Murder at five finger light (25 page)
Cautiously, using the light as little as possible, she made her way back to the log behind which she had left the daypack. Deciding it was time to stop carting around the pack, without which she could move more easily and quietly, she tried to think of a place to leave it for the time being. Somewhere along the trail between where she was and the lighthouse would be best.
She remembered the hole in the side of that trail and went immediately and cautiously to it. Partly covered by a large root of the tree that stood above it, with a few handfuls of dry leaves tossed in last, it made a secure, invisible hiding place for the daypack and its contents. Satisfied, she left it.
She thought about abandoning the trail and finding another way back to the lighthouse, but the west side of the island was nothing but the cliff that fell directly into the sea, and she recalled from the morning walk that the east side had no concealing trees and no beach on which to run if discovered. It was nothing but huge stones piled and tumbled as if some giant had taken them like a handful of pebbles and scattered them in heaps of jagged edges and sides too steep to maintain footing. One had to pick one’s way with infinite care through a tidewater field of hazards—risking falls, sprains, broken bones, cuts, and bruises.
More slowly than she had come away on it, she started back over the remaining section of the trail toward the lighthouse. Prepared to meet someone coming in her direction, she took her time, stopped often to listen, and used the light only when absolutely necessary. That was hardly at all, for by slowing down she found she was more adept at making things out in the darkness under the trees. Night vision was better than the flashlight, which made it impossible to see anything outside the tunnel of light it created. When she came to the mask, showing as a pale shape against the dark trunk of its tree, she recognized it for what it was, smiled ruefully at her earlier fright, and brushed it with her fingertips as a sort of greeting as she passed.
Soon she could see, not light, but a lessening of the dark between the trees at the edge of the small woods and knew she was approaching the open grassy space between it and the steps that led down to the concrete platform on the east side of the lighthouse.
There at the edge of the trees she stopped and stood completely still to watch and listen, alert and wary, for what must have been ten minutes. Nothing moved and there were no sounds to be heard over the sighing breeze and the sea still softly rolling pebbles on the shore somewhere to the east.
Almost ready to creep out as low and quietly as possible to look down at the lower half of the lighthouse that could not be seen from where she stood, she hesitated and was relieved not to have made that mistake when, high above, on the railed walkway outside the glass of the tower, there appeared a small and singular glow that grew and died in no more than a second.
Jessie waited and, when the light revolved to the north in its ten-second cycle of warning for any mariners in the area, she could just make out the silhouette of a figure on that walkway. Motionless except for the rise and fall of his arm as he smoked a cigarette, someone stood there looking down in the direction of the woods.
As she watched, frozen still, he dropped the cigarette, which scattered a spark or two as it landed on the walkway. He stepped on the butt to extinguish it and went quickly back inside the tower through a door in its side.
Had she been seen? There was no way of knowing, but she thought not, for she had not left the sheltering darkness of the trees. Still, caution was called for, so she moved slowly a little back and sideways ten feet or so into the woods, creating a few small sounds in the brush as she did so, but confident that with the rustle of the breeze in the leaves for cover only someone very close could have noticed.
Unfortunately, someone
was
very close and
did
notice.
was
very close and
did
notice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE GLOVED HAND THAT WAS FIRMLY APPLIED TO JESSIE’S mouth was sudden, unexpected, and stifled her gasp of surprise. At the same time, a strong arm circled her waist without warning and yanked her back against her captor, making it impossible to move away. Instantly, she struggled to free herself, aiming kicks at the shins of whoever held her, but the semisoft soles of her running shoes did little to effect a release through the application of pain.
“Hold still,” a man’s harsh whisper instructed, close to her ear. “I’m on your side, dammit!”
Realizing that she had very little option, she stopped struggling, but remained tense and waited to see what would come next, hoping that by allowing him to assume compliance she might take advantage of any opportunity to liberate herself.
“Good,” he told her, slowly moving them both farther back into the dark of the trees. “Now—if I take my hand off your mouth will you be quiet?”
As she considered sinking her teeth into the hand, with a limited nod Jessie let the person know she would keep still, then gave up the biting idea as she realized from its feel and smell that the glove was made of heavy leather.
Cautiously, the hand was removed from her face, but the arm around her waist remained, keeping her immobilized.
“What do you mean, you’re on my side? Who the hell are you?” she demanded in an angry whisper. “I’m not going anywhere. Let
go
of me.”
go
of me.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, dammit. Who
are
you?”
are
you?”
Reaching with the hand that had covered her mouth, he took firm hold of her right wrist, relaxed the pressure around her waist, and released her.
Immediately whirling to face her captor, she twisted the arm that was secured in his grip.
“Ow!”
“Hold still,” he told her, adjusting the grip. “And be quiet.”
In the dark of the forest Jessie could see little, but from a limited initial assessment she could tell this was someone she didn’t know and to her knowledge had never seen before. Was it the man she had heard on the cell phone? Until she knew otherwise she couldn’t trust him, and tensed to look for any opportunity to escape.
Two or three inches taller than her five feet eight inches, she had to look up only slightly at his face. The dark shadows made it impossible to tell much about his coloring, but as the beacon swung over their heads again she could see that he wore jeans and a jacket that might have been gray or light brown over a dark sweatshirt. A small flash of that beam was reflected in his eyes, but did not disclose their color, just an interested appraisal of her that held no malice as far as she could tell. His face was as lean as his body, though he had broad shoulders and from his clothing and strength she guessed that he was accustomed to physical labor that did not entail time spent pushing paper around a desk in some office.
“Let’s get away from here,” he suggested in his hoarse whisper, cocking his head toward the trail and letting go of her arm, “and talk where we can’t be overheard.”
Rubbing at her wrist with the opposite hand, she nodded agreement without speaking and when he gestured for her to go first, swung that direction and went as silently as possible through the brush till she reached the trail, hearing him move close and quiet with similar caution behind her.
If this man was part of whatever was going on, he certainly didn’t act like it, she reasoned. If he were, wouldn’t he have taken her to the lighthouse? If not, what was he doing here by himself in the woods, watching the tower from concealment, as she had been? On the other hand, could he be the person who had been on the other end of the phone conversation? It didn’t seem likely, when they could simply have talked in person. She had a feeling that the phone call had been to someone off-island. How long had this person been lurking in these woods? Could they have somehow missed him in their thorough search for Sandra earlier, or had he arrived later? These were all questions to be answered.
In five minutes, when they reached the hole in the trail where she had stashed the daypack, she stopped and turned abruptly to face him and spoke in an annoyed half-whisper.
“Okay. This is far enough. Now, who the hell are
you
and what are you doing out here in the dark? How did you get onto the island? What—”
you
and what are you doing out here in the dark? How did you get onto the island? What—”
“Who are
you?
What are
you
doing out here in the dark?” he countered, with a slight note of indulgent humor in his voice that further infuriated her.
you?
What are
you
doing out here in the dark?” he countered, with a slight note of indulgent humor in his voice that further infuriated her.
“I’m
supposed
to be here,” she snapped. “You’re
not.
Let’s have some answers, dammit.”
supposed
to be here,” she snapped. “You’re
not.
Let’s have some answers, dammit.”
There was a long moment of silence and when he spoke there was no humor at all in his voice.
“I
was
invited along—by a friend, Tim Christiansen, who someone killed last night and whose body I think you’ve already found. I’m looking for Karen Emerson, as she’s calling herself now. My name . . .”
was
invited along—by a friend, Tim Christiansen, who someone killed last night and whose body I think you’ve already found. I’m looking for Karen Emerson, as she’s calling herself now. My name . . .”
But Jessie had already leaped ahead mentally and knew, with a sinking feeling, what he was about to say before he finished the sentence. “. . . is Joe Cooper. Who are
you?
”
you?
”
Oh shit,
she thought, and glared at him without answering, once again tense and ready in a fight-or-flight attitude.
she thought, and glared at him without answering, once again tense and ready in a fight-or-flight attitude.
So this was Karen’s stalker, in person and just what she needed least.
Teach me to trust my instincts,
she decided in resignation.
Teach me to trust my instincts,
she decided in resignation.
“I’m Jessie Arnold,” she told him.
“The Iditarod musher?”
“Yeah, that Jessie Arnold.”
“I’ve seen you race,” he commented, a note of respect creeping into the admission. “I was in Nome the year you got hurt close to the finish.”
How bizarre,
she thought, staring at him in confusion.
Here we stand—me and a stalker—in the dark, on an island full of trouble that
I,
at least, don’t understand, with a boat that someone sank in the cove, the woman who’s being stalked hiding under a dead man, and others disappearing into nowhere. And we’re talking about
sled dog racing?
she thought, staring at him in confusion.
Here we stand—me and a stalker—in the dark, on an island full of trouble that
I,
at least, don’t understand, with a boat that someone sank in the cove, the woman who’s being stalked hiding under a dead man, and others disappearing into nowhere. And we’re talking about
sled dog racing?
“Whatever,” she said. What she wanted was relevant information. “How long have you been skulking around out here in the dark then?”
“Since it
got
dark,” he answered, without hesitation. “When I arrived you were all inside having dinner.”
got
dark,” he answered, without hesitation. “When I arrived you were all inside having dinner.”
“How could you know that?”
“I watched. From that hill above the boathouse you can see into the lighthouse where you were sitting around the table.”
“Were you here earlier in the day?” Jessie asked, wondering if he could be responsible for Sandra’s disappearance.
“No. Why?”
“One of the group is missing—a woman from Skagway. We’ve searched the whole island, but she’s nowhere to be found. Have you any idea where she is? And someone sank our only boat. Was that you?”
“No, and no again,” he answered without hesitation. “Why didn’t you call the Coast Guard, or the police? I expected that someone official would be out here by now because of Tim.”
“The radio’s been trashed and our cell phones stolen. We couldn’t call anyone. But one of the work crew is somehow involved—and maybe you. And I’m still reserving judgment on that, by the way—since I heard Curt talking to someone else on what had to be a cell phone earlier, before I left the lighthouse. In fact it’s why I left—in a hurry.”
She could feel him staring silently at her for a long moment before he spoke.
“Who’s Curt?”
“One of the work crew.”
“And the woman who’s missing?”
“Another.”
“Well, I can make a guess where she is. I’d be willing to bet that she’s with the others that the two of them—”
“Two?”
“Yes, I saw two. One was forcing some people to go down into a manhole on that platform between the lighthouse and the cove. He has a gun and I’ve watched him use it tonight to make them climb into it. But I didn’t see Karen. Where is she?” he demanded, and waited.
Jessie maintained her listening silence, refusing to answer as she considered the
two
people he had seen.
Two?
She had only seen Curt. Had someone else arrived without her knowledge, like Cooper?
two
people he had seen.
Two?
She had only seen Curt. Had someone else arrived without her knowledge, like Cooper?
Before she could come to any conclusion he asked a different question. “What’s under that platform? What’s down there?”
She hesitated. It made sense of the phone mention of “the tank.” And the clank of metal she had heard could have been the heavy cover for the manhole on the platform being dropped into position.
From her own past experience and having seen Karen’s fear, she was inclined to be highly suspicious of this man. Though he sounded reasonable now, he was obviously hunting for Karen, had somehow managed to track her from Ketchikan to Seattle and all the way to this tiny island in the middle of the vast expanse of Frederick Sound. She had no intention of telling him anything that would lead him to the woman he was so diligently seeking. It seemed, however, that there was no reason not to tell him what she knew in answer to his last question. Maybe, if he thought Karen was confined with them, she could get him to help her rescue the rest.
Other books
Trained for Milking by Mandoline Creme
Mortal Engines by Stanislaw Lem
Barsoom Omnibus by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) by Lana Williams
My Fair Captain by J.L. Langley
Threads of Silk by Linda Lee Chaikin
Vanished by Sheela Chari
Hemingway's Boat by Paul Hendrickson