“Well, there’s nothing we can do here,” he said. “I’ll go back to the car.”
As Kharzai walked away, Farrah suddenly realized the camera was pointed at him. The cameraman gave a signal, and the lady reporter started talking. As the camera panned the scene of the accident Farrah discreetly repositioned, cursing himself for not getting out of its direct view quicker.
“I will need to see your ID.” Lonnie motioned towards Kharzai before he got far. “Yours and those other two men as well.”
“I really don’t know anything more about this unfortunate situation,” Farris started.
“Since your friends entered the accident scene and touched what is potentially evidence in criminal investigation, I must insist,” she said.
“Oh, well, we certainly don’t want any trouble in that regard, Trooper,” Farris replied.
He produced his wallet and removed a driver’s license. He called out to the other two men in a language that, judging by her expression, the pregnant trooper did not understand. She took his card and waved over one of the police officers, who made his way through the mess. The other two men approached, fishing out their ID cards as they walked. When they drew close, Lonnie caught a whiff of body odor that smelled like vinegar and stale bread.
“United Kingdom,” Lonnie said, looking at the pink credit card-sized license Farrah had handed her. “Are you visiting?”
“I'm here for a few months. I work for the oil industry.”
“Who?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who do you work for?”
“A contractor who works for multiple oil companies.”
“What is your company’s name?”
“I do not wish to involve them in any trouble.”
“I understand that,” Lonnie said. “But it may be necessary to contact you later as a witness, and since you are not from here, we will need a local contact.”
“I work for Tech-Cor. I have a company mobile phone,” he replied. “I will be within reach.”
The officer approached them. He looked young, probably less than a year from the academy.
“Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”
“I’m Trooper Lieutenant Lonnie Johnson, from Fairbanks. I was at the wedding and called in the accident. Mr. Farrah,” she pointed to him, “and these other men claim they witnessed the driver of the pickup going at considerably high speed just prior to the accident. Here’s his ID.”
The officer took it and wrote information from the card onto a notepad, then asked for the man’s contact phone. Farrah gave him a number, but not his real one. The officer held out his hand to the cousins and took their cards. One had an Oregon license, and the other had only an Immigration and Naturalization Service Green Card.
“Do you speak English?” he asked the two men.
“I do,” said Leka with a heavy accent. “Cousin Kreshnik not speak English. He come from old country not far ago. We come with Steven for job.”
“Okay,” said the officer. “In the event we need to get hold of you, what is your number?”
“We sharing Steven’s mobile,” Leka said.
“I see.” The officer noted that on his pad. “Okay, you too.” He gestured to Kharzai.
The fuzzy-haired man, still keeping his back to the camera, patted his trouser pockets, his breast pocket, and then felt his pants pockets again.
“Ruh, roh,” he said with an innocent grin. “Looks like I left my wallet behind. Sorry, officer.”
“What is your name, then?”
“Samuel McGee,” Kharzai replied.
Lonnie watched the three men walk back to the Audi. She turned to the officer beside her. “Give me an evidence bag.”
“Excuse me, ma'am?”
“I need an evidence bag, now.”
She pulled her left hand from behind her back. A thin line of blood seeped between her fingers. The officer, a shocked look on his young face, quickly produced a plastic Ziploc bag from his utility belt and she dropped in the wedding ring that hugged tight to the knuckle. It glittered back, a reflected flash of sunlight against the blood smeared appendage.
Chapter 6
After three days surrounded by the most stunning natural beauty she had ever seen, breathing air cleaner than she had ever imagined possible, Hildegard Farris’s face glowed. She had never believed scenery like that was real. She'd always assumed that what she'd seen in paintings was from the artist’s imagination or that online pictures had been Photo-Shopped. Living her entire life east of the Mississippi River and never farther north than Cleveland, she had only known hazy, humid summers and cold, wet winters.
The sapphire blue of the skies and the crystalline waters of the lakes and rivers had stunned her. Photographing wild bears, wolves, sheep, coyotes, lynx, and moose took her to a whole new level. Hilde felt as though she had been on another planet. As the plane touched down on Lake Hood, she was excited to see Lonnie again and brimmed over with a desire to share the wonders she had seen.
Lonnie waited for them in Marcus's truck next to the dock. As the plane pulled in, she climbed out and walked across the wood planks to where the plane would be moored. Marcus stepped out onto the pontoon while it coasted into the slip. He tossed the line to his pregnant wife and she squatted to secure it, her round belly forcing her legs apart as she reached for the tie down. As they got off the plane, Hilde and Mike were all smiles. The mood fizzled when they saw Lonnie's expression.
“Hey, baby,” Marcus said, “you okay?”
“Harold and Maureen are dead.”
“Huh?” Marcus's mouth hung open in shock. He stammered, “What are you talking about?”
“Accident Saturday night as they were leaving the wedding for their honeymoon. Some idiot T-boned their car and ruined their happily ever after.”
“Dear Jesus,” Marcus said.
“That's horrible,” Hilde said.
“Are you all right?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. It’s just…” She trailed off.
“Let's get unloaded and back to the hotel,” Marcus said. “We can talk about it there after everyone gets cleaned up.”
The trio was covered in three days’ of camp grime. Their excitement doused, they suddenly felt exhausted. They unloaded the plane and packed the bags into the truck. Lonnie drove back to the Captain Cook, where a bellman helped take the bags up. Inside their room, Lonnie lay on the bed while Marcus showered. When he came out, she stared at him from the bed where she lay on her side. Wearing nothing but a thick white terry cloth towel around his waist, he crossed the room, slid onto the bed, and lay next to her.
She gently stroked his brown skin with the tips of her fingers, running over the network of scars that crisscrossed his washboard abdomen like a sheet of lace sewn by a drunken weaver — the artwork of war left by an Iraqi roadside bomb. Tears welled in her eyes. He pulled her to him, as close as her belly allowed. She buried her head in his muscular chest and the emotional dam burst, her sorrow taking its natural course unfettered. Several minutes passed before the sobbing slowed and she was able to speak.
“They were just married. Not even one day,” she convulsed with more sobs. “They waited so long to find each other. They were so happy. Then that man had to ruin everything.”
Marcus held her close and let her cry. Lonnie seldom let herself take things to heart regardless of the gore she saw on a fairly regular basis. Before becoming a lieutenant, she had spent more than six years on patrol as a regular trooper and then four as an investigator. Bloody murders, suicides, and scores of fatal motor vehicle accidents were part of the job. Her promotion two years earlier had taken her off patrols and into a supervisory role, and the last few months of the pregnancy further relegated her to mostly desk work. Between the hormones of pregnancy and the genuine stress of seeing a good friend killed before her eyes, the load had become too much to carry. She cried in his arms until they both drifted into an exhausted sleep.