“Heavens, if I were home, I’d be late for school.” She took a step, stumbling over the hems of the long underwear he’d lent her.
“Your clothes are dry,” he said. “You’ll find them on your bed. By the time you’re dressed, I should have breakfast on the table.”
“Thanks. I’m actually hungry.” Hitching up the thermals, she shuffled back to the bedroom and found her clothes neatly folded on the bed. Her jeans were ripped at the knees, and there were stains from the muskeg that no amount of washing would get out. But at least the clothes were clean. If pawning the ring fetched enough money, maybe she could buy a few simple things, like a change of clothes and underwear.
A groan escaped her lips as another thought crossed her mind. She’d left her purse in Boone’s truck. He would have not only her cash but her driver’s license, passport, cell phone, and credit cards. Until she could get everything cancelled, he would no doubt make good use of them. What a nightmare! It was even worse than her dream because it was real.
Dressed, and with the tube socks still protecting her sore feet, she returned to the kitchen. John had breakfast on the table. She took a seat and loaded her plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttered toast.
“Thank you,” she said. “I really mean it. I wasn’t at my best last night, but I wasn’t ungrateful.”
“Understood.” He passed her a glass of orange juice. “I’ll be leaving for town when we’re done here. The shops open at nine. I should be back by ten with your shoes and some cash. After that, I think it’s time you told your story to the police.” His eyes narrowed as if he’d noticed her hesitation. “What is it?”
“It’s just . . . I’m not sure I can trust the police. Boone bragged to me that he had friends on the force. What’s to keep them from letting him know where to find me?”
“Friends?” John shook his head. “There are a couple of guys on the force who went to school with us. But I don’t recall their being friends with Boone. He ran with the rough crowd—booze, weed, bullying the weaker kids . . .” He rose, picking up his plate to take to the sink. “I wouldn’t worry about the police if I were you. Besides, you’re going to need their help. You can’t go after Boone by yourself.”
Emma had to concede he was right. “Fine. I’ll be ready to go when you get back from town. I wear a size six shoe, by the way. Get me whatever’s sturdy and comfortable, and hopefully on sale.” She glanced toward the sink, where he was rinsing his plate. “Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll do that while you’re gone.”
“Thanks. That’ll save us some time.” He took a quilted vest from a hook behind the door and slipped it on. “I’m leaving the pistol,” he said. “You’re not likely to need it, but if the bastard shows up and threatens you, don’t be afraid to pull the trigger.”
If he was joking, she could see no sign of it in his stern expression. “Stay inside and keep the door locked,” he said. “Don’t go out on the porch or even look out the windows until I come back. If anybody knocks, don’t answer.”
“I understand.” Emma eyed the gun where it lay on the side table by his books. He was worried, she realized—maybe as worried as she was.
She checked the locked door as he drove away. Then she went back to the kitchen and started on the dishes.
* * *
John drove the Jeep to the highway, then south another eight miles into Ketchikan. The quiet after the end of the season was almost startling—the long boardwalk with its empty ship berths, the closed tourist office, the fishing boats clustered at anchor in the basin below the floating pier.
From where he stood by the parked Jeep, he could see where the streets climbed the steep slope to an area of newer, nicer homes. In one of them, a two-story white frame house, Marlena lived with her fisherman husband, their two young children, and David. They had decent lives, he imagined. With his own boat and crew, a man could make a lot of money during the salmon run. David, seventeen by now, would soon be old enough to help crew.
John wondered if his son would like that kind of work. But he wouldn’t get a chance to ask him. Marlena had done a number on the boy. After the things she’d told him, it was no wonder that David wanted nothing to do with his natural father.
A lone bald eagle circled above the water and flapped away to disappear against the sky. Reminding himself that he’d come into town for a reason, John turned away from his view of the white house, locked the Jeep, and strode up Dock Street toward the business section of town.
The pawnshop, on Main, was just opening for the day. The old man who’d run the place for decades examined the ring with his jeweler’s loupe. “It’s gold, all right. I’d say maybe eighteen carat,” he announced. “But the ring’s old. It’s had some hard wear. Not good for much now except melting down. I can offer you two hundred for it.”
Two hundred dollars wouldn’t get Emma very far, and the ring was all she had. John had been hoping for more, but he knew the old man was fair and honest. He walked out of the pawnshop with the cash in his wallet.
The bank was on the next block. John walked in and withdrew an additional two hundred dollars from his own account. He knew that Emma would never accept money from him. But she wouldn’t have to know that he’d sweetened the price of the ring.
He returned to the Jeep and spent the next twenty minutes driving the streets, looking for Boone’s old camo-painted pickup truck. He saw no sign of it, which didn’t mean much. Boone could be anywhere.
John checked the supply and gas place where Boone usually stocked up. The clerk remembered Boone from the day before, when he’d loaded up his truck and paid for the goods by peeling bills off a big wad of cash. But no, the man hadn’t been in since then.
With no place else to look, John was on his way to pick up Emma’s sneakers and head home when a sudden hunch struck him. He hit the brakes, swung the Jeep around, and headed for the Gateway County building. He might be wasting time, he cautioned himself, but if his instincts were right, he could be returning with a surprise for Emma—one that would be even more welcome than new shoes.
* * *
By ten minutes after nine, Emma had finished cleaning the kitchen. In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and finger-combed her hair. No makeup, but then, she’d never worn much. The way she looked this morning would have to be good enough.
Growing restless, she prowled the cabin. She was tempted to open the front door, just to look around, or at least glance out of a window. But the heavy pistol, lying on the table, was a reminder of the danger that could be lurking outside. A calm, capable man like John Wolf wouldn’t be worried without good reason.
She wandered to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, built into the wall on one side of t
he fireplace. Most of John’s books appeared to be non-fiction—history, true-life adventure, and how-to volumes that covered everything from cooking to airplane engine repair. There were a few novels—authors like Hemingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck. But Emma, who loved to read but favored contemporary women’s fiction, found little to catch her interest.