Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (32 page)

“I suppose all of this is because of what happened to Mike and Lucy Conyers, isn't it?” I asked.

Beverly nodded. “I think so. I believe Lars blames himself because he didn't manage to catch Mike when he could have. You know how hard he tried, but he feels he should have done more. I was hoping you could talk to him, Jonas. Sort of man-to-man. You know him better than anyone else does. You've been his friend for a long time—a lot longer than I've been his wife.”

She was right about that, of course. Lars Jenssen's and my joint history was years old. When I came back from Ironwood Ranch, the treatment center in Arizona, and ventured warily into my first AA meeting at the Denny Regrade's old Rendezvous, Lars was the first person who came to talk to me afterward. He offered to buy me a cup of coffee and chew the fat for a while. Later, when I asked him to serve as my AA sponsor, he agreed without a moment's hesitation. He had seen me through some dark times, including one colossal slip and the loss of both my ex-wife, Karen, and my partner, Sue Danielson. After living without a father all my life, I knew Lars was probably the closest I would ever come to having one.

“I don't know what I can do,” I said dubiously, “but I'll be glad to try.”

“Good,” Beverly said, reaching for her sweater. “I'll go see what the Wakefield girls are up to and give you two a chance to talk. You men will do better if you have a little privacy.”

“We don't need privacy,” I objected. “You're his wife, Beverly. Don't you think you should stay?”

“No,” she said. “It's better if I leave.”

She started for the door. The sound of running water emanating from the bathroom told me Lars was still in the shower and taking his own sweet time. “What did Lars say about your eye?” I asked as Beverly hurried past.

She stopped and looked up at me. “That's the reason I called you,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He didn't say a word.”

I was surprised. “You're telling me Lars saw your face and he didn't say anything?”

“Not a peep,” she said. “And believe me, that's not Lars.”

“No,” I agreed. “You're right. Something must be wrong.”

Beverly reached up and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Much as I hate to admit it, you were right this morning, Jonas,” she added. “It was stupid of me to get on that treadmill and wind it up so fast that I couldn't keep up. But just because it was a dumb thing to do doesn't mean I liked hearing you say so.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose not.”

“So be careful when you talk to Lars. We're very good at pointing out other people's shortcomings, but we both have short fuses when someone else draws attention to one of our own.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said. “I'll try to bear that in mind.”

I sat down on the love seat and waited for the bathroom door to open. When Lars came out, I was shocked to see him. He had aged ten years. His legs and arms, showing beneath the hem on his terry-cloth robe, looked more like sticks than they did flesh and bone. When he saw me, he shook his head.

“Ya, sure,” he said disgustedly. “That's women for you. What a tattletale! I shoulda known Beverly'd call you first t'ing.”

Most of the time Lars managed to keep his Scandinavian accent under control. Today that clearly took too much effort.

“What's the matter, Lars?” I asked.

He looked away from me, out through the glass door on the lanai, where lowering clouds and misting rain obscured even the smallest hint of shoreline. He was quiet for so long that I wondered if he had heard or even remembered my question.

Finally he turned back to me. “It's yust no good,” he said. “No good at all.”

“What's no good?”

“The power of life and death,” he said somberly. “That should be up to God and nobody else.”

Here was Leave It To God's ugly philosophy rearing its head once again, but I was pretty sure Lars Jenssen wasn't a card-carrying member of an anti-progress terrorist movement or a hired-gun hit man, either.

“You did the best you could,” I said quietly. “You almost saved Mike Conyers. It's not your fault that you couldn't hang on to him. Nobody could have done more.”

“You t'ink so?” Lars asked, then he sighed. “The way I see it,” he added, “there's a whole lot more I shoulda done.”

B
EVERLY JENSSEN LEFT
Lars and me plenty of room for our “man-to-man” chat, but I think she would have been disappointed had she been a mouse in the corner and able to hear it. Because, other than those few veiled references to Mike and Lucy Conyers when Lars first came out of the shower, we didn't mention them again, either directly or indirectly, for most of the afternoon. If that's not man-to-man, I don't know what is.

That doesn't mean, however, that we didn't talk. We did. We talked about glaciers the entire time the
Starfire Breeze
was sailing around Glacier Bay without her passengers getting a close look at anything but a few close-up ice floes covered with seals. As far as I could see, the clouds never lifted, the rain never stopped, and visibility didn't improve.

Cruise-ship brochures usually picture blue-ice glaciers set against sunny skies, but viewing glaciers, even in the summer, comes down to the luck of the draw. The U.S. Park Service limits the number of cruise ships that can be in Glacier Bay National Park on any given day. If the
Starfire Breeze
's assigned day meant her passengers couldn't see squat, that was too bad for us. We wouldn't be allowed a second chance to come back and try again.

So rather than seeing glaciers, I listened to Lars Jenssen tell stories about glaciers. “Used to be, before all the halibut fleet was refrigerated, we'd go climb up on glaciers or icebergs and hack out some ice before it was time to go to the fishing grounds. Stuff's so hard it's hell to cut, but it lasts for danged ever. Even in the middle of the summer, we could take a load of halibut from here to Seattle and never have to worry about running out of ice or having to stop along the way to buy more.”

“Isn't cutting ice off glaciers dangerous?” I asked.

Grinning, Lars looked almost like his old self. “It is if you stand too close to the edge,” he said.

“What about floating icebergs? Aren't those dangerous, too?”

“Best advice is don't run into 'em,” he said. “It's just like running into rocks. Nobody ever mentions it much, but as far as I'm concerned, hitting skim ice is way more dangerous than hitting icebergs.”

“Skim ice?” I asked. “What's that?”

“In the spring, freshwater melt freezes and forms a razor-thin layer on top of the salt water. It's so damned thin, you don't even see it. But if you go running through it long enough, the ice can cut clear through the bottom of your boat. Next t'ing you know, your boat doesn't have a bottom. You'd better be in your survival suit and have your lifeboat released.”

“Did that ever happen to you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not to me personally, but it did to a good friend of mine, Tommy Olsen. Had a boat called the
Reckless
. We looked for old Tommy and his crew that whole spring and summer, but we never found any of 'em. Part of the
Reckless
washed up on shore later. That's how the Coast Guard knew what had happened. It had been cut in two at the waterline. Poor old Tommy. Left behind a wife, a son, and two little girls. They must all be grown by now.”

Lars lapsed into somber silence. I wondered if this Alaskan cruise and its accompanying trip down memory lane wasn't too hard on him. Over the years I had heard Lars tell stories about his life in the halibut fleet, but those tales had all been filled with fun and high jinks and more than a few drunken brawls. The one about Tommy Olsen was tinged with ineffable sadness. It seemed as though some of those old ghosts from the fleet were weighing Lars down almost as much as he was being haunted by what had happened to Mike Conyers.

Hoping to lighten his load, I tried changing the subject. “It's a shame the weather's so bad. I'd like it to break up enough for us to get at least a glimpse of a glacier.”

Lars shook his head sadly. “It's nothing,” he said. “If you've seen one glacier, you've seen 'em all.”

His dour response told me Beverly's assessment was right. Not only was Lars Jenssen depressed, he was acting every one of his eighty-seven years.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“Naw,” he said. “Wasn't hungry.”

I finally convinced Lars to go upstairs to the Lido Deck, where I persuaded him to try some of the buffet's lunchtime offerings. What's that old saying about you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink? Lars allowed the servers to dish up food, but once we sat down at a table, he wasn't interested in doing anything more than sliding little piles of spaghetti and meatballs around on his plate. I was sitting wondering what I could do to cheer him up when the perpetually cheery voice of the cruise director came over the loudspeaker.

“Captain Giacometti regrets that today's weather has been so uncooperative. We will of course remain in Glacier Bay as long as possible in hopes that visibility will improve. However, as a consolation, the captain is pleased to announce two special tango contests to be held later on this afternoon and evening in the Twilight Lounge. First-seating diners may participate beginning at five
P.M.
The contest for second-seating diners will begin promptly at seven. Those wishing to participate should sign up with the purser's desk in advance.”

I understood what was going on. The ship's crew was gamely trying to make the best of a bad situation by setting up impromptu events to keep people occupied while they weren't looking for glaciers. It was true some disgruntled passengers had turned surly. Even sitting in the Lido Buffet, I had overheard grumbles and mutters of complaint, especially from people who, due to the Mike Conyers incident the previous day, had missed out on a planned trip on the White Pass excursion train. Now they were missing out on viewing glaciers as well. It occurred to me that the proposed tango contest would do little to settle those folks' ruffled feathers.

Then, shortly after the tango contest announcement ended and through the din of clattering tableware, I heard my own name being broadcast through the loudspeaker. “Mr. Beaumont, Mr. J. P. Beaumont. Please call the purser's desk for a message.”

Not again
, I thought.
At this rate, I could just as well be back on duty and wearing a beeper
. Lars, however, gave no indication that he had heard the announcement or cared whether or not I responded.

“Wait right here,” I told him. “I have to go check on something.”

He nodded absently and waved me away. I hurried to the nearest house phone, which was in the wood-paneled elevator lobby. When I spoke to the purser's desk I was directed to contact Marc Alley, in Bahia 626. Marc answered his phone after only one ring.

“Where are you?” he asked as soon as I identified myself.

“Up in the Lido Buffet,” I told him. “The opposite side from where I saw you this morning. Why? Is something the matter?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Just wait,” he said. “I'll come show you.”

I went back to the table, where I found Lars sitting and staring off into space. “Marc Alley is coming to join us,” I said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Marc Alley?” Lars asked with a frown. “Who's he?”

“The other guy who was out on the platform with you and Mike Conyers yesterday—the guy who got knocked down. He had stepped outside hoping to get a picture just as the back of the train went into the tunnel. In all the hubbub of what happened, I don't think the two of you were ever properly introduced.”

“Oh,” Lars said. “All right then.”

Marc showed up a few minutes later. As he approached the table, he caught sight of Lars and started to back off.

“It's okay,” I said. “Lars Jenssen is my grandmother's second husband. Lars, this is Marc Alley. Marc, meet Lars.”

Lars held out his enormous, liver-spotted hand. After a moment's hesitation, Marc took it and gave it a shake. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“From the sound of your voice, I'd say this is something urgent,” I ventured.

Marc nodded. “But are you sure . . . ?” He inclined his head ever so slightly in Lars' direction. “Maybe we should discuss this in private.”

“Lars has been around,” I said. “Whatever it is, I'm sure he can handle it.”

Marc reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar bright-yellow Kodak picture envelope. “After I talked to you this morning, I decided not to wait until after I took the rest of the pictures to have the film developed,” he said. “I had the photo shop print the ones I'd already taken. Here, look for yourself.”