The End of The Road (8 page)

He did, of course, and I was ready enough to head for home before the oncoming storm broke, as it was threatening to do with a few fat drops of rain that spattered dimples in the sand. Tired, unhappy, and rejected I might be, but soaking wet was a condition I could avoid. I clipped on his leash and headed toward an upward path that would take us closest to where I had parked my car.

Having his way, Stretch spared no time in climbing the bank, but once at the top he hesitated, then turned off the path and onto the wide porch in front of one of the closed shops. At fir st I thought he simply wanted off the damp sand that clung to his paws, but he headed straight on toward a picnic table, which I recognized as the one where John Walker had been sitting when we met him. Without hesitating he vanished under it.

“Come out from under there, you silly galah,” I told him, which had no effect, so I tugged on his leash. There was still no resulting appearance and I could hear him pawing at something on the wood of the deck. Consequently, I bent to peer under the table to see what had attracted his undivided attention.

“Look,” I told him, “I’m a fair bit bigger than you are, and while this may be shelter for you, it is not for me. What have you got there? Whatever it is, let it alone and come along to the car.”

Curiosity to see what he was so determined to retrieve then got the better of me, so I dropped to my knees and leaned as far under the table as I could, banging my head in the process.

He was determinedly pawing at a thing that was caught in a crack between two planks of the decking—something metallic. He hesitated and looked around, clearly wanting me to salvage whatever it was.

I reached and felt a piece of cold metal.

Carefully I worked it out of the crack and, clutching it firmly, edged myself out from under the table, Stretch now willing to follow closely.

“You are a ning-nong for sure,” I told him, using one of my Daniel’s pet Aussie phrases for absurd behavior.

It was now raining harder, so I merely glanced at the object I had collected and hurriedly trotted us both across the road to my car, where, with my assistance, he was soon happily ensconced in his basket and ready to roll.

I hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in quickly before examining the object I carried. It was a brass belt buckle that shone dully in the half-light—the kind that has a hook on the inside to hold it in place in one of several holes in the leather of the wearer’s belt. Turning it over, I was surprised to see that the outer side bore a representation of the two towers in New York that had been destroyed by terrorists.

How odd,
I thought, wondering if it could possibly have belonged to the man who had been sitting there and why, if so, he hadn’t recovered it. Maybe he had not lost it, but intentionally left it, concerned that it could be a clue to where he had come from, which, from his actions and reticence, he had seemed determined to conceal.

Whatever. That notion could just as easily have occurred to me because of the current events involving John Walker—or whatever his name turned out to be—and could be examined later. It was time to get off the spit for the time being.

“Okay, lovie,” I told Stretch, pulling the car back onto the road, headed for town. “I have a couple of quick stops to make on the way, but we’ll be home soon, I promise.”

Leaving him to stay dry inside the car, I went first to take the books back to Andy, and, though I was, as always, tempted by the hundreds of books that cram the shelves of the two flo ors of his cozy bookstore, I resisted and left quickly without telling him about John’s death—simply not ready to talk about it or answer the questions I knew he would ask.

My second stop was the liquor store, since I was almost out of whiskey after Saturday’s party and decided I should pick up a couple of bottles of wine as well.

The wine I found easily near the front of the store. I put three bottles in the cart I was pushing, then went down an aisle to look for my usual whiskey, deciding also to pick up a bottle of Canadian Mist, a favorite of Becky’s, who dropped in to chat from time to time. Reaching toward an upper shelf for my desired Jim Beam, I suddenly froze, noticing that near it stood a bottle of Johnnie Walker. I stood staring at it, lacking both thought and breath, as if a ghost had suddenly appeared in front of me. The letters on the red label swam as tears unexpectedly filled my eyes.

Brushing them aside with the back of my hand, I looked again.
Johnnie Walker
. . . John Walker! So that was why I had felt the name was somehow familiar on our meeting that day on the spit. It was probably just coincidence, but was there no escape from the manner and tragedy of his death?

Collecting the bottle I had been reaching for, I noticed that it too carried what could be, and probably was, a man’s name—Jim Beam. How many similar labels carried the names of those proudly responsible for their distilling?

My curiosity aroused, I started along the aisle, checking out the bottles of whiskey. It soon became a rather extensive list. Besides my Jim Beam and the bottle of Johnnie Walker that had caught my attention, I found whiskey called Jack Daniel’s, Austin Nichols, W. L. Weller, Evan Williams, Elmer T. Lee, George Dickel, Elijah Craig, and even one named for Sam Houston.

From the information proudly displayed on the labels, all had been distilled in either Kentucky or Tennessee—both states that were part of the South, where John had told my son, Joe, he had been born. It made a sort of sense that he had might have selected a pseudonym from where he had originated, if that were true—and if it really was a pseudonym, as I couldn’t help suspecting.

I retrieved from my purse the notebook and pen I use to make grocery lists and quickly wrote down the names I had found on the whiskey bottles, thinking that they might interest Trooper Nelson. It might possibly be, I supposed, that some of the other names might have been used for the same purpose—worth a thought at least.

By the time I left the liquor store it was pouring rain that fell almost sideways in the wind that was blowing out of the west and would probably turn to snow before nightfall. I was glad to reach home, carry in Stretch and the bottles in two trips, shake out my wet coat, and settle in for the rest of the day. With early darkness in the Alaskan far north and the addition of the clouds that had swept in, it was already time to turn on the lights.

I wanted a fire to remove the chill that had crept in as we entered, though my furnace works very efficiently, thanks to my dear Daniel, who insisted that the old one be replaced a year or two before he passed on. But besides warmth there is something consoling about having a wood fir e crackling cheerfully in the corner fireplace, so I make sure to order up a full winter’s supply of good dry wood each fall. I soon had the logs laid and lit and was ready to appreciate the comfort of my favorite recliner nearby.

After a snack and a long drink of water, Stretch had gone almost immediately to curl up for a nap on the hearth rug, which he assumes belongs to him. With a snoozing dog as inspiration, in the warmth of the fire I was soon nodding over my book, finally gave up, laid it down, leaned back, and followed his example.

SEVEN

MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER the ringing of the telephone brought both me and Stretch back to consciousness.

He sat up and yawned.

I got up and crossed the room to answer its summons.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mom. It’s me—Joe,” my son informed me, as if I wouldn’t recognize his voice.

“I hear that,” I told him. “So you made it home okay.”

“Oh, sure. Meant to call you, but Sharon and I got into a conversation that lasted pretty late in the evening, so I decided to wait until today to tell you the news.”

“So—from the sound of your voice I assume it’s good and you’ve settled some things?”

“Yes, all good. We’ve—ah . . .”

I could hear him take a deep breath, then . . .

“. . . decided to get married.”

“Oh, Joe, I’m really happy for you both. When?”

“Well, not right away. We’re thinking next spring—after we get everything settled about our work.”

“So Sharon’s not going to Portland?”

“No, she’s still going—we’re
both
going.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

My son works in forensics in a Seattle crime lab, is very good at what he does, and loves his job. The idea of his giving it up filled me with concern that I immediately expressed.

“Oh, Joe. Are you sure you should give up what you like so much and are so good at? What will you do in Oregon?”

“Well, here’s the good part. I spoke with the lab director this morning and, as it happens, we’ve been talking about working more closely with the lab in Portland, so our director has arranged for me to trade places for the winter with a guy down there. It’ll be temporary. We’ll establish better communication and coordination. And, best of all, I’ll have my job back here in the spring. Everybody wins!”

“What about your apartment? Will you have to give it up?”

“Nope. Jacob is single and lives in downtown Portland, near where Sharon will be working, so we’ll trade apartments as well as jobs—both paying our usual rent, since ours is a bit more than his.”

He sounded so pleased with himself and their plans that I couldn’t help being happy for them as well.

“It sounds perfect,” I told him. “Now—about a wedding next year.”

“Well, we’ve only decided one thing so far. You know that Sharon’s parents are both dead and she was an only child. So, we’d like to get married up there, if that would be okay with you. We’ll keep it small and informal, so it won’t require too much planning and preparation.”

It would indeed be more than okay with me! And I told him so with delight.

“There’ll be lots of time to plan and get things ready after you get moved. Sharon and I will put our heads together when you come for Christmas. You are still coming, aren’t you? When are you leaving for Oregon?”

“Yes, of course we’re coming. And we’re moving to Portland in a couple of weeks. Now—what’s going on with you and Homer?”

For a moment I couldn’t think of what to say.

“Hey, Mom. You okay?” Joe asked, sounding anxious.

“Yes, I’m fine. But the day has been—well, not the best I ever had.”

“What do you mean? What’s going on?”

So I told him all about John Walker’s suicide, my meeting with Trooper Nelson at the Driftwood Inn, identifying John, and finding the names on the bottles of whiskey.

“He’ll probably call you. I gave him the names and phone numbers of everyone who was here for dinner that night.”

“I haven’t anything much to tell him,” Joe said. “Walker was pretty reticent about his background, if you remember my telling you.”

We talked for a little longer and he promised to have Sharon call me when she had time.

I had no more than hung up the phone when there was a knock at the door.

I was surprised to find Trooper Nelson on the doorstep, his shoulders and hat covered with white fla kes that were falling through the evening dark.

It was snowing, as I had expected it might.

“Come in,” I invited, opening the door wide for him to step through.

“You left a message for me,” he said as he brushed at his coat and hat. “Thought I’d stop and find out why before heading back to Anchor Point. You think of something else I should know?”

“Two things,” I told him. “More odd ideas, maybe. Though it’s more than a little speculation on my part. Take off your coat and I’ll get you some coffee before I show you.”

He shed and hung it with his hat on one of the hooks by the door for that purpose.

“Coffee would be welcome, thanks. Black, please.”

I filled a mug and took it to the table next to the kitchen, where he came and sat across from me, laying down the clipboard he was once again carrying to reach down and give a pat to Stretch, who had come to check out this interesting stranger before giving his approval. The pat and a rub behind his ears were enough to allow that.

“What’s his name?” he asked.

“Stretch.”

He grinned, as people usually do.

“Great name. Now, what ideas have you had?”

First I handed him the list of names I had collected and told him about finding them on the whiskey bottles at the liquor store.

“It’s just an idea. But if, not wanting to use his real name, he took John Walker from the Johnnie Walker label, might he not have used others as well—especially these that are all distilled in Tennessee and Kentucky—the South, where he told my son he was born?”

Trooper Nelson scanned the list with a frown, shook his head thoughtfully, laid it down, and gave me a long look. Then he smiled ruefully.

“Interesting idea. Ever consider going into law enforcement, Mrs. . . . ah . . . Maxie?”

“No, I never have. This was just serendipity. If I hadn’t stopped to refill my liquor supply . . .”

“You had the sense to put two and two together. Whether or not it makes four, we have no way of knowing right now, but it’s a possibility. I’ll put it in the file and consider. Other names would be hard to check, not knowing where he’s been before he came here and which ones he might have used. But nevertheless . . .”

“Another string for the bow,” I suggested.

“Yes, and we haven’t much to go on, have we?”

I liked the sound of that
we
. It meant he was taking me seriously.

He hesitated thoughtfully for a few moments, reading the list again, then turned it over and wrote on the back before handing it back across the table. “Here’s another thing I think will interest you. When he registered at the Driftwood Inn, he wrote his name in their book like this.”

John E. Walker
, he had written. I stared at it, astonished.