Refuge Cove by Janet Dailey (12)

CHAPTER 12

Clive helped Emma ease John onto the double bed and get him out of his boots, socks, shirt, and trousers, leaving on his long, insulating underwear to help keep him warm while he rested.

“Hey, I’m not a patient,” John protested as they finished undressing him and tucked him into bed with pillows to prop him into a semi-reclining position. “I can do this by myself.”

“But will you do it, or will you get up and be off on some cockeyed errand? Knowing you, I’d advise Emma, here, to hide your clothes.” Clive laid John’s holstered pistol on the bedside table. “You heard the doctor. Warmth and bed rest, at least until tomorrow. And with that concussion, no sleeping too long at one time.”

“Are you hungry?” Emma asked John. “I can warm up some chowder in the kitchen.”

“They fed me in Sitka. I’m fine.”

“My wife and kids will be wondering what became of me.” Clive gave Emma a card he’d taken from his wallet. “Here’s my cell number. If he gets too rambunctious, give me a call. I’ll come over and set him straight.”

Emma seized his hand at the door. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she said.

“Think nothing of it. John would’ve done the same for me. Maybe someday he will. Meanwhile, take good care of him. He said some nice things about you. I can see they’re all true.” Before Emma could thank him again, he was gone.

When she turned back to look at John, he was sitting up in the bed, a tired smile on his face. “Lock the door,” he said. “All three locks.”

Emma did as she was told. “Anything else?” she asked, not knowing quite what to expect.

“Yes. Take off that godawful outfit, get into something comfortable, and come keep me company. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, we do.” She untied her apron, lifted the little Kel-Tec pistol out of her pocket, and laid it next to his big .44.

Her fingers hesitated on the top button of her uniform. “Don’t look,” she said.

He turned his head away, “Good Lord, Emma, haven’t you ever undressed in front of a man?”

“Sorry, I was raised by my grandma, with her old-fashioned rules. They sank in deep.” She let the baggy pink uniform dress fall around her ankles, shed her bra, and reached for the top half of the thermal set she’d been using for pajamas.

“I suppose you could change in the bathroom.”

“Yes, I know . . . but that seems almost . . . cowardly. Besides, it’s cold in there.” She kicked off her sneakers and pulled on the thermal bottoms. “All right, you can look,” she said.

He was laughing, which was probably hurting his cracked rib. “Emma Hunter, you’re one in a million,” he said. “Damn it, I love you.”

Her hand shook as she tightened the drawstring around her waist. “I love you, too,” she said, the confession wrung from her by profound relief. “I would have stopped living if you hadn’t come back. Not that it makes anything less complicated.”

He shifted against the pillows to make room for her, resting an arm along the top. “Come here,” he said.

She did, snuggling up alongside him, her head nesting in the hollow of his shoulder. Nothing in her life had ever felt more right. They had so many things to say to each other, and all night to say them. The only question was where to begin.

She raised her face. He bent his head and gave her a lopsided kiss that lingered long enough to send warm tingles through her body. “Tell me about the accident,” she said. So he told her the story—the storm, the crash landing, the damage to the plane, and having to wait more than twenty-four hours in the damp cold before hearing the sound of an approaching Beaver. “By then I had the fire ready—a pile of junk from the plane, including one of the seats, even my coat. I poured gasoline over everything, tossed a match, and prayed that whoever was up there would see the smoke.”

“And Clive found you. What about the plane?”

“It’s still there. I’ll have to pay somebody with a boat to get to it and fix it or tow it out. It won’t be easy or cheap, but that plane is like an old friend. I can’t leave it there to rust.” His arm tightened around her. “Now, how about you? I was glad to see you were packing that pistol.”

“Boone knows I’m here,” she said, and felt his body tense against her. “When Philpot came by and recognized me, I knew it would only be a matter of time before he told Boone. Then, during the storm, I was in the bar. Boone walked up to the window and just stood there. He was wearing a hoodie, and when he pulled it back, I saw the burns. I’ve stayed inside and carried that pistol ever since.”

“Don’t take any chances, Emma.” His voice had taken on a serious tone. “Boone could be more dangerous than you know. Remember when you were speculating that he might have done to other women what he did to you?”

“Yes, I made a sick joke about bodies buried out behind that trailer.” She looked up at him and read his expression. “Oh, no . . .” she murmured.

“A lot of things have happened since we last had time to talk,” he said. “Philpot told me he’d performed an earlier fake wedding for Boone last spring. He saw it as a prank—a way for Boone to get reluctant women into his bed.”

“So what happened to the woman? Does anybody know?”

“Philpot said she was older and plain, with big, thick glasses. When I drove to the trailer, I found a pair of women’s glasses with thick lenses under a bush. I’ve been trying to get Traverton to send a team out there to search. So far he’s been dragging his feet. He doesn’t want to waste time and resources on what could be a wild-goose chase. But whatever happened, that woman wouldn’t have left without her glasses.”

Emma felt a chill, as if cold hands had tightened around her throat. “You think he murdered her?”

“Without a body, there’s no way to tell. I took photos of the glasses and left them in place for evidence. Traverton showed the photos to Philpot for identification. But Philpot had a convenient memory block.”

“By now he will have passed the word to Boone,” Emma said. “If Boone knows he’s liable to be charged, he could run—maybe across the border to Canada. At least, then, we’d be rid of him.”

“Don’t count on it. Boone could hide in the bush forever and still be a danger to you. He needs to be put away.” His arm tightened, pulling her closer. “On a more cheerful note, I found evidence that Boone may have finished burning the trailer himself, after you got away from him. So you’re off the hook for that.”

“But not for his burns.”

“Not likely. Boone wouldn’t be stupid enough to burn himself on his own fire. Either way, he blames you for everything that happened. That’s how his mind works. But I’m here now, and I swear, whatever it takes, I’ll stop him from hurting you.”

His arm tightened around her, making her feel precious and protected. Emma closed her eyes and nestled closer to him, feeling his warmth flood her senses with the clean aroma of his body, the sound of his breathing, and the slow, steady beat of his heart. She could stay right here forever, safe from the outside world, she thought. But that world was their world, and there were things that needed to be set right before they could move on together.

She stirred, rubbing her hair against his chin. “When the news of your crash came on TV, I was with David,” she said. “We listened to an interview with a man they said was a mail supervisor. Older, silver hair.”

“That would be Mazursky. Good man.”

“He told the reporter you were one of the best pilots and finest men he’d ever known.”

“That’s the sort of thing you’d say at a man’s funeral.”

“Your opinion, not mine. I’d be inclined to agree with him. But that’s not why I’m telling you. David was listening to that broadcast. I could tell how moved he was. He even shed a few tears.”

John didn’t answer. She felt his throat move against her forehead.

“He didn’t come in today,” Emma said. “His mother said he was sick. But Pearl told me that Marlena and David had a big blowup because he told her he wanted to spend time with you.”

John exhaled slowly. After a beat of silence, he spoke. “Nothing would make me happier than to be with David. But I won’t put his life in turmoil by coming between him and his family. Marlena raised him when I wasn’t there. She’s done a fine job. And Carl’s been a decent dad. As far as I know, he’s treated David like his own. David’s at a point in his life when he needs stability. I won’t take that away by starting a family war.”

“He’ll be eighteen on his next birthday, old enough to make his own decisions.”

“I know. His birthday’s in March. I’ll be open to whatever he chooses, but I can’t choose for him.”

Emma raised her face and kissed the corner of his mouth. She had a lot to learn about love. John was already teaching her. “How did you get to be so wise?” she asked.

“Wisdom is overrated,” he said. “So is closing your eyes when a beautiful woman is undressing in front of you. Be warned, the next time it happens, I just might steal a peek.”

“You might not have to.” She turned in his arms for a long, deep kiss that left her warm and tingling. Nothing beyond that was going to happen tonight. When the time was right, they would both know it. Now was too soon. Their love was too new and still too tender. But she could hold him in her arms while he rested and make sure his sleep was safe. That was enough to fill her heart.

* * *

By crack of dawn the next morning John’s energy had rebounded. Except for a lingering headache, he felt much like his usual self. Leaving Emma to sleep off her wakeful night, he went into the bathroom, eased the bandage off his head, and washed his hair in the shower.

He was nearly dressed when she opened her eyes with a startled look. “You’re leaving? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “But I have a lady’s reputation to protect, a Jeep to pick up at Refuge Cove, and a cabin to check. Get some sleep before work. I’ll be in touch.” Bending over, he kissed her gently, then strapped on his gun in its shoulder holster and, after making sure the door would lock behind him, stepped out into the hall.

The hotel was quiet. The upstairs workmen had Saturday off and weren’t coming in. The night clerk was dozing at the desk. Outside, the sky was clearing. The air was fresh and brisk, with a chill that made him miss the sheepskin jacket he’d sacrificed to the signal fire.

He walked to the little drive-up on the far side of the tunnel, enjoyed a cup of coffee there, and hailed a cab to take him to Refuge Cove. On the way, he clicked through a mental list of things he needed to do. He’d only missed yesterday, but it was as if the world had shifted while he was waiting to be rescued.

His Jeep was waiting in the marina parking lot, just as he’d left it. One worry out of the way. He’d planned to stop by the air marina to get a recommendation for someone with a boat who could help him salvage the Beaver, or better yet, help him repair it on the spot. But the office was closed, so that would have to wait.

He’d tried not to worry about the cabin, but there was always a chance that Boone had stopped by and left him more ugly surprises. At least, with the storm, the bastard shouldn’t have been able to burn the place down. But John wouldn’t breathe easy until he knew that everything was all right.

Damn it, he was sick of the way Boone had taken over his life and Emma’s. He wanted to move forward, to plan a future with the woman he loved. But the threat from Boone had made her a virtual prisoner. With the discovery that Boone might have caused his first bride’s death, the situation had become even more frightening. Boone wasn’t just a con man. He was a psychopath. And now the target of his obsessive rage was Emma.

He had to be stopped.

Dealing with Traverton’s cautious approach had been an exercise in teeth-grinding frustration. But there was a state trooper post just off the highway. He had nothing to lose by stopping in to find out what the detective had told them, and to ask about any plans for a search.

Minutes later he pulled into their parking lot, went inside the station, and told the desk officer what he wanted. “Your timing’s perfect, Mr. Wolf,” she said. “Sergeant Packard was just about to have me call you. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

When she buzzed him, Packard came out front. Like John, he was Tlingit. But he was in his fifties and wore his hair short. The two were casual acquaintances, on good terms.

“John!” He extended his hand. “I heard about your crash on the news. Glad you made it out in one piece.”

“Thank you.” John accepted the handshake. “I wish I could say the same for my plane. You were going to call me?”

“That’s right.” Packard led the way back to his office. “I was on the phone with Detective Traverton yesterday. He told me about your friend’s trouble with Boone Swenson and sent me photos of the evidence you found at the trailer site.” Packard perched on the edge of his desk. “I’ll cut to the chase. Given what we’ve seen and heard, we think an investigation is justified. We’re putting together a search team, with a dog, to check out the site tomorrow. Since you’re familiar with the place, it would be helpful if you’d agree to go along.”

John’s pulse skipped. Finally something was happening. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help,” he said.

“Then be here at six tomorrow morning, ready to go. Can you manage that?”

“I’ll be here.”

* * *

John felt a surge of optimism as he turned off the highway onto Revilla Road. At last there was a chance of finding enough evidence against Boone to put him away. He thought about sharing the news with Emma while he still had phone service. But it was early yet. She’d stayed awake much of the night watching over him. Let her rest. He would call her later, after he’d been to the cabin.

He was thinking about her, remembering how she’d felt in his arms, when his cell phone rang. For an instant he thought it might be Emma. But he was wrong. When he saw the caller ID, he braked and pulled off onto the side of the road before he answered.

“What is it, Marlena? Is David all right?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” John couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken with her, but the desperate fury in her voice was unmistakable. “Last night he sneaked out of the house and went to a party. The police brought him home. He was . . .” She choked on the word. “He was drunk!”

John stifled a groan. “Where is he now? Is he safe?”

“He’s still in bed, sleeping it off. This is all your doing!”

“Marlena, I didn’t see him or talk to him last night. And even if I had, you know I’d never let him touch alcohol.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was always afraid he’d grow up to be like you. That’s why I’ve kept you away from him all these years. But it didn’t make any difference. He’s your son. He’s got your blood. He’s going to be a drunk just like his father!”

John remembered what Emma had told him, about the blowup between David and his mother. “Is that what you told him? That he had my blood and was going to grow up like me? What did he say to that?”

“He said that was fine with him. Then he went in his room and slammed the door. He went to school the next day, but I kept him home from work. I didn’t think it was a good place for him to be. He went to his room after dinner, to do his homework and play computer games, he said. The next thing I knew, it was after midnight and the police had him at the door. Carl’s in denial, says it’s up to me to deal with this, and I don’t know what to do. . . .”

Her voice broke. John could tell she was crying. Marlena was a good woman. She’d struggled to move past a horrific family background and a bad marriage. He couldn’t fault her need for total control. But it was a given that David would rebel at some point. He could only wish it hadn’t been in such a self-destructive way, and that his own troubled past hadn’t been partly to blame.

“What do you want me to do, Marlena?” he asked.

There was a beat of silence. “I want you to hurt!” she said. “I want you to hurt like I’m hurting. I want you to blame yourself and know that there’s nothing you can do.”

John had been thinking. “There’s something that might make a difference. If you’ll let me spend some time with him tonight, I can try it.”

She hesitated. “After so many years of keeping him away from you, I don’t know if I can. . . .”

“You can’t go back and make things like they were before,” John said. “If you close your eyes and pretend this didn’t happen, he’ll do it again. You know he will.”

“Tell me, and then I’ll decide,” she said.

“All right, here’s what I have in mind. . . .”

* * *

After he and Marlena had agreed on a plan—the first thing they’d agreed on in more than fifteen years—John drove on up the road to the cabin. To his relief, he found the place untouched, with no sign that Boone had come by. Now that Boone knew Emma was in the hotel, it appeared he’d lost interest in looking for her here.

He could only hope Emma would be safe inside the Gateway, with locks on her door, people around her when she went downstairs, and the pistol in her pocket. And he could only hope that tomorrow, at the site of the burned trailer, the team would find enough evidence to put Boone behind bars and end this nightmare for her.

With his pistol drawn, he checked the garage, the carving shed, and every room in the house. After assuring himself that everything was all right, he washed up, changed into clean clothes, and chose a spare wool jacket from the closet. It wasn’t worth making a fire, since he didn’t plan to be here that long. But he was hungry. There was cereal in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. He filled a bowl and made do with that for now.

Looking around the cabin, he found himself wondering if he would ever bring his son here. Until today he’d had little hope of that, but now he found himself imagining David in this room, looking at the photos of his ancestors on the wall and seeing the unfinished totem pole in the shed. Perhaps they could even work on finishing it together.

But maybe he was expecting too much. Maybe this intervention with his boy would only end in disappointment. He would have to be prepared for that.

A small cedar box, a size that might have held card decks or cigars, was tucked between the books on his shelf. John hadn’t opened it in years. Now, remembering what was inside, he slipped it out of its place, sat down at the table, and raised the hinged lid.

He didn’t have many pictures of his family. In years past, seeing their faces had only brought him pain. But now, the prospect of showing them to David renewed his interest.

Handling them with care, he spread the photographs and newspaper clippings on the table, arranging them by age. He had never known his father’s parents. A faded, grainy news photo, published after they’d died in a boating accident, gave only a dim impression of how they’d looked and who they’d been.

It was his widowed maternal grandfather who’d taken a lost and grieving boy under his wing and helped him grow to young manhood before leaving this earth at the age of eighty. The old man had always hated having his picture taken. He appeared in some of the ceremonial photos on the wall, as did his pretty young wife, who’d died before John was born. But in the only photograph he’d allowed to be taken as an old man, he was standing on the dock at Refuge Cove, holding a huge salmon. John, a boy of twelve, was in the picture, standing beside him. They had caught the fish together, or so his grandfather had always said. It was one of the best memories of John’s life. Four years later, when John was just sixteen, his grandfather had passed away peacefully in his sleep.

The only formal photo was a portrait of his parents on their wedding day—so happy and in love, and so unaware of how sadly their lives were fated to end.

He’d forgotten how beautiful they were—his mother in traditional dress with her long black hair flowing around her shoulders, and his father, a fierce young warrior, born into the wrong century. Two hundred years ago he would have been the hero of his tribe. But when his time came, the only enemy left to fight was the white men’s oil pipeline, pushing its way through pristine land that had belonged to his people, like a great silver snake with black blood running through its body.

The battle had been lost from the beginning. The death of the pipeline worker had been little more than an accident. But it had put Benton Wolf behind bars for manslaughter. Sentenced to ten years, he had barely served half his time when he died in a prison brawl. By then his young wife was already drowning her sorrow in alcohol.

There were a few school pictures of John growing up—a scrawny kid with hand-me-down clothes, long hair, and a lonely look in his eyes. Bigger boys, like Boone Swenson, had picked on him at first, but they’d soon learned that he was tough for his size and would fight back. After the first few times, they’d found easier prey.

No photos had been taken at his shotgun wedding to Marlena. It had been a tense, hurried affair, performed at the county offices. David had been born at the Swenson homestead with Marlena’s mother, Lillian, acting as midwife. The only photograph John had of his son was the one he’d framed and put in his bedroom.

John gathered up the pictures, put them back in the box, and replaced it on the bookshelf. He would show them to Emma the next time she came here. He hoped to show them to David someday, too. The boy’s bloodline on his mother’s side was nothing to brag about. But John wanted his son to know that he came from good, proud people.

* * *

After closing the cabin, he drove back to the highway. At Refuge Cove he parked the Jeep and walked down the beach to a quiet spot where he could look out across the water. He checked his watch before making a call to Emma. It was close to ten-thirty. Since her shift started at eleven, he calculated, she should be awake and getting ready to go downstairs.

She answered his call on the first ring. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked.

“Fine, just a little headache. I’m at Refuge Cove now, and I wanted to pass on some news.” He told her about the planned investigation of the trailer site by the state troopers. “They’ve asked me to go along,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll find, so try not to get your hopes up.”

“It’s hard not to get my hopes up,” she said. “I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner.”

“I know. But this can’t last forever. Something’s got to break, and this may be it. For now, just be careful. Don’t leave the hotel.”

“You be careful, too. You know Boone. He could be anywhere. Will I see you tonight?”

“I’ll be staying at the cabin. But I’ll be coming by to pick David up at seven. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, okay?”

“Okay. This sounds interesting. But don’t worry. I’ll play it cool when you come to get him.”

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you. Stay safe.” She ended the call.

John walked back to the marina, borrowed a spare computer, and checked out some leads on getting the Beaver back in operation. He couldn’t afford to wait. The plane was part of his contract with the mail service. They might arrange the short-term loan of another aircraft, but it wasn’t a practical arrangement. Bottom line, if he couldn’t fly, he couldn’t earn a living.

If a boat could haul him to the inlet with a new float and replacements for the bent metal struts, he could put them on the plane and taxi, or be towed, out of the inlet to someplace where the wing could be mended or replaced. So far it sounded like the best plan. But he was still weighing the options.

After making calls and getting some estimates, he drove back into town and had a late lunch at the drive-up. The afternoon stretched ahead of him, with time to kill before picking David up at seven o’clock. Emma was working, and he had no reason to drive back to the cabin. But he hadn’t spoken to Traverton lately. Something had finally compelled the detective to call the state troopers, send the photos, and recommend a search. Before he returned to the site tomorrow, John needed to know what it was.

He caught Traverton in the parking lot, coming back from lunch. The detective greeted John affably. “I was glad to hear you’d been rescued,” he said. “Just goes to show you can’t keep a good man down. Come on in. I had a feeling you’d be showing up today.”

John followed him into his office. “I talked to Packard,” he said. “I’ll be going with the search team tomorrow.”

“I know. Packard called me after you left him. He’s grateful that you’ll be there to guide the team.”

“So what made you finally call them?” John asked.

“Come around by the computer, and I’ll show you,” Traverton said. “Remember when I told you I was going to search the missing persons database? Take a look at what I found.”

He brought up a screen with a school-type photo of a woman. “I sent this to Packard,” he said. “But I asked him not to show it to you. I wanted to see your face when you recognized it.”

John read the text below the photo:

John studied the woman in the picture—dark hair drawn back from a pale, narrow face, little or no makeup, as if she’d long since given up trying to look attractive. But her mouth was smiling, and her gentle brown eyes were magnified by her thick-lensed glasses—the same glasses John had discovered at the trailer site. A tiny gold locket, the old-fashioned kind that opened, hung around her neck on a chain so thin it was barely visible.

She looked like a good woman, a kind woman. “I hope you haven’t shown this to Philpot,” John said. “Anything he learns will go straight to Boone.”

“I know better than that,” Traverton said. “We’re going to keep quiet about this, at least until the team has searched the site. If Boone’s guilty of a crime, we don’t want to spook him.”

“If Bethany Ann is out there, we’ll find her.” John was surprised at the surge of emotion when he spoke. Before, he’d only been interested in a reason to arrest Boone and get him out of the way. Now there was this woman with a face and a name—a woman needing love, who’d trusted Boone Swenson and been betrayed even more cruelly than Emma. She deserved justice. And she deserved to go home.