Thin Ice Page 14

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. Levi is arrogant.”

  I’d been listening, conversing easily with the detective. My head was clear, no pain. But as she said the word “arrogant,” something else filled my mind.

  I was suddenly in the passenger seat of the van, tied to it, a rope wrapped around me and the seat three times. I could see the three lines of rope, feel the roughness under my filthy shirt. I looked out the passenger side window and saw a mailbox—a single box nailed to a leaning piece of wood. I heard his voice.

  “Ignorant country folks don’t check their mail on time,” Levi said. He opened the box door, reached in, and pulled out a stack of mail. “Lookee here. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  One by one I could see the envelopes flutter to the ground as he complained about the contents. But then he whooped with joy. “Found something good, Ms. Fairchild.”

  The sound of an envelope ripping open led to another cheer. “A fucking credit card. We are so set. I’ll have this activated and ready to use by dinnertime. My dinnertime. You get crackers again. You were a bad, bad girl.”

  I couldn’t see him. I could only hear him and see the box and the fallen envelopes. Why couldn’t I see him?

  The memory was a part of the past, I knew that, but the sensations I’d felt—the fear and disgust—were with me now, fully formed. And, there was something else. I remembered thinking, on top of all his evil, he was arrogant too. Yes, he was most definitely so, so arrogant.

  “Beth!” Detective Majors said.

  I snapped back to the present. “Yes,” I said weakly, but I sat up and found my voice. “Yes, Detective, he is arrogant.”

  “What just happened?”

  I told her what I’d “seen.”

  She listened closely and then asked evenly. “Can you remember a name on an envelope, an address on the mailbox?”

  I thought so hard, but it didn’t help. “No.”

  “What about what happened right before? What did you do to be so ‘bad’?”

  I closed my eyes. I’d started the day on such a positive note, but now I felt depleted and defeated. “No.”

  “Okay, that’s okay. Are you okay?”

  I opened my eyes, relieved there was no pain behind them. “I’m fine. It’s … good to remember.”

  “It’s also tough, going to be tough. That’s to be expected.”

  She said the words carefully. I wasn’t delicate. I’d been through a lot, and I wasn’t in the best physical shape, but I’d never been delicate.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m good. Really.”

  “Look, we now have an idea where Levi Brooks and his van were two days in a row. Maybe he was seen too. We will bleed that area dry for information. We aren’t done out there.”

  “Good. Yes.”

  “I’m hesitant to go on, but there’s a little more. Do you need a break?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I was contacted by a man in California. He used to be a writer. About ten years ago he was stalked for a couple of years and then someone tried to abduct him from outside his house. He got away, but he wondered if maybe the guy who took you is the same one that tried to get him.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “I know, and apparently there’s a sketch of his alleged attempted kidnapper.”

  “I don’t know if it will spark any recognition, but can I see it?”

  “The second I get it, you’ll get it. It’s currently being searched for.” Detective Majors seemed to cover the phone to clear her throat.

  “Files, bureaucracy, red tape,” I said. My mother’s mantra, usually uttered with disgust, and the reason she didn’t like, trust, nor believe the police.

  “Yeah, something like that. The file was closed and sent to some box in some building somewhere. It wasn’t downloaded to any computer. It’s my experience though, that even that might not have helped.”

  “I suppose it’s a possibility. He wasn’t young,” I said. I’d already told the police that I was pretty sure the man who’d taken me, the one I thought was named Levi Brooks, the one whose face I still couldn’t picture, was at least fifty years old. I was even more sure of that now, but I didn’t know how I could be so sure.

  What I’d told the police was that I was unsure about almost all of my three days in that van, but the things I was sure of, I was one hundred percent certain they were true. Later, after I’d made that proclamation, even I’d wondered how I was so sure about anything. I never voiced my later doubt, but I felt it again now. I still wouldn’t voice it though. There comes a point when you have to stick by some story. That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

  Detective Majors continued. “I know. I’m not discounting it, but I have a hard time believing Levi was in California ten years ago. I’ve got it in my mind that he’s a Missouri boy, has been forever, but I don’t want to have my instincts make that call. I’ll look into it closely.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  She gave us both a beat but finally said, “So, how’s it going?”

  “Fine. This is an interesting place.”

  “I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “It is. It’s also big and … remote.”

  “Gril, the police chief. He a good guy?”

  “I think so.”

  “You hesitated.”

  “No, he seems like a good guy, but I’m not sure he’s smart.”

  “Oh, he’s smart,” she answered quickly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Trust me, and you can trust him. Like I told you, I researched him. Came from Chicago. Put some really bad folks behind bars. He’s a good one.”

  “Good to know. Did you find out if he was running away from something? Apparently, lots of people think this is a good place to hide.”

  Detective Majors laughed once. “No, I didn’t find out anything specific, but if I were to guess, I’d say that fighting crime in Chicago got old and tiresome, and frightening.”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh, hey, I gotta go. Call coming in from California.”

  “I’ll call—”

  But Detective Majors clicked off before I could finish telling her I’d call her back soon. I didn’t tell her about my mom visiting Stellen Graystone or my thoughts about him becoming involved in the investigation. I still might, but I definitely leaned toward just letting that play itself out.

  I sat back in the chair. The police had a line on Levi Brooks, or where he’d been, within the last week. I was relieved and excited, scared and cautiously optimistic.

  But he still hadn’t been caught.

  Keep busy, Beth, keep busy.

  I looked at my Olympia, my laptop, the scanner, and out the window.

  And then I screamed.

  Seventeen

  “What the complete fuck?” I said to Orin Capshaw.

  “I am so, so sorry,” he said, his face pale with genuine regret. “I was just looking in to see if you were here. I came over from the library and the window is on this side of the building.”

  “You were just looking in the window? Is that something that’s acceptable here?”

  Orin looked confused and then shrugged. “Well, yeah, it is, actually.”

  I took some deep breaths, trying to key in on the clean outdoor smells and make myself calm down. I’d seen a face peering in the window. When I recognized the braids, I’d leapt out of the building and almost ran him down. We stood out in the woods as I yelled at him.

  “Hey, I’m so sorry,” Orin said. “I’ll come directly to the door next time.”

  “Do you need something?” I snapped.

  “I was just coming over to say howdy. It’s my lunchtime. I’ve eaten. I close the place for an hour.”

  I looked over at the library. There were no vehicles parked outside. “Everyone goes to the airport for Internet during lunchtime?”

  “Yeah, unless I can get someone to work for an hour. That happens sometimes.”
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  “You can’t just hire the help?”

  “Not really. We all help out when we can, but it depends on what else is going on.”

  “Huh.” I still felt my heart beating in my chest, but it was slowing to normal. I looked at Orin, who seemed to still be waiting for an invitation. It was all I could do to keep irritation from my tone. “Want to come in?”

  “Yeah, I haven’t seen the place since Bobby died.” Orin smiled and led the way. I blinked at his back and followed.

  * * *

  If contact high was a real thing, I was pretty sure I was getting one of those. Orin lived in a cloud of weed. Was that sort of lifestyle required if you looked like Willie Nelson or did the lifestyle lead to the look? I knew medical marijuana was legal in Alaska, but I didn’t know Orin well enough to ask about the affliction that managed the prescription. If there was one.

  “I love this place,” he said as he sat on a chair, his feet propped up on the other desk. I’d poured him a drink and he was sipping slowly.

  “You used to hang out here?”

  “I did. Bobby and I would share stories. He was a Vietnam vet, you know. He had some stories.”

  “You too, I imagine.”

  “Oh yes, I have worked for the government, still do sometimes. I can’t tell everything I’ve done and seen but I can tell some of it. Bobby and I would talk about every manner of thing.” He took a sip as his eyes saddened. “I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “S’okay. That’s what friendship and love are all about, right? Being grateful for it while you have it because it can disappear one heartbeat later.”

  “That is true,” I said. I sat back in my own chair. “Care to share an adventure with me? Doesn’t have to be juicy, but I’d love to hear a small one.”

  Orin studied me and then said, “There was a time, I was part of the Sky Mission.”

  I nodded.

  “When UFOs are reported, the sightings are investigated. I was once one of those investigators.”

  “The X-Files?”

  Orin laughed. “No, not really. That would have been fun though.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  “Not one damn alien, I’m sorry to say. I had two cases that were never conclusively determined, but all the others were easily explained.”

  “So, the two might have been aliens.”

  “Or, they might have just been people making things up.”

  I looked at him a long moment. There was a squint to his eyes. He was a good liar, but not as good as he thought. Although, I wondered how hard he was really trying. Maybe he was telling me there really were aliens. I didn’t push it.

  “Orin, were you looking in the window day before yesterday?” I asked.

  “No ma’am. Why?”

  “I felt prickles on my neck.”

  “I see.” He sent me a serious look. “Always pay attention to those.”

  “I do.”

  He hadn’t said that he knew who I was. I couldn’t tell if he was behaving coyly or not. But I had something I wanted to do.

  “Hey,” I said. “Have you done any extra research on Linda and George Rafferty?”

  “May she rest in peace. No, why?”

  “I believe her official cause of death is suicide, but I’ve heard that many might not believe that’s possible, including maybe the police chief.”

  “You want to know what’s in her past.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I do.”

  “For an article?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You like to be busy, keep your mind on … something else?” Orin sent me focused and even more squinted eyes. He was holding back, but I wasn’t going to give him any easy answers.

  “Yes.” I fired up my laptop and saw the icon for the library’s Wi-Fi in the bottom corner. “Do I need a password?”

  “Bears eat people. One word.”

  “Okay. That keeps the tourists on their toes.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “All right. I’m on. I’ll do what I would do and then you can work some of that government-secret magic.”

  “Deal. I’ll just sit here with my drink until you run into the dead ends, dead ends that I, by the way, will be able to break right through.”

  “How much more time do you have?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “I can work with that.”

  Orin seemed comfortable as I got to work. I’d done plenty of research over the years, but inside the Petition, I was working with the slowest Internet connection since I’d had dial-up. However, I started at the end, with their names along with “Benedict, Alaska.” I found an announcement about George, accompanied by a smiling black-and-white photo, and his employment with the Glacier Bay National Park Visitors’ Center from three years earlier. It was short and sweet.

  “George Rafferty joins us from Charleston, South Carolina, where he and his wife ran a watch repair shop. Though they hadn’t spent much time watching time tick away, they were pleased to join us in the wide-open air and outstretched ocean in the shadows of our glaciers. Come say hello to George and don’t forget to ask him about his lifelong passion for woodworking.”

  I didn’t know if the snippet meant to imply that the Raffertys had moved to Charleston before their move to Alaska, or simply hadn’t had the watch repair shop for long before moving to Alaska. But another step deeper into the search, I found the tragedy I’d heard about.

  Dated three months earlier than the note about the visitors’ center, and part of a Charleston news site, was an article about a young man named Dylan Rafferty, a seventeen-year-old high school junior who had been killed in a car accident by a distracted driver. Though George and Linda weren’t mentioned, considering what I already knew, it seemed feasible that they were somehow all related. I needed more pieces of that puzzle just to make sure though, so I searched for Dylan’s obituary. It was easy to find, and I zoned in on the parents’ names—George and Linda Rafferty.

  “Reading about this is tough and reason enough to run away from the real world,” I said.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You sound doubtful,” I said as I turned to Orin.

  “No. Well, yes, it does seem reason enough, but was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just think a deeper look is always called for. I can do that.” Orin stood. “But I’ll have to do it on my own. If I don’t open the library on time, I have a bunch of unhappy people.”

  “Will you let me know if you find anything?”

  “Sure, what’s your number?”

  “I don’t have one. I’ll just be here.”

  “Alrighty. We don’t have the best cell phone service here anyway, so I get it, but let me give you the library’s phone number. It’s a landline.”

  Orin wrote the number on a piece of scratch paper and then made his way to the door. He stopped there and turned.

  “Do you care if I stop by every now and then? If you’re busy, just send me away.”

  “Stop by anytime.” I smiled. “But, don’t look in the window. Come to the door and knock.”

  “Door’s going to be locked?” he asked.

  “For now.”

  He looked at me a long moment, as if he was debating with himself whether or not to protest. “Got it.”

  I felt such a sense of comfort with Orin Capshaw that the possibility of a friendship was intriguing. Or maybe it was the contact high. Either way, I liked the guy—and it seemed he liked me. Unquestionably, he loved the old tin hunting shed that now housed the town’s unusual newspaper office.

  “Later,” Orin said with what had quickly become his signature peace sign before he pushed through the door and out into some falling rain.

  “Later.”

  I needed to figure out where to buy more whiskey.

  Turning back to my laptop, I tried to find more about Linda, maybe a picture with a welcome article for her, but I found nothing else.


  I wished for an image in my mind, a face, a crooked smile. Maybe Orin would find one.

  I stood up to relock the door, but I opened it first. Rain was starting to fall. Thunder rumbled but I couldn’t pinpoint where the lightning was coming from; blinding flashes of light filled the whole woods directly on the tail of each rumble.

  I thought back to the fear I’d felt as I’d tried to bike through the rain. It didn’t seem unreasonable yet, but it was clear that everything was simply something to get used to. I knew this—I’d known it before. But sometimes there was just so much to get used to that it was easy to forget how adaptable one could be.

  A different sort of light pulled my eyes down the dirt road, now becoming increasingly muddy. A truck was coming this way. I stiffened and squinted, but it only took me a moment to realize it was Gril’s truck.

  I hoped he was bringing good news.

  Eighteen

  “Got any coffee?” Gril said as he came inside from the rain. He had a file tucked under his arm. He set it on the desk, but didn’t say anything about it.

  “I think I still have some whiskey.”

  “No, coffee would be better.”

  “I don’t…”

  It wasn’t a roomy space, but somehow I’d missed the coffeepot sitting on a stand behind one of the file cabinets. I watched Gril walk over, plug it in, grab some water from the watercooler he had indeed refilled, open a can of coffee, sniff it satisfactorily, and put the ingredients in their appropriate spots before pushing the button.

  “It’ll be a minute,” he said as he turned and rolled the chair around where he could sit and face me.

  “I’m glad to know about it. I was afraid I was going to have to work on my drinking skills. My visitors have preferred whiskey,” I said.

  “Orin?”

  “And Viola.”

  “Viola visited?”

  “She did, the first day, actually. She recognizes me, but she can’t place from where.”

  “She might figure it out.”