Murder on the Iditarod Trail Page 8

  “Let’s get that bottle—and get inside where I can thaw out these wooden fingers. The gloves aren’t much, but I can’t work in mitts.”

  In the cabin Jensen held the container up to the light, careful to keep the bandana between his fingers and the serrated edge of the lid. Two scratches marred the surface on opposite sides of the clear, rounded plastic. Gently removing the safety lid, he examined the traces of white powder adhering to the inside.

  “What is it?” Harv, the checker, questioned. “Ain’t you gonna taste it or something, like they do on TV?” He pushed back a violently purple stocking cap. Along with the fringe of red hair and beard encircling his chubby face, it made him look like a demented gnome.

  Jensen shook his head.

  “Not a chance. If this was all it took to put away a whole team of dogs, I’m not risking it. Leave it for the lab boys. Some hallucinogens are so potent that an amount the weight of a dime would kill eight people.”

  “Jesus, man. Put it away.”

  Alex sealed it into an evidence bag.

  “Where’d you pick this up?” he asked Schuller.

  “About halfway down the Tatina,” he said. “I stopped to snack the dogs in a wide space where another team or two had pulled over earlier. It was maybe three feet off the trail.”

  “These marks on each side. Did the bottle rub against anything in your pocket or sled?”

  “No. It was in my sled bag, but there wasn’t anything to mark it but my extra socks. It’s like it was when I found it.”

  “Either of you talk to anyone else about this?”

  “People were tight enough after hearing from Rainy last night.” Harv frowned. “It didn’t seem worth it to rattle ‘em any more. We decided to leave it to you.”

  “Good,” Jensen said thoughtfully. “It may be completely unrelated, and we may as well not cause any more rumors. Keep it to yourselves. There’ll be a plane here in a while to pick it up.”

  “Will you tell us what you find out?” Schuller asked.

  “If I can. It takes the lab a while to run drug tests. Check with me before you leave, will you, in case I have other questions.”

  “Sure.”

  He turned to Harv. “Can you give me the times for everyone who’s come in here so far? I need to find out where they were when all this happened.”

  “Here’s the record.” The checker handed over a clipboard holding the report begun the day the checkpoint opened. Carefully listed were the checkpoint and checker’s names, musher’s name, date and time of arrival, number of dogs in harness and carried in the sled, verification of required gear, elapsed time from the start, date and time of departure, and the driver’s signature.

  Jensen fervently wished for a copy machine when he saw the amount of information.

  Harv grinned at the expression on his face. “Here,” he chuckled, reaching for his clipboard. “I can do it faster. You gotta have other stuff to do.” Scrubbing his head with the purple cap, he turned to the radio table and reached for a pencil.

  “Thanks,” Alex said gratefully. He went off to find Becker, who was interviewing the drivers of teams in the order they were scheduled to leave Rohn. He added Harv to his mental list of helpful people, which now included Matt Holman, Bill Pete, and several others, including the support crew who had cooked his eggs that morning. And, of course, Jessie.

  He pulled on his coat and walked out across the clearing toward a group of people standing around a fire. The sound of an angry voice intruded on his appreciation of people’s goodwill.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t push me the hell around. I haven’t done anything. I wasn’t there when any of this shit happened. I’m leaving here in a couple of hours and I haven’t got time for this shit. I don’t know anything.”

  As Jensen came up to the fire, he caught Becker’s eye, but the younger trooper was too busy with the furious man confronting him to do more than nod. The angry musher was a formidable four or five inches taller than Becker’s five feet ten, with shoulders to match. He stood with one hand on his hip, the other clutching a tangle of harness, which he shook in Becker’s direction. Clean-shaven and sharp-featured, he glared at the trooper from under brows so heavy they were, apart from his size, the first thing one noticed about him. Alex recognized him as both a winner and challenger from pictures in the newspapers and remembered also that the man had gained a reputation for being both outspoken and difficult.

  “Hey, Tim,” cajoled a man from the listening group. “Chill out. He’s just asking. Don’t take it personal.”

  The fierce dark eyes turned on the peacemaker. “Oh yeah? I wasn’t fucking there. Neither were you, John. Where does he get off, thinking any of us here could be responsible? That’s what he’s doing, man. Can’t you see that? Well, I can. And I damned well do intend to take it personal.”

  Next to Alex, a dark-haired woman driver stared into the fire as if pretending she was elsewhere, anywhere. He’d met her at Rainy Pass. Her name was Gail Murray, and this was not her first Iditarod trip. Nearby a dog began to bark, made uneasy by the angry voice.

  “Well, I don’t see it that way. Steve was a friend of mine and I’ll answer any questions that will help. How the hell can he know where you were unless you tell him?”

  Tempted to step in, Alex caught himself. This was Becker’s show. Let him handle it. He waited, watching closely.

  He was soon glad he had. The younger trooper stepped forward and offered his hand to the cooperative musher.

  “Thanks,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you when I finish with Mr. Martinson.” Turning back, he continued in a steady, authoritative voice.

  “Sir, I understand you’re not comfortable with this. But we need help to get to the bottom of it. We have to go through the steps in order and not leave anything out. That’s how it’s done. I admit it’s unlikely you know anything, but maybe you do and don’t know it.

  “Now. We can get through this painlessly, which means you answer my questions, or . . . I can hold you here until you do. I won’t say I’d go as far as an arrest for hindering an officer, ‘cause I know you’re not going to push it that far. That’s not a threat, Mr. Martinson, that’s simply an assistance the law allows.

  “You want to continue this race? You talk to me.”

  He stood waiting. Martinson opened his mouth, then shut it again, still glaring. They stared at each other while the musher thought it over. Finally he broke eye contact and tossed the harness down on a sled beside him.

  “Okay, damn it. Have it your way,” he growled.

  “Great. I appreciate it. Let’s take a walk.”

  Alex watched the two of them amble off toward the river, Becker asking questions, the other man answering resentfully. They stopped on the edge of a stand of spruce, and the musher seemed to have found something he considered important. He now dominated the conversation. The trooper nodded and took notes. Satisfied, Alex turned and began to ask a few questions of his own.

  12

  Date: Tuesday, March 5

  Race Day: Four

  Place: Between, Rainy Pass and Rohn Roadhouse checkpoints (forty-eight miles)

  Weather: Clear, light wind

  Temperature: High 1°F, low –10°F

  Time: Midmorning

  Beside the trail at the gentler northern end of the Dalzell, Jessie, Bomber, and Jim rested their dogs. Although the sun shone brightly, glistening on a million tiny crystals of fresh snow, the temperature still hovered below zero.

  “The gorge from hell,” Bomber had announced when they pulled over, waving a sweeping gesture toward the section of trail they had just completed. “Once again survived. Once again a bastard.” He flopped back in the snow by his sled and rolled his eyes.

  Jessie scooped up a snowball and tossed it, catching him solidly in the face.

  “S
pare us the melodrama and get a fire going, you fake.”

  Sputtering, Bomber sat up to paw snow from his eyes.

  “Aw, shit. Even adoring fans will turn on you for one small lapse of dignity.”

  With a grin Bomber dug through his gear to find the coffeepot, a container of coffee, and a handful of straw and small sticks. “Hand over some of your charcoal, Jessie.”

  She handed him several chunks, along with the can of starter she carried. With these materials he proceeded to kindle a small, efficient blaze, and soon a pot of melted snow was transformed into steaming brew.

  When they had snacked the dogs, they rested by the fire and broke out their preferred trail food. Bomber alternated handfuls of chocolate-covered peanuts with bites of a stick of butter.

  “How can you eat that stuff straight?” Ryan asked. “Doesn’t it give you the runs?”

  “It’s pure energy, man. But I never get the runs. Think I must be part fuckin’ goat. Want some?”

  “I’ll stick with this, thanks.” Ryan waved the salami he was slicing into chunks. He had heaped spoonfuls of cocoa mix into his coffee.

  Jessie held up a fried chicken drumstick. “I’ll be glad to get my stuff in Rohn. I’m getting tired of this and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My mom makes the world’s best ham and cheese macaroni, and I’ve got two or three bags of it waiting for me. I have dreams about that macaroni, even when I’m not on the trail.”

  “I always get cravings for food during a race,” said Ryan. “Last year, about Ophir, I got hung up on the idea of lasagna. By the time I got to Nome I would have traded the team for it. Couldn’t get it out of my head. Nothing I had tasted right.”

  Jessie moaned. “I had it bad for pepperoni pizza two years ago. I’ve packed it in my supply drops ever since. What do you have in Rohn?”

  Ryan grinned. “La-sa-gna!”

  Laughing, Jessie sat back against her sled. “I’m pooped and we’re only halfway to Rohn.”

  “Yeah, but the second half’s better. We won’t have to spend most of our time going sideways,” Bomber said.

  “Sure hope it doesn’t warm up much this afternoon. My mutts don’t like running on the ice when there’s water. They keep trying to jump up the bank.” Ryan dumped out the dregs from the bottom of his cup and refilled it with coffee.

  “You know who is . . . was . . . really good at the gorge?” Bomber asked. He sat by his sled on a clump of straw, his feet stretched toward the small fire. “George. He had it worked out. Packed his sled so the weight was distributed right and moved his dogs around so that those with the shortest legs were on the uphill side. He’d stop when he needed to and reshuffle his dogs. He was never fastest through, but none of his dogs ever got stove-up. Goddamn, I’m gonna fuckin’ miss him.”

  Jessie looked up and was startled to find him staring at her.

  They were all silent for a minute or two.

  “You know,” Jim said finally, “I think there should be an award or something for him. He gave away more Iditarod know-how than I’ll ever learn.”

  “He and Joe Redington should have been named master coaches years ago,” Jessie added. “Everyone would have agreed. No problem. I couldn’t begin to count the number of things they taught me.”

  “Well,” Bomber said, “I like the idea, but if it’s another damn trophy to be handed out at the banquet in Nome, I can’t stand it. The thing was over four hours long last year. I was looking forward to breakfast when they finally got through. If it wasn’t required, I’d skip it.”

  Jessie stood up and went to search through her sled bag. Returning to the fire with a pair of rubberized boots and dry socks, she sat down again and began to change.

  Bomber leaned back against his sled, which was closest to the fire.

  “Good idea, I’m ready.” He held up one foot in a new, well-oiled leather boot. “Last year when it was so cold and we were past the Tatina, for some reason I figured we were through the worst. I put on my mukluks and before I knew it I was asshole deep in water. It looked like solid ice. We drove onto it, and the first warning I had was water splashing me in the face. I had to stop and change all our feet. I fuckin’ hate—”

  “Watch the language, man.” Ryan, finally fed up, nodded toward Jessie.

  Bomber raised his eyebrows. “Hey, back off. She’s heard it before. If she wants to be one of the guys . . .” He shrugged. “Right, Jess?”

  She glanced at him but didn’t respond.

  As she finished lacing up her boots, the sound of a plane filled the air. Looking up, they watched the pilot waggle his wings as he flew over them at low altitude. Ryan stood up and they all waved back. Turning north, the plane disappeared from sight.

  Jensen. Jessie thought. “They must be checking on us.” It was comforting to know the trooper was there. But, she considered, maybe it wasn’t him. It might be Holman.

  “Hey, Jess. What’d the trooper have to say?”

  Bomber raised his head, also interested.

  “Oh, not much that we don’t already know. He wanted to find out about the race, stuff like that.”

  “Did he say anything more about George or Steve?”

  “Not really. He just wanted to know more about how things work out here.”

  She stopped talking and began fastening the toggles on her sled bag, her back to the men at the fire. She hadn’t really thought much about Jensen, or their conversations, since early that morning. Now she found she was reluctant to share any of it with her companions. Bomber’s attentiveness bothered her, but she turned when he spoke.

  “I don’t know, he seemed like a pretty good guy. But didn’t all those questions piss you off? Who’d he want to know about?”

  What’s that to you? she thought. She saw Ryan looking at her expectantly and resented him as well. What’s the matter with me? It isn’t as though they didn’t have a right to be concerned. They aren’t accusing me of selling them out, for God’s sake. Why should I feel so damn defensive?

  “He was easy to talk to. A lot more than I expected. Besides, I’d like to see them get whoever’s doing this, and maybe talking to him will help.”

  “Who do you think it might be?”

  “Damn it, I haven’t any idea. I don’t think he does either, yet. He’s afraid someone else’ll get hurt. So’s Matt.”

  “Me too,” Ryan said.

  “Well, let’s get this shit on the road.” Bomber stomped snow onto the fire, which sizzled and died. He dumped the last of the coffee and grounds over it, wiped out the pot with a handful of snow, and stowed it in his sled bag. “We can catch a real rest in Rohn for twenty-four.”

  Ten minutes later they were all repacked and ready to leave, Bomber in the lead.

  “Gentlemen,” he called to his dogs, “are you ready?”

  Like a line of reverse dominos, starting with Junkie, his leader, the dogs came to their feet, shaking themselves into line, ready to run. Cranshaw named all his dogs after drugs or booze. There were Snow, Mary Jane, Stout, Speed, Brandy, Black Jack, Jose, Kahlúa Lou, and several others Jessie couldn’t remember.

  “Off like a herd of turtles.” Bomber pulled the snow hook and let them go.

  Jessie and her dogs followed close behind. Bomber looked back and grinned. I’d better watch it with him, she considered, knowing the display was mostly for her benefit. She was glad Ryan was a part of their small group.

  13

  Date: Tuesday, March 5

  Race Day: Four

  Place: Rohn Roadhouse checkpoint

  Weather: Clear, light wind

  Temperature: High 1°F, low –9°F

  Time: Noon

  The evidence plane had come and gone from the Rohn checkpoint, carrying with it the container Schuller had picked up on the trail. Before the pilot left, Alex talked to him about things he couldn’t trust to the
radio’s open frequencies.

  The trooper pilot took notes and then assured him there had been no current grumbling by the Humane Society.

  “It’s been a long time since they got crazy,” he told Alex, “and then it was just for a year or two. During one race a reporter spotted a musher beating his dogs. That set the society off. It kind of hung around, you know, kept filling space in the paper every year.”

  “Which musher?”

  “I don’t remember. Somebody from McGrath or Ruby, I think. The guy was fined and suspended or something. But ask the vets. It really doesn’t happen much now.”

  Alex asked him to check it out anyway. There was always the possibility that even one person held a grudge.

  The second, and more feasible, possibility was the illegal-gambling angle. He was sure a fair amount of it went on somewhere. It was too good an opportunity for those who would bet big money on a uniquely Alaskan sporting event.

  “Have someone lean on the Anchorage bars, the private clubs. There’s always something going on down there. Tell Abbott to have a shot at it. That’s his turf anyway, with his cousin in the APD. Between them they should be able to get some idea.”

  “Okay, but it’ll take a day or two.”

  “I know. That’s fine. I just don’t want to leave anything flapping in the wind.”

  “Speaking of which, I’d better get my wings out of here and that plastic thing to the lab before it closes. If they can get the tests started tonight, you might have results by morning.”

  “Thank Farber for giving me Caswell.”

  The trooper pilot threw him a snappy salute, climbed into his plane, and was gone.

  The times that mushers came in and out of checkpoints was Jensen’s main concern. From that information he could gather an initial list of possible suspects. The afternoon would be full of interviewing mushers as they came and went from Rohn, but Becker and Caswell could handle it.

  He picked up the list of times Harv had compiled and spent an hour comparing it to those from Skwentna, Finger Lake, and Rainy Pass.