Deadfall (6 page)

“Still,” Becker said, considering, “it’s an odd phrase to use in a note to Jessie. She’s come close, but never won the race. What could ‘this time I get to win’ mean? It implies a sort of
my turn—
either
to win
, or to win
this time
. There’s a difference, but it’s subtle. Either suggests that this person has had prior contact, or thinks he or she has, right?”

“Right,” Jensen nodded. “But where does that get us?”

“Nowhere, now. But it may make more sense later.”

Alex’s forehead wrinkled as he considered Becker’s idea.

“It worries me. There’s no way of identifying someone who only thinks they have prior contact. It could be anyone. People who develop this kind of fixation
can
convince themselves that their object either already cares for them, or will, if they are made aware of the admirer.”

“Kind of a Catch-22 for the victim,” Timmons said. “Damned if they do, and damned if they don’t.”

“Really.”

Suddenly Jensen had had all the talk he could take for the moment. He wanted action, and there seemed little to be had.

“Come on. Let’s make a run out to Iditarod headquarters,” he said to Becker, as he shoved back his chair and stretched his long legs. “John, let me know if you get anything…anything at all on any of this, will you?” He waved a hand vaguely at the notes and traps on the tabletop and turned toward the door.

“Sure. We’ll get right on whatever we can do. Priority for our own, and Jessie’s one of them. She doing okay?”

“Yeah, Caswell’s wife is with her. I’m checking in with her on a regular basis.” He headed for the door.

Becker gave Timmons a nod as he shrugged into his coat and followed. “We’ll most likely be in the valley, from the sound of it.”

“Take it easy.”

H
eadquarters of the Iditarod Trail Committee occupied a unique one-story log structure on Knik Road, closer to Wasilla than the cabin where Jessie and Alex lived together. Built of larger-than-usual logs, stained a warm reddish brown, it was impressive to visitors, including hundreds of tourists who came by the busload. It had been purposely situated near the route of the old historic Iditarod Trail that in the early 1900s had run from the docks in Seward, over a Chugach Mountain pass to the Matanuska Valley, where it joined the trail taken by the modern race north to the gold rush town of Iditarod. From there racers continued to Nome. During turn-of-the-century winters, heavy freight sleds had carried mail and supplies into gold camps of Interior Alaska and on to the coast, passing close to the present location of the current ITC headquarters.

The grass of a wide, green lawn that separated the building from a parking lot was now turning brown from nightly frosts, and baskets of flowers had been removed from their hooks on
the exposed ends of large log rafters, from which they had hung throughout the summer in colorful decoration. As they went up the walk, Jensen and Becker could see, through one of the front windows, someone moving inside. The fame and growth of the race had made its administration a full-time occupation for several people, who were kept busy not just the first two weeks of every March, but all year.

The front door opened directly into a gift shop full of mugs, T-shirts, books, and dozens of other Iditarod items. High on the walls, and not for sale, was an assortment of memorabilia from past races, and Alex knew that in a special room to the left were trophies and other articles important to Iditarod history.

A pleasant young woman greeted them from behind a cash register. “Can I help you with something?”

Jensen introduced himself and asked for the ITC administrator, but she shook her head.

“He’s at a meeting in Anchorage. Joanne’s here. Would you like to talk to her?”

“Hi, Alex,” a voice called from within the offices to the right. “Come on in.”

He grinned, more than happy to settle for a conversation with Joanne Potts, race director, who had worked for the ITC since before Alex moved to Alaska, long enough for most people to automatically link her name with that of the race. If there was anything going on that involved or affected the Iditarod, Joanne would know it.

A short, cheerful, brown-haired woman wearing glasses, she rose from behind her desk as the troopers entered, offering them chairs and a smile.

“Hey, Joanne. How’s it going?”

“Quiet, thank goodness. We’re drawing a well-earned breath between tourists and the race madness that will gear up after the holidays. Can I give you coffee?”

“No, thanks. Just need a little of your time.”

He introduced Becker and explained their errand.

“I need to know if you’ve received any recent letters, packages…anything that would constitute threats against the ITC, the race, or mushers involved in it. Or if you’ve heard of anyone who has.”

“Threats? Nobody’s mentioned any. Of course, we get our share of strange letters—mostly unsigned—from the animal activists, and a few that are more general. But I can’t say we’ve had anything lately—or against specific mushers. We do keep a file, though. Let me get it and we’ll look.”

She brought a handful of envelopes and letters to her desk and spread them out on the side closest to Jensen and Becker. “Here. Maybe you’ll recognize it, if there’s anything similar to what Jessie’s been getting.”

Jensen and Becker went through them all one by one, but found nothing.

“I think there’re more archived somewhere,” Potts told them. “But they’re over five years old. Can’t see how they’d apply now, but still we keep them, just in case. I’d have to dig them out of storage. They’re not kept here: Space is limited, as you see.”

“Don’t bother,” Alex told her. “That’s too long ago. If we need to see them, I’ll let you know. How about phone calls? You been getting any hang-ups? Anything strange?”

“No more than usual.”

“Any mushers with particular attitudes about women in the race, or with a grudge against other racers?”

“Well, there’s always stuff being said to intimidate the competition—part of the game plan. But it’s not done with any serious intent to scare anyone—almost tongue-in-cheek, most of it.”

“Well…let me know if you notice anything,” Alex requested, getting up from his chair and offering his hand. “Thanks, Joanne.”

As the troopers walked back through the gift shop, Becker stopped for a minute to take a look at a picture of several Iditarod champions that hung next to the sales counter. As he
turned to follow Alex to the door, a tall woman in the gray-blue uniform of a postal worker came in and up to the counter.

“Hi, Jennie. Here’s your mail.” She handed over a pile of envelopes, large and small, held together with a rubber band, and went out the door.

“Thanks.” The clerk didn’t lay them down, but moved from behind the cash register to take them into the office the troopers had just left. As she passed Becker, he glanced at the collection in her hands and stopped short.

“Hey, wait a minute.”

At the sound of his unexpected demand, both she and Alex swung toward him, startled.

“What…” she began.

“Let me just look at that top address.”

She held it out in silence, a puzzled expression on her face.

Jensen took two or three long steps that brought him close enough to look over Becker’s shoulder at the envelope. Joanne Potts stuck her head around the doorframe to see what was going on in the shop and raised her eyebrows in question.

The address label was printed in exactly the same font and size as those Jessie had received. The upper left corner, where a return address would have been, was empty. The postmark indicated that it had been mailed in Anchorage.

Potts came from her office and crossed the room to see what they were examining so closely.

“It could be anything,” Jensen said. “Lots of people use this same kind of print.”

“But it could be our guy.”

“True. Better find out. Joanne, will you give us permission to open this one envelope? It looks just like Jessie’s.”

“Of course. You want me to do it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t touch it before we know. There haven’t been any prints, but you never can tell. Let’s go back to your desk.”

Using another letter to hold it down, he carefully slit the top of the envelope with an opener she provided, and with the
metal tool lifted out and spread open the single sheet of paper. They all leaned closer to read the short vindictive message:

“Good God!” Becker exclaimed. “We were ahead of this, but not by much.”

“Not when you consider that it had to be mailed yesterday or the day before,” Jensen returned.

Potts leaned forward, both hands on her desk.

“This is awful, Alex. Can we do anything to help?”

Jensen thought for a moment before answering.

“What would you have done if you got it cold—before we got here to explain? How would you have reacted?”

“Well, it would have gone to Stan, of course, probably the board. We treat every accusation seriously, so we would have discussed it and made a decision about following up on it. We don’t get many, but only a few are such obvious trash that we ignore them.”

“And this one—if we hadn’t come in?”

“We’d probably have gone to Jessie, checked her kennel and equipment, if she’d let us. Everyone’s rights have to be respected, including hers. We’re not the sled dog racing Gestapo, and don’t intend to be, but she’s registered for the next race, so that gives us some latitude and authority. We’re not out to police mushers, just to keep the race as clean as we can make it.”

“Then you should do exactly what you would normally. I’ll take this—with your permission—to the lab and get you a copy to show Stan. Let’s keep it tight—need-to-know only. Whoever’s doing this might anticipate that you would do something
involving Jessie, be expecting it. It should seem that you are following through, as usual.”

“Yes, I see. We can do that. Will you tell Jessie?”

“Of course. She’ll go along with…whatever.”

Phil Becker raised a hand, frowning as a new thought came to him.

“Do you think this person could be tapping Jessie’s phone, Alex?”

They both turned to look at him—Potts with astonishment, Jensen with a nod, knowing how the younger man’s mind skipped from point to seemingly unrelated point in the clues of a case.

“Possible, I suppose. Good thinking, Phil. We can find out easily enough. But if it is tapped, I want it left alone. Shouldn’t alert the perp by messing with it. Joanne, if you call Jessie for any reason, be sure you keep that in mind. Don’t say anything that would let a listener think you suspect there is a tap, but try not to sound unnatural, either.”

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind. And, of course, you can take that piece of garbage to the lab. Maybe it’ll help somehow. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of right now. I’ll be in touch, okay? If you get any more of these, or if anything happens that I should know, call me.”

“You bet—immediately. And Alex—thanks. This is important to us, too, you know. And, please, tell Jessie I’m here if she needs me and to hang in there.”

“Thanks, Joanne. I sure will.”

“D
amn—damn—damn!” Jessie’s anger once again had her pacing the room, after tossing a pillow furiously at the sofa. “This is too much, Alex. It never crossed my mind that this bastard would do something to involve the committee. It’s monstrous—insulting. How dare he! I feel like I’ve been assaulted.”

“You have. Don’t kid yourself. Assault doesn’t have to be a physical attack. Filth comes in all shapes and sizes.”

He was in the process of attaching a recorder to the telephone, meaning to capture on tape the next hang-up call that came in. An expert from the lab had checked the line and the cabin for listening devices and found none, but he’d warned that if it were somewhere outside it might not be easily detectable.

“It could be tapped on an irregular basis—someone listening at specific times, for instance, or recording only when in use, like the one you’re going to use.”

The recorder Alex was installing would automatically turn itself on whenever the receiver was lifted in response to an incoming call.

“I want the techs to play with that short bit of sound at the end of these hang-ups. They can slow it down, massage it, maybe identify something we’d miss, and give us ideas on what it is. We’ll get a trace going with the phone company, too. See where it’s coming from.”

He had also picked up a caller ID device, which, before the phone was answered, would show the identification of the caller—if it wasn’t blocked, which he suspected it would be.

Jessie had left the few bills and junk mail in the mailbox as Alex had instructed. He wanted to pick them up as he turned into the long driveway. He had arrived early, to find that the day had passed uneventfully for her and Linda Caswell, most of it behind locked doors, planning what they would plant the following spring and how their gardens would be arranged. Linda had brought along a sweater she was knitting, and some extra yarn to show Jessie how to crochet a pot holder that required a clever fold in its construction.

Though Linda had completed a significant amount of her fluffy peach-colored sweater-in-progress, Jessie had found close work frustrating. Used to spending her days with her dogs, she resented being cooped up indoors and had been unable to sit still, making her friend nervous. Once, as they discussed the situation, she had burst into angry tears and threatened to go out.

“I
won’t
live in a box. It’s what he wants—to scare me silly. It’s not
fair
.”

But halfway to the door she had changed her mind and taken her temper and anxiety to the kitchen, where she threw together a large batch of bread and spent the next hour kneading it, punching it, pounding it—taking out her rage on it—then waited for it to rise and repeated the process. More plump loaves than she and Alex could eat in weeks now cooled on racks all over the room, waiting to be wrapped and deposited in the freezer. Several had now already gone home with Linda, and Alex cut large slices from both ends of one still-warm loaf and devoured them appreciatively with homemade raspberry jam.

“Yum-m. Best part. Have to make you mad more often if this is the result,” he teased. “Great appetizer. What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti, with sausage in green and black olive sauce. Some of what I froze last month.”

“Wonderful stuff! I skipped lunch. Becker had a burger, but I wasn’t hungry.”

But he had something to do before dinner. He crawled out from under the desk once he had finished his installation chore.

“Now call this phone on the cellular, will you? I’ll see if it’s working right.”

It was. The caller ID refused to give the number of the cell phone, as expected, and the recorder clicked on correctly when he lifted the receiver.

“Okay. Now we wait. Did you get any of those calls today?”

“No. But I jumped every time the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick it up and only answered when I knew who it was. There weren’t any hang-ups.”

Alex crossed to the sofa and sat down near the warmth of the stove.

“Come and perch for a bit. I’ll tell you about the rest of my day.”