Page 82 of Untamed Coast

He felt his pulse pick up speed. “What kind of fancy leather?”

Anya looked perplexed. “Why on earth would that matter? I have no idea. It was dark green, had a pattern of big square shapes on the outside that got smaller toward the middle of the case. Odd looking.”

The room started to spin. “Any chance it coulda been alligator?”

Chapter 62

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Icy Strait, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

All the instruments read normal as Marco rounded the corner from Lynn Canal into Icy Strait. A large group of small fishing boats was working the ledge off Couverden Island, probably going after coho salmon. He decided to go wide around the whole group rather than picking his way through the slow-moving vessels with their sport trolling rigs trailing behind. He turned on the FM. Raven Radio was playing “Tessellate” by Alt-J.

Engine temperature was 162 degrees. Oil pressure, oil temperature, gearbox pressure, gearbox temp—all in the usual ranges.

Marco turned Alt-J down and listened to the boat. Every time the sound changed, his heart skipped a beat. The engine drone sounded like it dropped in pitch. Marco moved his head around and noticed that the tone changed—just some weird thing about the acoustics of the pilothouse. All the noises, buzzes, clicks, beeps, the whine of the grounding brush on the drive shaft, the slight wobble from the prop—all of them were normal. But with his senses on edge, it was a whispering chorus of impending doom.

Marco took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. This should be a normal, beautiful, relaxing cruise. His anxiety would not allow it.

Maybe it’s time.

Maybe he should just sell the boat, leave Alaska, and move back to…somewhere. He wasn’t even sure where “home” was anymore. Maybe all this adventure had been too much—he told himself it was a way to avoid forming any relationships, to avoid getting hurt again. But maybe it was just a coping mechanism for a pathetic widower who didn’t have the emotional skills to deal with losing his wife. He’d spent the last two years up here driving around in circles, but doing—what?

Poking his nose in where it didn’t belong, apparently. Pissing off these Pykes. Still not finding Crystal.

Marco couldn’t imagine why he’d suddenly become the target of whatever all this was. It wasn’t what he’d expected or prepared for. The only thing he could think of was that newspaper article, but why would that be a big deal? He went looking for a missing woman. He found a few hundred bucks’ worth of gold and some eighty-year-old journals. And now he didn’t even have those anymore.

But it was a bit too much of a coincidence—the article, the sabotage, and the theft of just those books and his snow globe. Maybe those Pykes just didn’t want him around? He was happy to oblige. Whatever had happened to Crystal, it was beyond his reach anyway.

Should have left the damn radio buried. I’m not doing anyone any good up here chasing ghosts.

Marco checked all the gauges again, turned the radio down, and listened carefully for anything amiss. He scanned ahead for any obstacles, floating debris, or other traffic. It looked like things were clear enough, so he engaged the autopilot and ran down to the galley to make himself a quick sandwich. Hoonah was another 15.1 nautical miles. He’d be there in about two hours.

Chapter 63

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City Police Station—Sitka, AK

1982—Sam Worlson

Sam ran his finger along the smooth edge of the empty whiskey glass that was sitting on his desk. He rotated it back and forth slowly between his fingers. It was an unusually warm day in Sitka, and the AC was not working. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. “Find anything on this Thomas guy?”

Ted Collins walked back and forth in front of the desk, snapping and unsnapping the restraint on his holstered pistol. “No Thomas—first or last name—on any flight in or out of Sitka the last two days and nothing tomorrow.”

Collins took out a notebook. “I did look up that company the Baron lady mentioned, Gateway Arch. The only Gateway Arch Development I found was out of business. I got a woman at an answering service.” Collins flipped through the notebook. “They said the company’s assets were recently liquidated—whatever that means—and it had ceased operations. Owners were a Virgil and Juneau Thomas. I told the lady to call me if she heard from them. Might be a coincidence, or there might be some truth in her story?”

Virgil. Definitely him. Juneau. That was the name of the girl in the brothel. It all makes sense now.

Sam felt bad about continuing to hold Anya when he knew she didn’t do it, but he didn’t have any compelling reason to release her. No reason he could admit to, anyway. He needed to get Collins to go a little further, to think it was his idea.

The whiskey glass felt heavy in Sam’s hand. He tap-tap-tapped it against the leather desk blotter. He was close, he could feel it. But there were no roads in or out of Sitka. “How bout floatplanes? Checked in with all them charter outfits? Or any boats?”

Collins paused and looked out the window. “The Baron lady said he came from St. Louis—in one day. He would have had to fly. No time to get to Alaska and charter a boat…What evidence do we have besides her crazy story and a match on a super common name? It’s a little too convenient…”

Sam considered his words. “I figure she’s spillin it straight. I may have encountered this fella before, and if it’s who I reckon, he’s slippery and downright dangerous.”