Page 50 of Untamed Coast

Radioville Station Log—January through _____ 1938. Joseph T. Baxter, station operator. Radioville, Alaska Territory

The breath left Marco’s lungs. The journal shook in his hand as he turned the page.

January 10, 1938: Fr: Douglas Irving—To: Rachael Irving, Kenosha, WI “Sending some funds via Western Union. So sorry things are tough. I’m doing all I can.”

Fr: Samuel Worlson—To: Tamara Worlson, Lawton, OK “Ain’t heard nothin from you in weeks. Everything OK? Hope you are well.”

Bill interrupted. “Marco? What the hell is this?” He held the other book toward Marco, opened somewhere near the beginning.

T EHDE T MGD T HMDI E AE E OOOSZIB

Bill showed Marco several more pages. They were all the same.

The entire book was hand-printed in some kind of code.

Chapter 38

.-. . -.-. --- .. .-..

Radioville, AK

1938—Virgil T. Fellows

Virgil could not make himself touch Joe’s neck.

He wanted to check for a pulse, but making physical contact was impossible. It was as if there were some invisible force holding him back. His throat burned with bile, and his left arm buckled as he tried to use it to hold himself up. His right hand was still locked on the gun, which so far had been useful only as a club to strike his friend. His hand throbbed in pain, the trigger finger still refusing to release its grip.

Virgil studied the weapon.

He’d cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Why didn’t it fire?

He tried to take a moment to relax, to get his bearings, to get back in control of himself. The shaking began to subside, and he leaned cautiously forward, putting his ear near Joe’s mouth, hoping for some sign of life without touching him.

The sour scent of alcohol filled Virgil’s nose. Did that mean Joe was brea—

SNORT!

Virgil leaped backward at the sound and jumped to his feet. He raised the heavy gun and tried to get the sight on the barrel to align with the notch. It shook wildly. He took a step forward and used his left hand to support the pistol. The barrel was cold and smooth. He figured it was aimed roughly at the middle of Joe’s chest.

Virgil held his breath and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the kick. He had no idea a gun would be this difficult to fire.

Shoulda practiced.

He opened one eye to be sure the pistol was aimed at Joe, then closed it tightly and squeezed the trigger. Harder. Harder still. With all his might.

Nothing.

The gun refused.

It was a snore. Joe was snoring.

Dead men don’t snore.

Virgil pointed the gun at the wall, thinking somehow that it might cooperate if not directed at a person, and tried a third time to fire it. No good. It was loaded, he had cocked it and…He pulled again on the hammer…it clicked farther back.

Of course! The first click-back of the hammer was the safety position. He hadn’t pulled it all the way to the business position.

He turned and aimed at Joe once again, holding his breath. The trigger grazed the underside of his finger. He lifted it away. He’d been terrified of Joe, and thought his only option was to surprise and shoot him. Now he had a better option available.