She went to the body, bent down, and studied things more closely. The climbing rope appeared worn, and had broken at a point that looked particularly frayed. The victim wore a belt with carabiners and quickdraws and anchors, no two pieces of hardware seeming to match. His climbing backpack was what a middle-schooler might use to haul textbooks. She looked up the ice-shrouded mountain and saw challenges everywhere. Nothing seemed wrong with the greater picture. It happened every year or two — a hiker or would-be adventurer went careening off the eastern face. The western trail was more forgiving, but it didn’t have the same view of the city, a dramatic panorama that begged for an Instagram moment.
Lund stood. “Can you get him down?”
“I’ve got some help on the way with a basket,” said Doran. “We’ll manage.”
“Okay, do it. And thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem,” said Detorie.
Relationships between permanent Kodiak residents and Coasties, who generally rotated in for three-year tours, were not always founded in warmth. Lund, however, by virtue of her longevity — she could have left four years ago — was more accepted than most. She dropped her spent cigarette on the ground and twisted it out with her toe. Then, suspecting the two men were watching, she picked up the butt and stuffed it in her pocket.
Doran said, “Too bad about that rescue swimmer we evac-ed out last month.”
Lund paused a beat. “Yeah, I know … I heard he didn’t make it.”
“Those guys are in great shape,” he said respectfully. “He was really banged up, but when he lasted two days in the hospital here, I thought he might pull through.”
“You saw him?”
Doran chuckled. “Not much choice. They called me in the middle of the damned night — I helped transport him to the Lear.”
“Oh, right.” She thought back, and remembered what she’d heard about it. “I was told he went out on the daily eastbound Herc.” The air station ran a regular C-130 Hercules flight to Anchorage.
“Nope. Definitely a Lear, civilian model, geared-up for med-evacs.”
Lund tipped her head to say it wasn’t important. She started back down the hill at a cautious pace — as the body behind her proved, down was the dangerous part. She gripped the same sturdy branch where the plateau dropped away, and took one last look at the scene. She was at a point in her career where she was getting reliable instincts, and the accident in front of her seemed nothing more than that. Too much youthful vigor, too little caution. All the same, something clawed in the back of her mind.
She turned her attention to the terrain, setting a careful course, and as she took her first steps down the slope a chill rain began to fall.
8
DeBolt had never been so cold in his life, a grave statement for an Alaska-based Coast Guard rescue swimmer. The temperature had dropped precipitously, and he was lurching through the forest with leaden legs, ricocheting from tree trunk to rock like a human pinball. He’d seen nothing more of the assailants, but that was hardly a relief given the utter darkness. He doubted he would hear them either, the noise around him like an oncoming train as the forest canopy was whipsawed by gusts and pelted with rain.
He wondered how much ground he’d covered since leaving the beach. A mile? Two? It would have to be enough. In both training and operations, DeBolt had faced some of the harshest conditions on earth with considerable tenacity. Now, for the first time ever, his legs defied his commands. He twice ended on his knees in wet moss and muck. When he got up the second time he nearly ran into the building.
He stood back at first and tried to make sense of the shadow. It looked different from the nurse’s place, larger and more rustic, a Lincoln Log beater. There were no lights inside, no signs of life at all, and by the time he’d staggered around two corners to reach what had to be the front door, he didn’t care if anyone was home. He gripped the door handle with two frozen hands and found it locked. Not having the strength to curse, DeBolt reared back, put his shoulder down, and threw himself at the door, more a guided collapse than a controlled strike. There was a sharp wooden crack as something gave way, and the door swung open. He stumbled inside, bringing the wind with him. It stirred stagnant, mold-infused air. The place was completely dark. DeBolt felt the wall for a light switch, found one, and flicked it up. Nothing happened.
He tried to shut the door, but the frame and latch were ruined, and the wind won another battle, slamming it back decisively against the inside wall. DeBolt ignored it, turned into a pitch-black room, and began feeling his way through the place with outstretched hands. His shin struck a table and he maneuvered around it. A floor lamp went over with a muffled crash, and he ended up on his knees. Then, finally, he found what he wanted — a six-foot length of fabric that could only be a couch. He crawled onto it and stretched to his full length, aching and depleted. There were no more visions. Nothing at all but an inexorable blackness.
The assault team commander, a former Green Beret, called off the search after an hour. The team assembled at the targeted cabin. He immediately assigned a two-man detail to deal with the woman’s body, and sent a third outside to monitor the perimeter. Only then did he turn on the lights in the cottage. The leader set his weapon down, pulled the earbud from his ear, and surveyed the damage. A few overturned pieces of furniture, some holes in the woodwork. It wasn’t bad, definitely containable. But they’d sprayed over a hundred rounds into the beach and surrounding sea. Messy, he thought. Very messy.
The storm outside had peaked, but conditions would be extreme until daybreak. That was in their favor. Maybe the only thing that had gone right all night.
“Dammit!” he said. “I can’t believe he wasn’t inside! Who goes to the beach on a night like this?”
He was venting to his second in command, a crew-cut man with a cinder-block build, who responded, “He made the perfect move to go for the water. It was dumb luck — we know this guy’s not an operator.”
That much was true. They’d never been given their target’s name, which seemed peculiar. But the mission briefing had included the fact that he was a rescue swimmer in the Coast Guard. “We knew he was a swimmer. We should have planned for that contingency.”
“I say the ocean did the job for us.”
The commander stared at his second, weighing it.
“He took at least one hit,” said the crew-cut man, trying to make his case. “We found a trail of blood. Swimmer or not … Michael Phelps couldn’t have survived the riptide and those waves.”
“Maybe not. But carry that idea forward. If he washes up on a beach tomorrow, what happens? It would be a suspicious death, which means an autopsy. The briefing was very specific about the male target — get rid of his body with no traces.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I don’t know, but it seemed important.”
The crew-cut man cursed like the Army grunt he’d once been.