Panic gripped me all of a sudden remembering that I still hadn’t called the boss. Brandy and Willie started walking down the street, but my feet wouldn’t move. I was worried about Phil. He was going to kill me.
It had been almost twenty four hours since I’d taken his plane. On what was supposed to be a three or four hour charter flight. I had to talk to him but I cringed at the thought. I stood there numbly until Willie noticed I wasn’t following.
He stopped and turned around. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to call Phil.”
“Yeah, no shit. He’s gonna kill you,” he smirked.
When I didn’t move, he jerked his head toward the community building. “There’s a phone inside.”
I still didn't move, thinking about what to say to Phil.
"Go, man. Don't be a wuss. Just grow a pair and go call the guy. What’s he gonna do? Reach through the phone to grab your scrawny little neck?”
I glared at him. Tried to fry his round little head with my death ray vision. “Alright, alright, give me a minute, will ya?"
“We’ll go check out the skiff while you call,” Willie said. “Just tell him the truth, man.”
“Okay, okay.”
He snorted. “Don't worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. I would have done the same thing. If he can’t accept that, screw him.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. Those were the words I’d needed to hear. I turned and headed for the stairs.
"And when he fires you, you can always work the slime line at the cannery," he called after me.
I spun on my heel to flip him off but he and Brandy were walking away laughing.
The door at the top of the stairs opened into a cluttered entry room. As I stepped inside I was hit by a wave of warm air reeking of salmon stew, cigarette smoke and body odor. The phone hung on the wall nearby above an assortment of snow boots, muddy shovels and a crumpled green can of Mountain Dew.
There was an old wood stove across the room with a pot of something resting on top. Its lid rattled and wisps of steam leaked out around its edges. My stomach took a turn remembering I hadn’t eaten in hours.
Reluctantly I moved over to the phone. I zipped open my fleece trying to cool down and dialed the numbers with dread.
“This is Phil,” a tired voice answered with a guarded tone that seemed to be expecting bad news.
“Hey, Phil, it’s Johnny. I can explain everything.”
There was a deadly nothing on the other end of the line. I gulped and pushed ahead. Just dove into it and started telling the story. Pausing once for a breath, he still didn’t respond. So I went on. Told him about the gunfight, the dead sat phone, the generator, the skiff, everything.
He finally broke his silence. “Willy was able to fly out there, and you couldn’t get back to Seward?”
“I could have if you want me to fly two feet over the ocean for ten miles. Is that what you want?”
I waited then. Waited for him to think it through. It felt like one of those deals where the first one to speak loses.
After a long pause I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen. Then he finally said, “No, I’ve taught you better than that. Only a crazy bastard like Willie would do that.”
The air returned to my lungs, but I could still feel the pounding in my throat.
“So,” he continued. “If you’re telling me the truth, at least the airplane’s okay where it is?”
“If I’m telling….? Of course, I’m telling you the damn truth. Why the hell would I lie?”
He paused again at the sudden snarl in my voice. “Well, Johnny, there was that time when you weren’t exactly straight with us about …”
“Hey, Phil, gimme a break. I’d love to go over all my past shortcomings with you, but I need to get moving. Alright?” I almost slammed down the phone but closed my eyes instead and took another deep breath.
“Okay, okay, " he grumbled. "At least the airplane’s okay. It’s been a long day and I was expecting the worst. What happens now?”
I told him about the skiff that the fishermen found, and that I’d keep him informed the best I could. When the fog lifted I'd get back out to Taroka and fly the plane back to Seward. He wanted to complain that we were missing flights back in Seward but I cut him off again and said I had to go. Hanging up the phone my lungs filled with air and I felt three hundred pounds lighter.
I picked up Sponge Bob and pushed my way back out into the chilly air, rambled down the stairs and headed for the beach. I’d been so preoccupied with calling Phil that I hadn’t been thinking about anything else. The boat that washed up on the beach could be the one from Charlie's lodge. It never failed around Alaska's waters. People were always getting in trouble in canoes or fishing boats and bad things happened. Sometimes bodies were found, other times not. I felt that grip in my gut again and pushed on.
The smell of wood smoke floated over me as I walked away from the church and down a dirt street. My shoes crunched on the gravel, the sound echoing oddly in the darkening gloom. Lights were coming on in the small white prefab houses that lined both sides of the wide road. They sat on simple concrete footers and had small front yards with wire fences and little to no grass. A few old bicycles lay here and there. Aluminum chimneys poked through the roof tops and three or four of them were spewing thin trails of smoke.
It was quiet. I moved past a tool shed, a satellite dish and a large white propane tank with rust bleeding down its side. I didn't want to stare into people's houses, but one place I went by had an odd glow flickering through the front window. An old native couple wearing dingy coveralls and plaid shirts were sitting in white plastic chairs in their living room watching an oversized flat screen. Vanna White in a dazzling white sequined gown was turning letters and smiling beside a shiny red Cadillac convertible.
Otherwise the town was deserted except for a medium size dog standing in the middle of the road ahead. Before I could get nervous about its intentions, it turned and loped off with a baleful backward glance.
The town of Chenega Bay had always felt temporary and empty to me. There'd been a brutal earthquake in the south of Alaska back in 1964. Centered nearby in Prince William Sound and it completely destroyed the original village of Chenega Bay on a different island about twenty miles north. So the whole town and its hundred residents were moved to this new place, but I'd never seen more than two or three of them at any one time. The Natives pretty much kept to themselves. They liked their privacy.
Walking past a few more empty houses I could hear water lapping against the rocky shoreline nearby. It was seriously dark and a wicked wet breeze swiped at my face like a cold washcloth on a fevered brow. I stopped to look around, thinking I was in the wrong place.
Then a light flickered up ahead. I headed for it passing two old wooden boats on blocks and a weather beaten pickup just barely visible in the dim glow. I spotted Willie and Brandy standing on a small beach. It was low tide and they were about twenty yards offshore. A native guy in orange rubber boots up to his knees stood next to them holding an old fashioned oil lantern. The light bouncing into their faces from below made them look like something out of a bad slasher film.
I walked carefully toward them across a wet surface of hard packed mud and small flat stones. They were talking in low tones and looking at an old bluish skiff that was laying at an odd angle beside them. Green strands of seaweed sparkled around our feet in the light from the lantern.
Brandy spoke up. “Johnny, this is Mike. He was telling us about the boat here.”
The guy in the boots nodded at me. “Yeah, some local fishermen found this floating upside down. They pulled it over here and left it.” His voice made a thick slurry sound like he was trying not to move his lips or jaw.
“When?” I asked.
“This afternoon, I think.”
“Where did they find it?”
“Middle of the channel,” he indicated with a thumb.
“And there wasn't anybo
dy with it or nearby?”
“No, nobody.”
"You seen any troopers today?"
He shook his head. I stepped over to the skiff and took a closer look. It was empty. It had been painted blue once, but now more scraped aluminum showed through than color. The engine was still attached but the fuel tank was gone. Mike came over and set the lantern down beside the boat. Faded letters on the side spelled out Westridge Lodge.
Willie came over and squatted beside the boat. “If they went in the water, they wouldn’t last long.”
We stood there quietly thinking about it. The images weren't pretty.
“Especially without life jackets,” Willie added. “Bodies sink straight to the bottom in water like this.”
“The sea was calm out there. I wonder what happened,” I said, remembering the whales with a shudder.
“What were they doing out there?” Willie asked.
“They were chasing the guy they were supposed to arrest. He took a bunch of shots at them, then took off in a boat from the lodge. It was too foggy to fly, so they took the skiff to go after him.”
“We need to notify their office,” Willie said. “Is that phone up there working?”
“Yeah, it is. What do you think they'll do?”
“Probably send out a search team. They already notified the Coast Guard. I thought they’d be here already.”
I had a question. “Hey, Mike, do you know the people that work over on Taroka?”
“Not really," he shrugged.
"Don't they come through here going back and forth to the lodge? Like with guests and all?"
He didn't answer right away. Like he was thinking about it. I looked at him but his blank face showed me nothing.
"Not really," he finally answered.
“Did you see any other boats or anything from over there today?”
Mike shook his head slowly and spit a stream of dark juice onto the mud.
When he didn't say anything else, I tried another angle. “Charlie from over there told me that one of his crew caused a bunch of trouble yesterday and then took off in one of his boats. I guess he shot up the place. You know who that might be?"
“Charlie? Charlie Westridge?” he asked.
"No, the guy that caused the problem. Charlie said it was one of his staff. Like a fishing guide or something. I'm not sure who he was exactly."
Mike lifted his head as if he was about to say something, then pressed his lips together and glanced away shaking his head.
I looked at him and waited for a moment. “What?” I finally asked, but he just shrugged. I waited some more and tried not to stare at him. After a few moments, Mike finally spoke up.
“Charlie Westridge is trouble,” he mumbled and raised his eyebrows with wide eyes looking off into the darkness. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it.
Willie came up behind us. "What about the other guy? Didn't you say there were two boats from the lodge?"
"Yeah," I answered. "We were just talking about that. If the guide didn't come here, where would he go? There's Cordova nearby or Valdez or Whittier, but I don't think he had enough gas."
"How do we know who was in this boat?"
"Good question, we don't." I turned to ask Mike about that but he'd moved away.
“Let’s go, Johnny. It’s late,” Willie tugged at my jacket and turned to go. "So what did Phil say?" he asked.
"He's pissed, but he's glad to hear his airplane's okay."
Willie blew air out his lips in disgust. He'd never liked Phil and always wondered how I could work for him.
We started walking back up the hill. Mike followed behind. His swinging lantern cast long shadows of the three of us on the gravel road. Like monster creatures from the deep lurching along in awkward movements from side to side. The shapes merged one with another and swayed crazily before separating again as we made our way up the slope.
When we reached the community building, Willie and Mike went inside. Brandy was about to follow, but she hesitated when she noticed that I’d stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I stood still for a moment looking at her and thinking. “I’m trying to make sense of all this,” I said finally.
"That Mike guy isn't much help, is he?" she rolled her eyes.
I thought about that, wondering if Mike knew more than he was saying or if he was as clueless as I was. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe he doesn't know anything. It's hard to tell."
"That yours?" she asked looking down at my hand.
I followed her gaze and realized I was still holding the yellow Sponge Bob pack. I'd forgotten all about it.
I looked around wondering where Charlie and Greta had gone. They could be anywhere in the group of houses nearby. And there was a construction crew area down the road and around a corner. Separated from the village it was temporary housing and shelter for men and equipment when some kind of project was going on the island or anywhere nearby in the Sound.
“I need to take a walk,” I said.
“Where to?” she asked studying me.
“This belongs to that kid," I said holding up the pack. "I need to get it back to him."
“Oh, you missing your china doll?” she snapped.
“Knock it off with that stuff. Would ya?” I growled, surprising myself with the quick heat I felt in my voice. “They’re married,” I lied.
“That’s funny, they’re not wearing rings,” she said coolly.
I let out a sigh. “Whatever. They’re a couple, alright? And I just want to ask Charlie some questions.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll tell Dad.” She turned her back and headed for the stairs. Just the way she’d turned her back that lonely night last year.
“Brandy.” Saying her name felt strange after I’d spent so much time trying to pretend she didn’t exist anymore.
“What?” she answered, looking back over her shoulder. With one hand she smoothed strands of brunette hair out of her face and back behind her ear. The overhead light left her face in shadow, but I could feel her smoky green eyes watching me.
I felt myself softening. A thousand words wrestled each other trying to force their way out of my mouth at the same time. I stared down at my dirty shoes. The way she stood there brought back a memory. I caught a whiff of strawberry shampoo and remembered the feel of her, the bond we’d had.
“I, I didn’t mean to grumble at you.”
“Whatever, Johnny.” She turned and climbed the stairs two at a time before I had a chance to say another word.
A deep sigh lifted my chest as I stared at the closed door. Feeling like an idiot, I turned, kicked at the dirt and walked away.