Deadfall (10 page)

N
iqa Island rose from the salt waters of Kachemak Bay near the outer edge of the island group, exposed to weather from the mouth of Cook Inlet, which widened and opened, through Kennedy and Stevenson Entrances, into the Gulf of Alaska. On a clear day, Augustine, one of the active volcanoes of the Aleutian Range, could be seen periodically releasing steam and, infrequently, ash and cinders from its fiery core. Approximately a square mile in size, from above Niqa appeared a rough triangle—an arrowhead aimed at the Homer Spit. The scalloped, irregular line of its base was formed by the crescents of two shallow coves, separated by not quite a half mile of wooded area at the top of a fifty-foot cliff that put its feet in the water at high tide.

Aside from two open meadows near the coves, around which Millie’s family members had built several beach houses, the island was almost completely covered with large trees and brush. Not really intended for winter occupation, the compact
structures were uninsulated and lacked electricity. Batteries ran a radio communication system, and a generator was infrequently used to power tools for working with wood or metal. Propane stoves were used for cooking, and the houses were heated with wood from the beach, cut and split. Water was carried from freshwater springs, or jerry-rigged into kitchen sinks with the aid of gravity and hose, or plastic pipe.

Caswell set the Maule down gently in the waters of the western cove and taxied to the rock-strewn shore that was half exposed by the falling tide. Above the rather steep beach that was washed by the ocean twice a day was the house that belonged to Jessie’s friend, Millie. It was a low building, twice as wide as it was high, with a broad, open deck across its entire length. Built of rough unpainted lumber that had silvered over the years, it blended in well with the natural colors of the island.

“We can’t stay here long,” Cas warned, “or the bird’ll be high and dry until the next high tide.”

“Aw-w, we could
lift
this bird back into the water,” Alex teased.

“Obviously you’ve never tried to shove it more than a few feet, let alone lift it. Besides, the longer we’re parked, the more likely it is that someone will notice we’re here. A plane on the beach isn’t exactly invisible. Let’s get this stuff up to the house.”

Using the floats of the plane as bridges to dry land, they carried off several boxes of human and canine food, an ice chest, Jessie’s duffel and sleeping bags, and the rest of her gear, then gazed unenthusiastically at the uphill stretch of rocks the size of melons, across which they would have to transport the supplies they had piled in a sizable heap.

“Don’t panic. There’s help,” Jessie said, starting up the slope toward the deck of the house. She came quickly back, pulling a handcart with two large wheels, into which they gratefully loaded everything. While Cas checked to make sure the
plane was secure, Alex slowly pulled the bumping, jolting barrow to the top of the beach.

“Let me do it,” he said, when she started to help. “You’re still sore and gimpy.”

As the cart jerked along, the rocks gradually grew smaller until the way was paved with gravel. Mixed among it were broken pieces of shell, drying kelp, and other remnants of the sea.

“I thought beaches were supposed to be sand,” he grunted, when he paused to catch his breath at the foot of the ramp that led to the deck.

“Yeah? Well, this one isn’t.”

“No kidding. You’d better
eat
all this food. I’m not carrying it back down when it’s time to take you home.”

“Listen,” Jessie suggested. “Let’s just leave this stuff in the cart. I have the rest of the day to sort it out, and Cas is right, you should really get out of here.”

Alex nodded as Caswell joined them.

“That’s not a bad idea. Let us carry the ice chest out to the back. You’d have to unload it to move it.”

The men each grabbed a handle of the large chest and took it up the ramp and along a walkway on the east side of the house.

A small stream of potable water wandered down from a spring high on the hill to the west side of the house, where it formed a shallow pool that drained onto the beach. Sheltered from the sun by trees, the back of the building remained quite cool, aided by the nearby trickle and rain that fell often in this part of Alaska, especially during the winter months. Vegetables and other perishable foods were stored either in a small screened box that hung from the wall or in ice chests like the one they had brought full of meat and dairy products. They set it against the house, below the pantry box, and returned to the deck.

Caswell pulled back his jacket sleeve to glance at his watch.

“Ten minutes—pretty good. Let’s get the bird off the beach.”

Alex looked at Jessie, who was gazing out across a mile of salt water at Hesketh, the nearest island, and, hesitating, suddenly saw her more objectively than usual. Slim, her hair a short, honey-gold tumble of waves and curls, attractive even with both gray eyes bruised black from the accident, the cut on her nose healed enough to dispense with the bandage, she stood tall, independent, and confident, with Tank at her side. He was suddenly more than a little reluctant to leave her here alone, however capable she might be.

She turned and saw the equivocation in his eyes.

“You know…” he began.

“Don’t, Alex.” She held up her hand, last two fingers in their splints and tape. “It’s all right. I’m going to miss you, too, but I feel safe here. For the first time in a week, I feel safe. You know?”

“’Bye, Jess. Stay well.” Caswell walked away toward the plane, leaving them to say their good-byes in private.

“Thanks, Cas.”

He raised a hand in salute without turning, ambling clumsy-footed over the uneven rocks toward the water.

Alex sighed and gave it up.

“Okay. Eight in the morning—eight at night. You call me on the cellular—which you keep with you at all times, right?”

“Right.”

“Shotgun goes in the house—handgun stays with you, right?”

“Right.” The ghost of a smile twitched her lips.

“Anything goes wrong…call Homer—troopers’ office, right?”

She couldn’t keep her grin from breaking through.

“I’ve got it all written down, along with the numbers, right?”

“Right.” He smiled sheepishly.

“Okay. Give me a hug and get going.”

He held her for a long minute, kissed her thoroughly. “I love you. Take good care of yourself.”

“I will. Love you, too. Go catch the bad guy for me, trooper.”

He reached a finger to touch her cheek, and noticed a glitter in the morning sun.

“You’ve got on your new earrings. Pretty fancy for an island.”

“Yeah—well—so I like ’em.”

A swift pat for Tank, and he was off down the beach in long strides, negotiating the rocks with cautious arms lifted to maintain his balance. Ben revved the engine as Alex pushed the plane from the shore, then clambered along the float and up into the passenger seat. Both men waved out their windows as the plane roared away and lifted from the water. The wings waggled once before it disappeared behind the trees that topped the cliff at the end of the long curving beach.

For a minute or two, Jessie stood listening as the sound of the plane grew faint and died away. It felt a little strange to be so abruptly alone. Since Alex had moved in to share her cabin in Knik, they had seldom been apart for very long, and when they were it was usually Jensen who was traveling as a part of his homicide investigations, or other duties as a sergeant with the state troopers. Most of Jessie’s trips were involved in sled dog racing during the winter months and, with the exception of the Iditarod or the Yukon Quest, were only two or three days in length and full of activity. Training runs sometimes took her out overnight, but during the last winter she and Alex had planned and taken several of these together, as he learned to enjoy driving one of her teams. She had been contentedly, self-sufficiently alone before she met him, knew she was capable of being so again, but her unexpected reaction to his birthday gift now crossed her mind again, and she wondered how she would feel about marriage, if next time it were a ring. Maybe this solitary time would be a good test.

Later, she thought. I’ll think about it later. Closing her eyes, she tipped her face up to the warmth of the sun, appreciating
the freedom to stand outdoors after being cooped up in the hospital and the cabin on Knik Road.

If a storm’s coming, I should spend today outside, while I can, she thought. But first I’ll get the rest of the stuff off the beach and out of sight.

Several trips later, she had put the cart away and stood in the beach house, sorting supplies to see what she had. Her duffel of clothes and personal items she had stashed with her camera bag in a small alcove bedroom set off by curtains from the main room.

The central room was approximately twenty feet square, with a bay of three large windows that faced the deck and the beach and cove beyond. Two chairs, a worn upholstered rocker and a captain’s chair beside a low circular table, allowed a wide, southern view of the beach, neighboring islands, and faraway mainland, with its tree covered slopes below the sharp, snow-covered grandeur of the Kenai Range. On the walls were pictures drawn by family and guests, photographs of vacation gatherings, and maps of the Kachemak Bay area. Windowsills held casual collections of shells and stones picked up along the south-facing cove which attracted the family beachcombers like a magnet, especially on sunny days. The whole room reflected lazy days isolated from the bustle and stress of everyday urban life. Jessie could almost hear voices and laughter as she stood looking around her with half a smile.

The kitchen, along the rear wall, had a high window that presented a rectangle of the hillside’s lush green. It had no walls, but was simply a sink, gas stove, and counter, arranged in a line under shelves that held dishes, pots, and pans. Another curtain separated the kitchen from a passage lined with tall storage shelves for everything from canned goods to paper products, all of which had to be brought to the island by boat from the Homer Spit. At the end of this passage were two small rooms that were used for extra storage, but which also held bunk beds for visitors and family members who did not have their own houses.

On the east wall, an outside door opened into the main room opposite the bedroom, behind a partition into which a series of large nails had been driven for hanging outerwear—coats, hats, rain gear. There, too, were shelves of collected hand tools, and several flashlights required for trips to the outhouse after dark. A large wooden picnic table that stood under a window in the front corner of the room held most of the boxed supplies that Jessie had moved in from the beach.

In the center of the room was a bench that helped define the kitchen area and was long enough for two or three people to sit facing the bay windows and a fire pit that lay beyond a waist-high table made of a large slab cut from an enormous log that had washed up on the beach. A small wood-burning stove took up most of the pit. The rest was convenient for warming cold feet or drying kindling.

A day’s supply of firewood was piled against the wall behind the stove, next to a second bench, but Jessie told herself to remember to bring in enough from under the deck to last through the anticipated storm. Even better—maybe she could find some on the beach and chop it to replace some of what she would use during her stay.

With a list from Jessie, Linda Caswell had shopped for and packed the supplies Jessie now sorted on the picnic table. In the middle of the first box she found a loaf of last year’s fruitcake, with a note saying, “Hang in there.” Grinning, she opened it and broke off a chunk to snack on while she worked.

There was a flash of something moving on the deck, and she looked up to see one of the large blue jays that hung around looking for a handout and gobbled up scraps in competition with the local ravens. How did they know someone was in residence? She hadn’t even started a fire. Must be some kind of winged telegraph that passed the news along from bird to bird. Another jay floated down to land close to the first and the two sat expectantly on an outside bench, looking in through the bay window, heads cocked to one side.
Okay—where’s the food?

Amused, Jessie paused in her sorting and went to sit in the
rocking chair by the window to watch the birds watching her. There was plenty of time to get organized. She looked out at the sunny day, relieved and pleased to be settling in a place she loved. It was true—she did feel safe here. The island, with its beach houses, was the source of pleasant memories of previous visits, familiar and welcoming. She knew the way it worked—where to get water, search for a chocolate lily; when to trim a kerosene lamp, find thimbleberries; how to make the woodstove work efficiently, use the radio, follow the trails. But what had made the place especially dear to her were the people who owned it, had hand-built it, and so generously shared it with her and others.

Millie and her six grown children were a large, close family, that came and went from Niqa as their jobs and busy lives allowed. They relaxed on the decks, caught up on conversation, and brought Millie’s grandchildren to fill the otherwise peaceful place with shouts and laughter, skin their knees on the rocks of the beach, exhaust themselves running back and forth on the trails between the two coves, and keep a long rope swing in constant motion. Though they were seldom all there at once, each Fourth of July was a crowded weekend reunion to which was added a host of invited friends who camped out in the meadows and on the beaches of both coves, sharing meals, fireworks, and campfire songfests.

Jessie had been part of the camaraderie and fun for a number of years and hated to miss the traditional extended-family gathering. For the last Independence Day celebration, she had brought along Alex, Linda, and Ben, who had flown them all from Wasilla. Now it seemed odd not to have a multitude of people around and she found herself half listening for the sounds of absent friends.

What am I doing still inside? she thought. Springing up, she found her camera, grabbed her jacket, and, cellular phone in her pocket, handgun on her hip, went out the door into the sun-filled morning, with Tank for company.