“Glad we’re not going across in a boat.”
“Weather service says there’s a storm predicted in the next couple of days,” Caswell said. “Jessie, you can expect to be stranded till it’s over. I can land in this much wind, but not in a big blow. Better make sure you have lots of dry wood indoors.” He banked the plane a little to the left and headed south over the end of the spit, toward the other side of the bay. Jessie looked down to see the harbor, where containers were off-loaded from the ships and barges that traveled to and fro between Homer and the Pacific ports of the contiguous forty-eight states and foreign countries, bringing half of what was necessary for life in the Far North—from the down clothing that kept many of its people warm to the duct tape that seemed to hold everything together. They had already passed over a large public and commercial marina where dozens of boats were moored when they were not somewhere out on the waters of the bay, taking fishermen for the trip of their lives—if they could hook onto the bay’s enormous halibut—often several hundred pounds apiece.
Kachemak Bay, over thirty miles long, ran from Cook Inlet to the Fox River Flats. From three miles wide at its navigable upper end, it widened to twelve between Homer and Tutka Bay on the opposite shore. Scattered a mile or two offshore at the mouth of Tutka were a number of islands that partially sheltered it from the furies of the sea. They ranged in size from a mile or more across to so small they were not even large enough to hold a picnic at low tide.
It slowly became possible to make out a few tiny houses on the mainland of the peninsula, around the mouth of Tutka Bay, and that of Sadie Cove immediately to the east of it. The latter was responsible for the name Jessie had given to one of her female puppies, after her first visit to Niqa Island.
As she watched, the group of islands grew larger until she could make out the channels of water between. Jessie named some of the larger ones.
“There’s Cohen Island, Yukon, Hesketh, Herring, and Grass Island—the funny one that always reminds me of a loaf of green bread.” It was a grass-covered hump in the water, sides rising straight up as tall as it was wide, which wasn’t much. “And there’s Niqa.”
She grew silent, watching it come closer.
Alex looked back to measure her mood.
“You still sure about this, Jess?” he asked. “We could get you on a southbound plane tonight instead.”
She gave him a long, pensive look that ended with a short nod.
“Yeah. I’m still sure. It’ll be fine, Alex. You’ll see. Just gocatch this guy, okay? Let me know when it’s over, and don’t forward my mail.”
Well, that answers that, Jensen thought, exchanging a quick, conspiratorial glance with Caswell. They would not tell her about the new message from the stalker that had appeared at the hospital, in an envelope bearing Jessie’s name. With it had come a vase containing a seriously inappropriate arrangement of white lilies.
A nurse had brought it to the patrolman on duty, who was checking every get-well card and floral offering before it went into Jessie’s room and had passed it on to Jensen, when he saw what the envelope contained:
GET WELL SOON, JESSIE. I’M WAITING .
What had made Jensen even more furious were two snapshots folded in with the note. Each showed Jessie and Linda in the dog lot at the cabin—Linda carefully keeping watch, Jessie watering her dogs. The photographer had obviously been standing in the grove of trees just beyond the yard, close enough to clearly show both women in the pictures.
He and Caswell—who had expressed himself excessively in four-letter words—had taken the photos to the crime lab.
“Not much we can tell,” John Timmons had informed him later. “Kodak paper, ordinary size and film. Could have been developed anywhere—probably the local Carrs grocery, or Costco, where they get hundreds of jobs a
“Weather service says there’s a storm predicted in the next couple of days,” Caswell said. “Jessie, you can expect to be stranded till it’s over. I can land in this much wind, but not in a big blow. Better make sure you have lots of dry wood indoors.” He banked the plane a little to the left and headed south over the end of the spit, toward the other side of the bay. Jessie looked down to see the harbor, where containers were off-loaded from the ships and barges that traveled to and fro between Homer and the Pacific ports of the contiguous forty-eight states and foreign countries, bringing half of what was necessary for life in the Far North—from the down clothing that kept many of its people warm to the duct tape that seemed to hold everything together. They had already passed over a large public and commercial marina where dozens of boats were moored when they were not somewhere out on the waters of the bay, taking fishermen for the trip of their lives—if they could hook onto the bay’s enormous halibut—often several hundred pounds apiece.
Kachemak Bay, over thirty miles long, ran from Cook Inlet to the Fox River Flats. From three miles wide at its navigable upper end, it widened to twelve between Homer and Tutka Bay on the opposite shore. Scattered a mile or two offshore at the mouth of Tutka were a number of islands that partially sheltered it from the furies of the sea. They ranged in size from a mile or more across to so small they were not even large enough to hold a picnic at low tide.
It slowly became possible to make out a few tiny houses on the mainland of the peninsula, around the mouth of Tutka Bay, and that of Sadie Cove immediately to the east of it. The latter was responsible for the name Jessie had given to one of her female puppies, after her first visit to Niqa Island.
As she watched, the group of islands grew larger until she could make out the channels of water between. Jessie named some of the larger ones.
“There’s Cohen Island, Yukon, Hesketh, Herring, and Grass Island—the funny one that always reminds me of a loaf of green bread.” It was a grass-covered hump in the water, sides rising straight up as tall as it was wide, which wasn’t much. “And there’s Niqa.”
She grew silent, watching it come closer.
Alex looked back to measure her mood.
“You still sure about this, Jess?” he asked. “We could get you on a southbound plane tonight instead.”
She gave him a long, pensive look that ended with a short nod.
“Yeah. I’m still sure. It’ll be fine, Alex. You’ll see. Just gocatch this guy, okay? Let me know when it’s over, and don’t forward my mail.”
Well, that answers that, Jensen thought, exchanging a quick, conspiratorial glance with Caswell. They would not tell her about the new message from the stalker that had appeared at the hospital, in an envelope bearing Jessie’s name. With it had come a vase containing a seriously inappropriate arrangement of white lilies.
A nurse had brought it to the patrolman on duty, who was checking every get-well card and floral offering before it went into Jessie’s room and had passed it on to Jensen, when he saw what the envelope contained:
GET WELL SOON, JESSIE. I’M WAITING .
What had made Jensen even more furious were two snapshots folded in with the note. Each showed Jessie and Linda in the dog lot at the cabin—Linda carefully keeping watch, Jessie watering her dogs. The photographer had obviously been standing in the grove of trees just beyond the yard, close enough to clearly show both women in the pictures.
He and Caswell—who had expressed himself excessively in four-letter words—had taken the photos to the crime lab.
“Not much we can tell,” John Timmons had informed him later. “Kodak paper, ordinary size and film. Could have been developed anywhere—probably the local Carrs grocery, or Costco, where they get hundreds of jobs a
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