a small, dark, shuttered house that belonged to one of Millie’s daughters, and a large garden space with a tall wire fence to discourage the island’s animal residents. On the opposite side of the building was a berry patch, similarly fenced.

Beyond these, a long weathered stairway led forty feet down to the foot of the bluff. Between it and a ridge of sand and driftwood where the beach began lay a wide space full of grass still green in the damp weather. Within this open space was a large multiple-use building, the ground floor of which, Jessie knew, was a shop and storage area for tools and equipment. The upper story held two rooms of living space—a combination kitchen and dining area, and a more open room with a woodstove, bed, and work space. On the east end of the rectangular building, behind the shop, a sauna and deck had been added.

“Let’s go check the wood and water supply for the sauna,” she said to Tank, and started down the steep stairway. “Maybe we’ll come over later, or tomorrow, and heat it up. Not you. You’d hate it, buddy. But me—for sure. Steam out the rest of the sore spots and get really clean.”

As they went around the back of the shop building, she searched in her pocket and found the keys, but upon reaching the door to the sauna she was surprised to find it unlocked, the hasp hanging open, its usual padlock nowhere to be seen. Split wood was piled neatly under a tarp on the deck and two buckets stood just inside the door in the empty outer dressing room, where a bench ran around two sides and towels hung from several pegs on the wall. An overlooked bottle of shampoo lay on its side on the floor. The scents of heat, soap, and damp wood hung in the enclosed air.

“Hey, somebody forgot to lock up. I’ll bet the lock’s up
stairs. We’ll go up and find it in a minute and have a cup of tea before we start back, okay? Let you dry off?”

She opened the door to the inner room of the sauna itself and was surprised as a breath of warmish, damp air hit her face. Frowning, she looked in. Light from two tall slender windows allowed her to see that the room was empty and the wooden ledges, used for sitting or reclining in the heat, were dry. A half-filled bucket of water stood near the woodstove that supplied heat. Positioned in a box full of beach rocks, the stone opened to the outdoors so wood didn’t have to be carried in, and had a chimney that ran up through the roof. As it heated the rocks, water could be splashed directly onto them, creating the rejuvenating, luxurious steam. Water could also be heated in buckets placed on the stove or stones—in fact, one sat there now.

Jessie stepped closer, dipped her fingers into the water it contained, and immediately jerked them out again—not burned, but startled.

It was lukewarm!
Not hot—but almost warm—when she had expected cold.

She stared at her hand, disbelieving. Then, slowly, she laid it against the cast iron of the stove.

This was also warm—slightly warmer, even.

What the hell was going on? She was supposed to be the only one on the island. But someone had clearly been here—used the sauna—and quite recently. Not this morning, she calculated; in the warm room, partially insulated by the rocks it lay among, the stove would have been warmer now if that were the case.

But last night. Someone had been here, soaking in the steam,
last night
.

Who?

J
ensen went to work on Sunday as if it were a workday, having spent a quiet, but not restful night at the cabin on Knik Road. He had not put new glass in the broken window, but had taped and nailed several plywood strips across the outside of it. His priority was making progress with the case, not taking the time for repairs. He locked the door and headed for the Palmer office.

If this loony wants in, he’ll get in, whether I change the glass or not, he decided.

“P
orter’s still in an Arizona prison,” Becker told him, when the young trooper arrived to help just after noon. “Incarcerated in Florence, about sixty miles south of Phoenix. Won’t even come up for parole for a long time yet.”

“And the brother?”

“Harold Porter. From all we know, he moved to Phoenix to be near Calvin when he was transferred and hasn’t been back since. I put in a call to the PPD and they’ll check him out for us—at least see if he’s still in residence. Considering that he did a couple of years here for a drug deal and has a sheet almost as long as Calvin’s, they may have something on him there.”

“Those letters were mailed in Anchorage, not Phoenix. If he’s still there, we can probably eliminate him from the list, right?”

“Well…maybe,” Becker said, frowning. “Let’s wait and see what we get back. How about Moule?”

“He’s out, like I thought, and still in the area. Don’t know exactly where yet. I’ll call his parole officer tomorrow and find out, but there’ve been no additional arrests, so he may be behaving himself.”

“Or just hasn’t been caught. Going to give Mary Lou Collins to Caswell?”

“I told him not to come in. Linda needs help getting around at home, and we can do without him today. I thought I’d see if I could get a line on Collins—see if she still lives next door to the old lady she
allegedly
killed—though she probably moved. The neighbors were pretty upset.”

“You tried the phone book?”

“No listing. She may have left town. If we can’t track her down, we’ll try Anchorage.”

H
e was right—she had moved. The door was opened by a small boy of two or three wearing nothing but damp training pants and a grubby T-shirt. The floor of the cluttered room behind him was littered with Matchbox cars and oversized Lego blocks, amid a spilled scattering of dry cereal of some kind. A large orange cat sprang down from the back of a couch to vanish behind it.

“Hi, there,” Becker said, crouching down to be on the same level. “Is your mommy home?”

The child shook his head from side to side.

“Then is your daddy here?”

Again the slow negative shake.

“Is someone taking care—”

“Simon?
Simon?
” an exasperated voice called from somewhere in the back of the apartment. Close behind it, a thin, frowning young woman came out of what appeared to be a bedroom, a baby in a disposable diaper balanced on her hip.

“I told you
not
to
open the door
.”

Grabbing the small boy by one arm, she pushed him toward a green chair with worn upholstery. “Sit there and be quiet.”

He hadn’t uttered a word, and didn’t now. He also didn’t sit, as instructed, but stopped just short of the chair and continued his inspection of Jensen and Becker.

“Who are
you
?” the woman demanded.

Alex introduced himself and showed her his identification. She gave him a harassed look and did not invite them in.

“So—what do you
want
?”

“We’re looking for a woman who used to live here, Mary Lou Collins. Do you know her? Is she still here?”

Her scowl grew even more pronounced.

“I don’t
live
here. I’m just the baby-sitter for these two rugrats while their mother is at work in Anchorage. She’s a waitress at the Sourdough Mining Company, and Sunday’s big. She works lunch
and
dinner today.”

“Is her name Collins?”

“Not
even
close. Nancy Stilton. You’ll have to ask
her
about that other name. She’ll be back at about nine tonight.”

He started to thank her, but the door slammed shut before he finished, and they could hear her voice full of shrill irritation, berating young Simon for his transgression.

“How many times have I
told
you,
never…never…never
to open…”

Becker raised his eyebrows as they turned away from the apartment. “With that every day, he might welcome strangers. The restaurant?”

“Let’s try this apartment next door,” Jensen suggested, having spotted a twitch in the curtains of the unit to the right.

A knock on this door solicited a prolonged hesitation, as if whoever lived there was pretending not to have been eaves-dropping, or didn’t want to answer. After a second knock, they heard the sounds of a safety chain being withdrawn from its slide and the door opened halfway, exposing a frail old man with a shock of white hair. He leaned heavily on a cane, his body bent so far forward he had to tip his head back to look up at them.

“Yes?”

Alex again produced his identification.

“Come in.” The old man beckoned with a bony finger. “Come right on in. My name’s Williams. Fred Williams. Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”

With surprising speed, he moved in a sideways hobble to the center of a neat, sparsely furnished living room and waited for them to catch up.

At a glance, the space was pleasant, with plump pillows that lay in the corners of the couch and a pair of small ceramic birds occupying a place of honor on the coffee table in front of it. One wall held several pictures that were clearly of family members, among them an alertly smiling middle-aged woman with graying hair standing beside a similarly aged Fred Williams, each with an arm around the other.

It was obvious where the old man spent his time. A brown recliner with a small table beside it faced a large-screen television set. The table was partially filled with a pile of crossword puzzle magazines, a thermos next to a coffee cup, and the remote control for the television lying on the week’s program guide. A pile of library books five or six deep stood beside the
chair, carefully lined up with spines out, one facedown on the arm of the chair.

The troopers took seats on the edge of a green couch with a cheerful yellow afghan spread smoothly across its back, and waited as Williams settled himself in the recliner. The television, sound low, was tuned to a football game. He switched it off with the remote, reclined in the chair, and turned to them with a smile of anticipation.

“Now…how can I be of service to you, gentlemen?”

As he answered, Jensen could sense Phil Becker’s suppressed amusement.

“Have you lived here long, Mr. Williams?”

“Oh…my, yes. Eight years this coming December. Since before my Eva died.” He waved a hand at the picture on the wall. “Then I just stayed right here, and we’d been here three years before that. My daughter does for me now, you see. Comes once a week with the groceries—keeps the place clean. Bent up like I am, I’m not much good at that, but I can keep myself fed okay.”

“Do you remember the woman who lived next door to you three years ago, sir?”

The pleasant expression disappeared from Williams’s face, and a look of distress replaced it.

“Oh, my. Yes, I certainly do. That Collins woman, you mean? You’re looking for
her
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s just about time. Have you got new evidence? Can you get her now, or has she done some other terrible thing?”

“No, sir. Not that we know of. We’re just trying to locate her. Do you know when she left here—where she went?”

The old man sighed in disappointment before he answered.

“Well…it wasn’t much after the judge threw the whole thing out…maybe a month. I almost moved, myself. Daisy—my daughter, you know—was worried about me, so upset that that Collins girl was allowed to come right back here, where…It was
so awful
,” he burst out angrily. “We all knew she killed
Mrs. Post. Horrid. It was just
horrid
. She went in and out, giving everyone those nasty looks. We all kept our doors locked all the time. Daisy took to coming in once a day after work, just to make sure I was okay. Why didn’t you put her in jail, officers? It was so unfair.”

He gave the arm of his chair two weak thumps with his fist and came to an emotional halt.

Jensen’s stomach lurched with his own familiar anger, and he had to wait a second or two before he could answer.

“We just didn’t have enough to convict her, sir. Sometimes that happens. We weren’t happy about it, either. Do you have any idea where she went?”

Another sigh. “Nope, I don’t—nor do I want to. I was just glad she was gone and my daughter could stop being afraid for me. Nobody ever said where she went. None of us cared.”

He hesitated, then smiled. “But that’s all over now. Can I get you boys a cup of coffee? A beer, maybe? I still drink one now and then. There’s some in the refrigerator.”

They thanked him but refused.

Resignation and disappointment showed plainly in his eyes, but he smiled and insisted on shaking hands with both of them before they went out the door.

“You won’t mind if I don’t get up? Sorry I can’t be more help, but if there’s anything I
can
do, come on back. I’m always here, except from two to four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, when Daisy takes me to the library.”

The troopers returned to Jensen’s truck and climbed in.

“Must get pretty lonely, living like that,” Becker commented as they drove out of the parking lot. “Wonder why his daughter doesn’t have him with her.”

“I got the feeling he wanted to stay where he was—where he and his wife had been—didn’t you? It may be lonely, but he’s got his independence, and that can be a lot, especially at his age.”

“Well, back to the drawing board. Where now?”

“Let’s call it a day. I think I’ll pick up some glass and repair that window before dark. It has to be done, and might as well be now. We’ll get back on it in the morning, okay?”

A
fter dropping Becker off at the office to pick up his car, Alex stopped by the local building supply store and had a pane of glass cut to fit the broken window. Heading home, he realized that he wasn’t looking forward to another solitary evening.

He backed in toward the porch and lowered the tailgate, ready to unload the glass. Collecting the tools he needed from a box welded to the bed of the truck, he climbed the stairs to get the repair done before he lost the late afternoon light.

To his surprise and fury, he found the plywood had been ripped from the now-open hole that still held sharp fragments of shattered glass around the edges. The wood now lay on the ground beyond the porch. He carefully scanned the interior of the house, which was silent and empty as far as he could tell.

Retrieving his off-duty Colt .45 semiautomatic from the cab of the truck, he cautiously unlocked the front door and turned on the lights as he entered the large, open room. He searched all the rooms and found no one, but his anger grew as he moved through the house.

It had been systematically ransacked. Papers from Jessie’s carefully kept files covered the floor, the recording devices and telephone had been ripped from their cords, books lay where they had been tossed from their shelves, and three of his treasured mustache cups were shattered. The kitchen was a mess of pans and cookware that had been dragged from their usual spaces to lie among broken crockery and food from the refrigerator. Flour covered everything and a bottle of catsup had been dumped over a small collection of cookbooks.

A single word, “BITCH,” had been scratched into the sur
face of the kitchen table with the point of a knife that lay on it, along with a sheet of white paper with computer printing.

The vandal had left
him
a message this time: