Murder at five finger light (13 page)
“I am. And the guy inside is Curt, but I’ll introduce you later,” he told her before hurrying back to the controls. “I’ll get us headed out again.”
His glance, as he passed Jessie, told her he would expect a few answers at first opportunity and she knew she wanted answers of her own. Turning back to Karen, she was surprised to find her staring toward the front of the boat with an odd frown of concern.
“What?”
Karen swung back toward her and lost the frown.
“Nothing. You just didn’t tell me there’d be anyone else along.”
“Does it matter? You don’t know him, do you?”
“No. Not at all.”
Jessie let it go. Then, over the roar of the diesel engine and rush of water as the boat cut through it, she questioned Karen, who proceeded to strip off her soaked shoes and socks and wring out the lower legs of her jeans.
“What happened? Why did you leave the dock? I came back and you weren’t there. Did you find my note?”
“Note? No. I didn’t go back there. What happened was that I saw him, Jessie. I stood up to see if you were coming back and he was
right there
—talking to some guy on a forklift by that fish place with his back turned to me. So I ducked down and waited till he left, but I didn’t see which way he went, so I couldn’t come looking for you. I just got out of there.” She paused to open her suitcase in search of dry socks and began to pull them on her cold feet. “He was so close and looking for me
in town,
Jessie. I was very careful—went straight back to the hotel and got my bag. Then I walked—in the opposite direction I thought he’d be looking—east, out of town on the residential streets above the beach. Well, it’s rocks, so I guess technically it’s not really beach—but the shore above where you found me anyway. All I could do was hope I’d see you in the boat and could wave so you’d see me. And that’s what happened—right?”
right there
—talking to some guy on a forklift by that fish place with his back turned to me. So I ducked down and waited till he left, but I didn’t see which way he went, so I couldn’t come looking for you. I just got out of there.” She paused to open her suitcase in search of dry socks and began to pull them on her cold feet. “He was so close and looking for me
in town,
Jessie. I was very careful—went straight back to the hotel and got my bag. Then I walked—in the opposite direction I thought he’d be looking—east, out of town on the residential streets above the beach. Well, it’s rocks, so I guess technically it’s not really beach—but the shore above where you found me anyway. All I could do was hope I’d see you in the boat and could wave so you’d see me. And that’s what happened—right?”
She stopped and gave Jessie a long look.
It all made sense. So why, Jessie wondered, did she feel there was something that didn’t add up about Karen’s account of her disappearance? And why did she feel that her own response was being closely assessed and that there was something almost sly in the way the woman waited for acceptance?
“Is there anything to eat?” Karen asked suddenly. “I’m starving.”
Reaching, Jessie offered her the uneaten half of her hamburger and fries. “You can finish this. It’s cold, but it’s edible and I’m not poison,” she apologized, knowing she wouldn’t finish it herself.
Her appetite had completely deserted her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS JIM BEAL HAD ESTIMATED, THE RUN TO FIVE FINGER Lighthouse took just over an hour. Though scattered clouds continued to float overhead, the afternoon had turned warm and sunny and, to Jessie’s satisfaction, the sea was calm.
The snow-covered peaks of the Coast Mountains, bright in the sunshine, dominated the skyline to the east with their immeasurable, permanent ice fields and the great fingers of flowing ice that extended from them in glaciers, filling and carving out valleys in the process. Where the mountains reached the sea they were lower, more rounded, and without snow, but thickly covered with billions of evergreens. These slopes dropped so abruptly straight down that they gave the impression that the bulk of them was hidden under water and any boat on the surface hung suspended in liquid space over a profound abyss.
Leaving Karen to finish her lunch, Jessie stepped into the pilothouse with Jim and Curt to see what was coming up ahead of the boat, but was soon sidetracked.
As they passed the marker at the end of the Petersburg harbor, Jim, once again in control, swung the Seawolf north into the lower end of Frederick Sound and increased their speed to twenty-five knots. Curt had taken the second seat at the front and ignored her presence as he followed their progress on Beal’s nautical chart. Taking a look over his shoulder, Jessie identified two small islands approaching on the left as the Sukoi Islets. The name sounded Japanese to her, but Jim explained that it was a Russian word for
dry
and that there had been fox farms on both isles in the early days of the twentieth century, but no potable water.
dry
and that there had been fox farms on both isles in the early days of the twentieth century, but no potable water.
“There’s a historical atlas in that rack,” he told her, pointing. “It’s a wealth of information, if you want to know the background of almost anything around here. There were fox farms by the dozen up and down the Inside Passage back then.”
The large spiral-bound book,
Exploring Alaska & British Columbia
—approximately a foot wide and a foot and a half long—had been authored by a Stephen Hilson thirty years earlier. Sitting down at the dinette table she found reminiscent of one in a motor home, she opened the atlas to a page that showed Frederick Sound and noticed that “Not to be used for navigation” was printed on each page of the charts that had been outdated when the book was published, evidence that the meeting of land and sea was constantly changing and not to be taken for granted.
Exploring Alaska & British Columbia
—approximately a foot wide and a foot and a half long—had been authored by a Stephen Hilson thirty years earlier. Sitting down at the dinette table she found reminiscent of one in a motor home, she opened the atlas to a page that showed Frederick Sound and noticed that “Not to be used for navigation” was printed on each page of the charts that had been outdated when the book was published, evidence that the meeting of land and sea was constantly changing and not to be taken for granted.
Examining the two huge pages spread before her, Jessie located Petersburg and the Sukoi Islets, with a notation that confirmed Jim’s information on the fox farms. What represented water was printed in blue. Notations filled much of the empty space that was land, printed in dark brown on a tan background. Reading a few of those close to the islets, she found an interesting mix of information, from where Point Agassiz got its name—“Naturalist Louis Agassiz was an instructor at Harvard University during the mid-1800s”—to the “Reported site of the sinking of a three-masted Russian gunboat” in Thomas Bay. There were mentions of John Muir, black bear and salmon streams, waterfowl nesting grounds, a bay named for Admiral David Farragut, “old Indian settlements” discovered by Captain Vancouver’s men in 1869, and “March 7, 1924—Ole Haynes and his companions shoot and kill alleged fox poacher Billy Gray in his tent.”
“Hey!” she said to Beal. “This is fascinating. Where did you get it? Alex would love it. I wish we’d had a copy when we did the Ton of Gold Run.”
“I’d looked for a copy of the original 1976 publication for years, but never found one, so I snapped this up when it was republished in 1997,” he told her. “I think it’s still available, if you want one. It’s expensive, but worth every cent in fascinating reading.”
Looking farther north on the chart to where Frederick Sound joined Stephens Passage, she located “The Five Fingers,” the tiny islands where the lighthouse now stood. They lay directly east of another pair of islands, “The Brothers,” and just below those was one tiny island simply called “Round Rock” that was designated as a “Sea Lion hauling grounds.” Jessie smiled, picturing what it must look like.
“Your lighthouse island is practically nonexistent on this, Jim—a mere dot on the map. You have any sea lions?”
“Yeah, but small has its advantages. It’s hard to get lost on three acres, even if it is in a huge amount of water. It’s twenty miles to the nearest island to the south, but Cape Fanshaw is just over five to the east of us. The Brothers are pretty close—maybe twice that far. Still, on a clear day you can see for fifty miles up Stephens Passage and at least that far down Frederick Sound from up in the tower. We do have one old sea lion who swims around the island almost every day like he’s checking things out, but . . .”
Attention caught elsewhere, he reached for a pair of binoculars that hung close at hand and examined the waters ahead of the boat before turning to Jessie with a grin.
“Whales,” he told her. “Looks like three, and they’re pretty close. You can read the atlas at the lighthouse. Better go out, if you want a good look at these.”
The boat was moving into the widest area of Frederick Sound and Jessie could see that he was right; it was a
huge
amount of water. Following his advice, she went out onto the stern of the boat and leaned over one side to see around the left side of the pilothouse.
huge
amount of water. Following his advice, she went out onto the stern of the boat and leaned over one side to see around the left side of the pilothouse.
“What is it?” Karen asked from where she perched on the flat cover of a stowage locker built into the side of the boat that served double duty as a seat. She had been sitting there, staring out at the mountains with a thoughtful expression, while Jessie was in the pilothouse with Beal.
“Whales,” Jessie told her without turning. “Just ahead.”
At first there was nothing to indicate their presence. Then, about the length of a city block away, there was a disturbance in the water as the rounded back of a humpback broke the surface, coming up for air, and slowly the characteristic dorsal fin that makes the whale look humpbacked and gives it its name came into view. A cloud of spray erupted as it blew, and Jessie knew that, though it couldn’t be heard over the boat’s engine, it would be accompanied by a
whoosh
sound. In the quiet air the spray hung like mist, and before it drifted away on the breath of a gentle breeze, she could see a hint of rainbow where the sunshine hit it just right. The enormous mammal blew once again; then as it continued to roll forward, the giant flukes of its tail rose completely out of the water and slowly slid beneath the surface as the animal departed into the depths. As it vanished beneath the sound’s gentle swells a second, slightly smaller whale repeated the maneuver, but disappeared without exposing its flukes.
whoosh
sound. In the quiet air the spray hung like mist, and before it drifted away on the breath of a gentle breeze, she could see a hint of rainbow where the sunshine hit it just right. The enormous mammal blew once again; then as it continued to roll forward, the giant flukes of its tail rose completely out of the water and slowly slid beneath the surface as the animal departed into the depths. As it vanished beneath the sound’s gentle swells a second, slightly smaller whale repeated the maneuver, but disappeared without exposing its flukes.
“Awesome,” said Karen, who had come to stand beside Jessie to see.
Though they waited and watched until the stretch of ocean where they had seen the humpbacks rise lay far behind them, the whales did not appear again.
“Can’t you just imagine them sliding silently through the water like submarines?” Karen asked.
Jessie nodded, still gazing back in the direction the whales had surfaced. “They aren’t always silent and I’d love to hear them sing. I’ve heard recordings collected by researchers who put down hydrophones. But I read somewhere that if you’re in the water nearby you can hear them pretty well because water is such a good sound transmitter. They don’t sing much in Alaska, though, mostly in Hawaii, where they go in the winter.”
Karen went back to her seat on the stowage locker, but Jessie stayed where she was, leaning on the rail to watch the colors change as a broad patch of cloud drifted across the sun, casting a shadow over the boat and the sea on which it traveled. Uncountable shades of watery hues and reflections turned to a steely gray that lacked the earlier impression of depth. Sunlight fell through a few thin openings in the cloud cover in concentrated beams to cast bright patches on the surface of the water so glaring they were hard to look at without squinting. Cloud shadows moved over the rounded hills of the large islands between the sound and the Pacific Ocean, the dense green tree cover once again reminding Jessie of soft fur or velvet, separated from the water by a thin line of tan beach, or, in some places, dark rock.
She loved the sea, though she had never lived close to it. Breathing in the briny scent of it pleased her, as did the ever-changing nature of ocean waters and their inhabitants. Seeing the whales had raised her spirits and taken her back to memories of the long run from Skagway to Seattle and how much she had enjoyed it. Remembering that trip made her miss Alex, who had been part of it, and wonder where he was now. Probably somewhere around halfway home, she decided, and reminded herself to call him later, or tomorrow. It would be a long, tiring, five-hundred-mile drive, but she figured that he had left Dawson early and should reach her house on Knik Road by seven or eight that night.
“Five Finger Light coming up,” Jim called from the pilothouse.
Karen stood up and both women stepped inside to look ahead, but all they could see was a small island or two and some ridges of stone that barely broke the surface at just after high tide. The largest of the islands had a dense covering of tall firs above a vertical cliff of gray stone.
“Where?” asked Jessie. “I don’t see a lighthouse.”
“Just wait,” he told her.
He piloted the boat along the west side below the cliff and suddenly the top of a white tower came into view beyond the trees. Swiftly more of it appeared until the whole building was revealed as a tower atop a square one-story building, also white.
“Oh,” exclaimed Karen. “I expected a round tower.”
“The lights along the Inside Passage aren’t the round barber-pole towers most people visualize from pictures. The passage is mostly between mainland and islands and that limits the distance that lights need to shine—they don’t have to project a beam a long ways out to sea. This one shines eighty-one feet above sea level in a sixty-eight-foot tower on the roof of that building you see under it, and that’s more than enough. The lower part was the keeper’s quarters—when it had keepers. Now the light’s solar-powered, so—no keepers. Instead the Coast Guard monitors and cares for it on a regular basis.”
“What’s that?” Jessie asked, pointing at a large platform that stood between the lighthouse and the northern end of the island.
“Helipad. Sometimes the weather’s too rough for landing in a boat or floatplane, but helicopters can still come in.”
As they cruised past the west side of the island, several people came out a door on the north side of the building and Jessie recognized Laurie Trevino as one of them—waving. They vanished behind high rock and the helipad as Beal swung the boat around the north end and turned back to an area where the jagged stone that formed the island sloped down gradually into the sea in a long finger that protected a small cove.
Other books
A New Life by Bernard Malamud
Chance of a Lifetime by Grace Livingston Hill
Thinner by Richard Bachman
The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas
The Rowing Lesson by Anne Landsman
Taking Heart by T. J. Kline
Broken At Love (Whitman University) by Payne, Lyla
Fall Hard by J. L. Merrow
Loving Your Lies by Piper Shelly
American Boy by Larry Watson