* * *
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.