Refuge Cove (New Americana 2)

At first light John arrived at the state trooper post and met the investigation team—two troopers named Reuben and Pete, along with a dog handler named Ted and a golden Labrador named Daisy, both on loan from Juneau. The heavy-duty van was loaded and ready to go. Glancing into the open back, John saw an assortment of shovels, cameras, gloves, and evidence-collecting kits, a stack of Kevlar vests, a stretcher, a carton of body bags, a cooler, and Daisy’s travel crate, with the friendly dog already settled inside.

“Does she mind getting hauled on these outings?” John asked, making conversation with Ted, a young Tlingit with long hair braided and wrapped like his own.

“Are you kidding?” Ted grinned. “She loves it. Getting out there, sniffing for stuff she’s trained to find, and getting treats when she does good. It’s like a game to her.”

Pete, the graying trooper, was in charge. “You, up front with me.” He pointed to John. “You two in the back. Let’s get going.”

They climbed into the vehicle. All three of the troopers were armed. On Pete’s orders John had left his .44 locked in the Jeep. It made sense that the troopers wouldn’t want to be responsible for an armed civilian firing a weapon. Still, John found himself wishing for the heavy pistol. No doubt Philpot had told Boone about the glasses. It would be like Boone to lurk around the area, anticipating that there would be a search. If damning evidence was found—or was about to be found—it was anybody’s guess what he might do.

There wasn’t much small talk on the way. John briefed the others on the location of the site and what he’d found on his previous visit. They’d all seen the photos, including the picture of Bethany Ann. According to the report, the woman had been reported missing by her fellow teachers, who’d been promised letters and photos from Alaska and had heard nothing. At least someone had cared enough about her to be concerned.

It was mid-morning when the van stopped at the edge of the clearing. The blackened frame of the trailer was still there. But even from a distance John could see that the site had been cleaned up. The gasoline cans were gone, as was some of the unburned debris. And he didn’t have to guess that, when they looked under the blackberry thicket, the glasses would be gone. At least he’d taken photos. But for solid evidence, pictures couldn’t compare to an actual object, which could contain invaluable DNA and fingerprints.

John swore. “Looks like the bastard got back here ahead of us.”

“We’ll find what we can,” Pete said. “Sometimes it doesn’t take much. Put on a vest. We’ll do the technical stuff, but you’ll be out there to answer any questions. Stay out of the way and don’t touch anything. Got it?”

“Got it.” John would stay out of the way, but he planned to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of Boone.

He fastened on his Kevlar vest, along with the rest of the team. There was even a vest for Daisy. The dog stood still, her chocolate eyes bright with anticipation as Ted buckled it on her. Anybody could tell she was a pro.

“I paid for this vest myself after another dog got shot at a crime scene,” Ted said. “It cost me almost a month’s pay. The guys thought I was crazy, but she’s family—besides, she’s worth a lot more money than I am.” He snapped the leash through a ring on her harness.

“Boone’s a hunter,” John said. “There must be plenty of animal remains around here.”

Ted grinned. “Don’t worry. Daisy’s got that covered. Let’s go, girl. Do your thing. Find it.”

When he gave her the command, the dog started sniffing around the edge of the clearing. Pete and Reuben had begun walking an imaginary grid, carrying their kits, their eyes on the ground. Every small thing they found was photographed and bagged for the crime lab. The glasses, as John had feared, were nowhere to be found.

John had expected to find boot prints, but Boone—assuming it was Boone—had wrapped his feet so that the soles would leave no pattern. Reuben took photos of the tracks and did a casting, mostly for size. They were fresh, laid down in the past couple of days. And they were big. John hadn’t realized that Boone had such huge feet.

After circling the trailer, Daisy led Ted off into the woods. John followed them, wishing he’d brought his pistol. He didn’t have a good feeling about this.

Daisy was onto something. She was tugging at her leash, pulling her handler deeper into the trees. John followed a few steps behind, his eyes scanning the forest, seeing nothing. A squirrel scolded from its perch in a tall cedar. Deeper in the forest, a jay squawked a warning. A flock of small, brown birds exploded, twittering, from the crown of the forest.

Through the trees, about thirty yards ahead, lay an open patch of ground, overgrown with skunk cabbage. The dog surged toward it, tugging at the leash. John’s eyes caught a faint movement in the trees on the far side. “Get down—” he shouted, dropping low.

A shot rang out. The dog yelped and fell sideways. Ted crawled past John to cover the dog with his body. Acting on instinct, John grabbed the 9 mm Glock out of the trooper’s hip holster, rose to his knees, and fired two shots after a fleeing figure, barely glimpsed through the shadowy forest. Long hair, hulking shoulders—it wasn’t Boone. It was his older brother, Ezra.

The shots John fired had missed, as he’d expected they would. Ezra was already out of sight hidden by thick stands of spruce, cedar, and hemlock. Moments later the distant rumble of a vehicle confirmed that Ezra was gone—leaving a question that made John’s blood run cold.

If Ezra was here, where was Boone?

* * *

Dressed for work, Emma checked her appearance in the mirror before leaving her room. Not that it mattered. In her baggy dress and sneakers, with her hair pulled back and no makeup, she didn’t exactly look like a movie star. But as long as she showed up and did her job, what did it matter?

Although her hourly wage barely covered room and food, she was making good money in tips. Another week and she’d have enough for a cheap flight home—wherever home was these days. Her heart’s desire was to stay here with John. But if there was anything life had taught her, it was that things tended not to work out—and having a Plan B was never a bad idea.

But she was getting tired. When she’d taken the job, she’d agreed to work double shifts, seven days a week. Desperate for money, she’d figured she could stand anything for two weeks. But the heavy work schedule, along with being cooped up in the hotel, was getting to her. Right now, for two cents and a day outside with John, she would bag the whole arrangement.

Through the walls, she could hear the work crew getting ready to update the next room with new paint, carpet, and bath fixtures. Her room would be next, so she would soon have to switch. Not that she minded. She’d grown used to the noise. And the workers were nice men, friendly and courteous. It was almost like having neighbors.

She’d slipped John’s pistol into her pocket and was about to leave the room when she heard a knock. John had warned her not to answer to anyone, but the work crew was right next door. It was probably one of them, needing to tell her when she’d have to move her things. And she was about to leave anyway.

Without a second thought, she unfastened the three locks and opened the door. Boone’s looming figure filled the frame. Before Emma could react, he shoved his way inside and closed the door behind him. He was dressed like the workmen, in paint-spattered coveralls and a baseball cap, which was probably how he’d gotten into the hotel and past the desk.

Emma had backed away from the door. As she shrank against the dresser, a slow smile spread across his face. “Well, how about that,” he said. “Just you and me.”