week and wouldn’t pay attention to anything unless it was really unusual or pornographic. Crank ’em through a developing machine and send ’em back for pickup. No prints, but we expected that.”
“Dammit. He was close enough to shoot them both—and not just with a camera,” Jensen complained.
“And won’t come back to that spot again, I’ll guarantee you.”
“Gives us nothing to work on.”
“Yeah, well. Keep trying. Search the spot he took them from. Nobody’s perfect. There’ll be something eventually.”
“Eventually isn’t soon enough. He’ll figure out that Jessie’s not here and quit, or go hunting for her. I want something to get him before he does.”
Alex turned now to glance at the woman beside him. She needed to recover, physically and mentally, in a calm, safe, quiet place—to be invisible, silent, and unreachable. And she would be—on the island they were approaching.
10
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 compactstructures 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 theplane was secure, Alex slowly pulled the bumping, jolting barrow to the top of the
“Dammit. He was close enough to shoot them both—and not just with a camera,” Jensen complained.
“And won’t come back to that spot again, I’ll guarantee you.”
“Gives us nothing to work on.”
“Yeah, well. Keep trying. Search the spot he took them from. Nobody’s perfect. There’ll be something eventually.”
“Eventually isn’t soon enough. He’ll figure out that Jessie’s not here and quit, or go hunting for her. I want something to get him before he does.”
Alex turned now to glance at the woman beside him. She needed to recover, physically and mentally, in a calm, safe, quiet place—to be invisible, silent, and unreachable. And she would be—on the island they were approaching.
10
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 compactstructures 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 theplane was secure, Alex slowly pulled the bumping, jolting barrow to the top of the
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