Refuge Cove by Janet Dailey (11)

CHAPTER 11

John picked up the mail pouch at the Ward Cove post office, then drove the short distance to Refuge Cove. The wind was brisk and cold. As he climbed out of his Jeep in the parking lot, he paused to turn up the collar of the sheepskin coat.

He’d meant to call Emma this morning. But he’d decided to leave at first light, ahead of the storm. He knew she’d be tired from work, and he didn’t want to wake her. Taking his charged phone out of his pocket, he brought up her number and sent her a simple text.

After stowing the mail in the Beaver and doing the customary preflight check, he climbed into the pilot’s seat, started the engine, and taxied out of the cove.

The waves were whitecapped in the main channel. The plane pitched slightly as John turned into the wind, set the flaps to takeoff position, and opened the throttle. The Beaver shot forward and roared into the air.

Wind rocked the wings and battered the fuselage as the plane climbed to cruising altitude of ten thousand feet. He’d hoped to fly above the storm, but even here, the air was rough. He might have postponed the mail flight for a day or two, until the weather cleared, but this was the day when many folks in the villages received their assistance and dividend checks. For some, even a short delay would be a hardship.

The main storm front had yet to move in. If it proved to be too dangerous, John knew he could set down on some lake or inlet to wait out the worst of it. But he wasn’t worried. The sturdy Beaver was built to take a beating. It had survived plenty of storms. So had he. This one would be no different.

* * *

Emma woke to the clatter of hail against the windowpane. According to the bedside clock, it was almost eight. But the room was barely light.

She swung her legs off the bed and pattered barefoot to the window. Roiling soot-black clouds filled the sky outside. The wind howled, blowing the hail in a wild tattoo against the glass. The storm had struck in full fury. She could only hope that John had cancelled his flight. Surely he wouldn’t go up in weather like this. But John was a determined man.

Had he left her a message? Rushing back across the room she snatched up her phone. Dread jerked a knot in her stomach as she read his text from earlier this morning. Just as she’d feared, John had taken the plane up in the storm.

There was no TV in her room, but there was one mounted over the bar downstairs. She dressed in jeans and a sweater, splashed her face, finger-combed her hair, and hurried downstairs.

The TV in the bar was already on, tuned to a local news and weather broadcast. A half dozen people were watching it. Most of them appeared to be guests who were worried about their airline flights. Luggage was stacked in the lobby, but clearly no one was going anywhere this morning.

Too nervous to sample the breakfast buffet, Emma pulled out a stool and sat at the bar to watch the images on TV. What she saw only heightened her fear for John. The storm was a big one, with rain, hail, and sleet pounding the Alaskan coast from Ketchikan to Skagway and beyond. Emma saw news shots of flooded streets, highway wrecks, beached fishing boats, and airports with grounded planes and cancelled flights.

Where was John in all this? He must’ve set down somewhere. What was it he’d said when she’d asked him about flying in bad storms? Something about landing and waiting out the weather. Surely that’s what he would do.

Turning away from the TV, she rose, walked to the front of the restaurant, and looked over the low curtain that shielded seated patrons from sidewalk traffic. Beyond the glass, sleet and hail flew past the window, blown almost horizontal by the keening wind. The docks and water were a blur, glimpsed through streaking daggers of icy white. A few vehicles, their drivers accustomed to storms, moved along Front Street at a crawl. Here and there, people, caught unaware or driven by some urgent errand, staggered into the wind, clutching their parkas and ponchos around them.

The tall figure of a man emerged like a wraith from the swirling whiteness. Walking along the docks at a leisurely stroll, almost as if the storm didn’t exist, he paused opposite the hotel and stood looking across Front Street, toward the window where Emma stood. Although it didn’t make sense that he could see her through the sleet-blasted window, she took an instinctive step back from the glass. A chill passed through her body.

She could still see him, but not his face. He was wearing a storm poncho over a dark hoodie that was drawn down and over his forehead and cheeks, leaving little more than his eyes and mouth visible.

Even without a clear look at the man, Emma knew it was Boone. No one else could trigger the gut-clenching dread she felt when he stepped into the street, walking at an even pace toward the window, as if he wanted to prolong her fear. Emma knew she should get away and hide where he couldn’t find her, in case he dared to come inside. But since he’d likely heard from Philpot, he would already know she was here. Something compelled her to face him, to look him in the eye and let him know she was strong enough to stand up to him.

She moved forward again, next to the glass.

He stepped from the street onto the curb and came across the sidewalk to stand under the scant shelter of the overhang. They were face to face now, separated only by the glass. She looked into those cold blue eyes and felt the paralyzing fear that flowed down into her limbs. She willed her features to freeze, betraying nothing.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached up with his gloved hands and pulled back the poncho and hoodie that covered his head. Emma stifled a gasp as she saw the blistered, hairless patch that ran down the left side from crown to jaw, barely missing his eye.

This was her doing.

Slowly, the same way he’d unmasked himself, Boone covered his head again. With the same cold smile on his face, he turned away and walked into the storm. He had wanted to show himself. And he’d wanted her to know that because of what she’d done to him, he would make her suffer. If he had to chase her to the ends of the earth, he would never let her go.

* * *

John had made stops at Wrangell, Petersburg, and a couple of tiny settlements between. He was twenty minutes from Sitka, cruising at seven hundred feet, when the storm front hit with force that rocked the Beaver like a child’s paper toy. Sleet splattered the windows. Clouds swept in around him, cutting off his vision. Even with the wipers working, he was flying almost blind.

John swore, knowing he’d pressed his luck too far. Trying to climb over the storm now would be an almost suicidal risk. There was no place to go but down.

He knew he was over water. But the convolutions of the coast, with its inlets, islands, and reefs, could be treacherous. The simplest miscalculation might be enough to crash the plane into a mountainside, a rock, or even a tree.

He radioed his position and plan to anybody who might be listening. Then, with an eye on the altimeter, he began a careful descent. Howling wind battered the Beaver, shaking it back and forth like an animal with prey in its jaws. As the plane dropped, John struggled to see through the roiling clouds. His eyes strained for the slightest glimpse of the landscape below.

At two hundred feet he broke out below the clouds. A sleety rain was falling, drops splattering the plane like machine gun fire. Near the ground the wind was even stronger. But at least he could see. He was flying low over a narrow channel dotted with rocky islands. Landing the plane would be tricky, but he’d been in tighter spots—like the lake he’d landed on to rescue Emma.

Engine slowed to idle, flaps down, nose slightly up to slow the descent, he picked an open passage and glided in for a landing. The storm was beating the waves to a froth, which was likely why he failed to see the massive rock looming just below the surface. The left float shattered as the plane skidded across it, careened partway onto its side and crashed to a stop.

Dazed and shaken, John opened his eyes. His head felt like somebody had broken a brick over it. Reaching up, he felt a swollen, tender bruise, so sore he could barely touch it. The headset he’d been wearing was nowhere to be seen. What the hell had happened?

In a flash, it all came back—the storm, the descent through the clouds, and the landing he’d expected to go fine—except that it hadn’t. His head must’ve struck something when the plane crashed to a stop. Whatever it was, it had hit hard. He felt dizzy and mildly nauseous. Probably had a concussion. Never mind, he needed to see about the plane, which was undoubtedly in even worse shape than he was.

After unfastening his safety harness, he pushed open the door, and jumped to the ground. The jar to his head as he landed elicited a grunt of pain.

The storm howled around him, wet and icy cold, as he inspected his plane. It had come to a stop on a stretch of rocky beach. The float on the pilot’s side was destroyed, the struts holding it bent out of shape. The tip of the wing, where the plane had scraped along the beach and come to rest was crumpled. With time, money, and spare parts, the Beaver could be towed back to civilization and repaired. But there was no way he could take off and fly it out—especially in this godforsaken place.

When he didn’t show up in Sitka, the mail flight would be reported missing. Rescuers who’d received his last radio message would be out looking for him. But nothing was going to happen until the storm cleared. If the wind and rain hung around, he could be stuck here for days—and if he had a concussion, the one thing he mustn’t do was sleep. If he did, there was a danger he might not wake up.

Still cursing himself for taking a chance on the weather, he climbed back into the cockpit and assessed his situation. He had a thermos of coffee, a couple of water bottles, and a few snacks. There was no telling how long they would have to last. The thing to do now was get on the radio and let his colleagues know that he’d survived a crash landing and was waiting to be picked up.

But when he tried to use the radio, there was nothing but silence. From the shock of the crash, or for whatever reason, the radio was dead.

* * *

When Emma came down for her shift at eleven o’clock, she had the loaded pistol John had given her tucked into the pocket of her uniform. Small as it was, the gun had enough weight to bump against her leg and bulge slightly beneath her apron. If a customer noticed it, she might be in trouble. But after Boone’s visit that morning, she would not be leaving her room without it.

By noon the wind had let up. Gray clouds, drizzling cold rain, hung over the town. But the weather wasn’t harsh enough to keep people from donning their rain gear and coming out to socialize over lunch.

“We get a lot of rain here,” Pearl explained. “If we let it keep us indoors, we’d all turn into hermits.”

Pearl hadn’t been here earlier when Boone had stopped by the window. Emma hadn’t told her about the brief visit. Pearl already knew that Boone was a threat. And after the fuss when Philpot had shown up, Emma had made a resolution—no more drama in the workplace.

The TV above the bar had been on all day with news of the storm. But there’d been no word from John. She could only hope he’d found a safe place to wait out the storm, and that he’d be home tonight. His text had mentioned that he wanted to talk. Did that mean he wanted to move forward together, or was he preparing her for good-bye? Either way, she would have to be ready. John was not an easy man to read.

David came in at his usual time. His mother let him out of the Escalade and drove away without so much as a wave. It was easy to understand why the boy wanted a job and a car. John’s son was growing up. What he craved was independence.

It was about four o’clock, and Emma was helping David set the tables for dinner when the breaking news screen flashed onto the TV. Emma stood stunned, the forks in her hand clattering to the floor as the newscaster read the bulletin.

Emma glanced at David. Like her, he was frozen to the spot, staring up at the TV as the broadcast continued. Pearl had come out of the kitchen, and she stood beside them, listening.

An older man, weathered and graying, spoke into the microphone. “If you know anything about bush pilots, you know two things—that they’re tough and that they’re like family to each other. The men in the air looking for John Wolf will be his friends and brothers. And they won’t rest until they find him, because they know that John would do the same for them. He’s one of the best pilots and finest men I’ve ever known—honest, dedicated, selfless, and as tough as they come. John, I know you can’t hear me. But if you could, I would tell you, hang in there. Somebody’s . . . coming.” Mazursky blinked and shoved the microphone back at the reporter.

Emma looked at David again. Tears were trickling down his face. He was hearing about his father, the man he hadn’t been allowed to know.

See, your mother was wrong. People do change. Or maybe he was the same man all along. That was what she wanted to say to him. But those weren’t the words the boy needed to hear. Instead, what she said was, “Pray for him, David. That’s what he needs from you now.”

* * *

John walked along the beach doing his best to stay alert. The wind had eased, and the rain was letting up some. But clouds lay like a thick gray blanket as far as the eye could see. He had spent much of the afternoon trying to fix the radio, with no success. He’d even tried his cell phone, but, as he should have known, there was no service here.

In an hour it would be dark. Not that it mattered. No pilot would be searching for him in this weather.

Even once the sky cleared, John knew that finding him wouldn’t be easy. He had landed in a narrow inlet, with high cliffs on either side. A pilot in a plane would only be able to see him from directly overhead. Before then, he could pass out from the concussion or die of hunger and thirst—but he mustn’t think of that now. He had set out anything that might hold water to collect the rain, saving the two precious quart bottles for as long as he could. Drinking the seawater in the inlet would only dehydrate him faster.

The night would be long and cold. Wrapped in his sheepskin coat, John had walked the length and breadth of the island looking for something that would make a fire. But this small pile of rock had no trees on it. And the few sticks of driftwood he’d collected were too waterlogged to burn. If he was to have any hope of rescue, when the time came, he would need to light a signal fire. For that he would need enough fuel to attract attention. Maybe something from the plane would work. But he would have to worry about that tomorrow.

He had planned to be home tonight, to pick up Emma after her work and drive someplace where they could be alone and talk. It was too soon for anything like a proposal, but he needed to know whether she could be happy in a place like Ketchikan, or whether she’d be walking out of his life as soon as she was able to leave.

If he could find the courage to say the words, he might even tell her he loved her.

Did she know he was missing? Had it been on the news, or was she waiting, expecting the call that wasn’t going to happen?

Whatever it took, John vowed, he would survive to return to her and have that talk.

* * *

After a sleepless night, Emma was up at the crack of dawn. She dressed hurriedly, splashed her face, and hurried downstairs to the bar to turn on the TV.

It was too soon to expect good news, she told herself. But the clouds were breaking up. Search planes would be in the air. She could only pray that John would be found soon, and that he would be safe.

When the regional broadcast came on, there were no surprises. The search had begun, but it was too soon to expect results. The news program moved on to other stories—the cleanup after the storm, a robbery in Wasilla, and a bear attack at a fishing resort. Still, until the time came to change for her shift, Emma stayed in front of the TV in the hope of hearing that John had been rescued. But there was no more word of the search.

Pearl came in a few minutes before the lunch shift. One look at Emma’s face told her she was still waiting for news. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said, giving Emma a hug. “With so much territory to cover, these searches can take time. They’ll find him. You’ll see.”

But will he be alive? Refusing to voice the thought, Emma fixed her face in a smile and finished setting the last table.

“Oh, I meant to tell you,” Pearl said. “David won’t be in today. His mother called to say he wasn’t feeling well.” She moved closer to Emma, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, I heard from Carl that David and Marlena had a blowup over David’s wanting to spend time with John. Things got pretty emotional. I’m guessing Marlena didn’t want him coming in today. I hope she doesn’t make him quit. David has a mind of his own and he’s becoming a man. She can’t control him forever.”

“You’re right, I’m sure,” Emma said. “But I know John wouldn’t want to cause trouble between them.”

Pearl shook her head. “Maybe not. But sometimes things happen for a reason. People change. They grow up. And there are worse things than David’s learning that his father is a good man after all.”

Around three o’clock in the afternoon, four noisy male hotel guests came into the bar to drink beer, eat snacks, and watch a pro football game on TV. That put an end to Emma’s news tracking—perhaps a good thing, she told herself. Each hour with no word about John only sank her deeper into despair. If he’d been found, and he was all right, he would likely call her. But if the news was bad, she wasn’t family. Nobody would let her know. She could only wait to hear the worst.

As she worked, she felt the weight of the pistol in her pocket. All day she’d kept an eye out the window for Boone. He hadn’t appeared, but she was still nervous. As long as she could stay in the hotel with people around her or lock herself in her room, she felt safe. But she couldn’t hide from Boone forever. Sooner or later, something would have to change—and she would have to be ready for it.

Dinnertime was even busier than usual. With David gone, Emma, Pearl, and the other workers had to do his job along with their own. By closing time, when all the diners had paid and left, Emma felt dead on her feet. She cleared the last table, sank onto a bar stool, and clicked the remote through the channels in the hope of finding some news about John. But there was nothing on at this hour but sports, shopping shows, and old sitcom reruns. Giving in to strain and exhaustion, she laid her head on the bar and closed her eyes.

“Emma.” It was the voice of Andy, the night manager at the hotel desk. “Two men in the lobby want to talk to you.”

Two men. Emma’s heart dropped. Was this like the military, where they sent two uniformed men to tell families their loved one had died? Had John told them where to find her before—

Never mind. Whatever the news was, she had to face it the way John would want her to. Taking a deep breath, and feeling slightly dizzy, she forced herself to walk through the door.

Two men stood at the foot of the stairs. The shorter one was a stranger, stubble-faced and wearing a down parka.

The other man, wrapped in a survival blanket, wearing a bandage on his head, and looking like a refugee from a war zone, was John.

With a little cry, she ran to him, almost knocking him backward with her joy. He winced as her arms went around him.

“Careful,” the shorter man said. “The doc thinks he might have a cracked rib. He’s got a concussion, too. They wanted to keep him at the hospital in Sitka but he insisted on coming back here. I live here in Ketchikan, and I was flying home, so it wasn’t any trouble to bring him along. But he’ll need somebody to keep an eye on him tonight.”

“I can do that. He can stay in my room,” Emma said without a second thought. She never wanted to let this man out of her sight again.

“Clive, here, was the one who found me.” John spoke with effort. “I’d about given up when he flew over and saw me.”

“He made a signal fire by pouring gasoline over his old sheepskin coat and one of the seats from the plane,” Clive said. “If I hadn’t spotted the smoke, I never would’ve seen where he was. And that landing was a doozy! I almost cracked up myself.”

“I’d do the same for you any day,” John said. “Pray to God I’ll never have to. Meanwhile, I’ll take you and your family out for a steak dinner after I’m on my feet again.”

“I’d better help him up the stairs,” Clive said. “The doctor gave him something for the pain. He’s a little shaky.”

Emma glanced at Andy behind the desk. “No problem,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Pearl was standing in the doorway to the restaurant. Their gazes met. Call David. Emma mouthed the words and saw Pearl nod. Then she followed Clive as he steadied John on his way up the stairs.

Her mind swarmed with unasked questions. But the answers could wait. Right now nothing mattered except that John was safe and alive, and that he’d come back to her.