Lawson tied up the plane and went to join the couple, up by the fox farm that stood against the thin black trunks of the spruce. It consisted of a log cabin, a warehouse, and a line of trap houses stretching along the edge of the water. Islands throughout the state had been leased to raise blue foxes in the twenties, with the animals left to roam freely before being trapped. The depression had destroyed the fur market overnight, and now most of these farms were abandoned.
Going closer, Lawson saw that Russell and his wife seemed tense, but he knew better than to comment on it. “Everything good?”
Russell turned south. “I’ll hike down there on my own. Cora will stay behind to get some work done. The log cabin looks sound enough. I assume that you’ll stick with the plane?”
Lawson nodded. “I’ll pick through these shacks to see if there’s anything worth saving. But I can get you set up here first.”
This last remark was addressed to Cora, who looked back coolly. “I’ll be fine.”
It was the first time she had spoken to him directly. He looked back without lowering his eyes. “You know where to find me. I’d like to be in the air by eight, so we can get back before dark.”
“Then I’d better be on my way.” Russell appeared to hesitate, as if hoping that Cora would decide to come along after all, but she only picked up her bag and walked toward the cabin. He hefted his own pack onto his back, balancing the tripod on one shoulder, and began to hike down the beach. After a minute, he rounded the bend in the shore and was gone.
Lawson saw that Cora had already entered the cabin and closed the door behind her. He headed off, whistling tunelessly, and made his way to the warehouse that stood nearby.
For the next few hours, he explored the farm at his leisure, pausing in the late afternoon for a sandwich and another bite of mintcake. He had hoped to find some tools or equipment to use or resell, but it had all been picked clean. The warehouse was bare except for two chairs, a chopping block, and a vat that had once been used to cook salmon heads into feed for the foxes.
He stuck his head into the nearest trap house. It was nailed together out of unfinished lumber, four feet to a side, with a ramp leading up to an entrance on the second level. Food had been set out twice a week. When it was time to harvest the pelts, a cleat holding up the floor was removed, allowing it to tilt down under the fox’s weight, depositing it into the trap on the lowest level. Then a counterweight would return the floor to its original position, ready for its next victim.
As he was picturing this, Lawson felt the walls of the shack vibrate around him. Stepping outside, he saw that the wind had picked up, and the birds on the beach had vanished. He turned to the south. At some point over the last hour, the clouds on the horizon had grown darker and more threatening.
Lawson sized them up. Then he went up to the cabin and rapped on the door. After a pause, Cora spoke from inside. “Come in.”
He entered the cabin, which was a cramped, dim space with bare beams crossing the ceiling. Cora had hung her coat from one of the pole racks, and as she rose from the table by the window, where she had been writing something in longhand, he saw that she was wearing a white collared shirt under a wool sweater and a tight pair of trousers. “What is it?”
Lawson stuck his thumb toward the sound of the wind. “You’d better go up the beach to look for your husband. If you see him, tell him to hustle. Don’t go too far. If he doesn’t show up soon, we’ll be here overnight.”
Without waiting for a reply, he left the cabin and headed toward the dock. The wind was sending up a noticeable chop, and the plane was beginning to bob up and down on its lines.
Lawson set to work at once, winding a cable around the float struts and the forward spreader bar and securing it to the pilings. He tied additional ropes to both wings, and then he used the bilge pump to fill the pontoons with water. Finally, he got out his overnight gear. In the back of the Stinson, there was a bundle of egg crate slats that he kept for makeshift repairs. He stuck them under his arm, sealed up the plane, and headed back to the fox farm.
A light rain was falling. Checking the log cabin and the warehouse, he saw that both seemed reasonably sturdy. After a moment’s thought, he went into the cabin and set down his equipment. Using a mintcake wrapper for kindling and a few of the wood slats, he started a fire in the barrel stove. Then he pulled up a chair, lit a cigarette, and settled in to wait.
Cora returned fifteen minutes later, her hair plastered against her head from the rain. “He’s not back?”
Lawson motioned toward the second chair. “You should rest. No point in taking off in weather like this. We’re spending the night, no matter what happens.” He anticipated her next question. “I’ll sleep in the warehouse. There are two more bags. If we’re lucky, your husband will make it back before dark.”
He offered her a smoke, which she took. Sitting close to the fire, she looked toward the shuttered window. Outside, the rain was lashing down in sheets. Lawson ground out his cigarette. “If he’s smart, he’ll find somewhere to wait out the storm. He should do fine under the trees, as long as he’s got wool socks and underwear. It shouldn’t get much below forty. Once this blows over, he can follow the shoreline back. Not much of a chance he’ll get lost.”
Cora didn’t respond. After a minute, he handed her one of the sandwiches, which she took, and offered her a swig from his flask, which she declined. As the wind howled against the cabin like a living creature, Lawson tried to get her mind off of it. “How long have you been married?”
For a second, Cora looked as if she hadn’t understood the question. “Six months.”
He wanted to ask how she had ended up with this man, but he bit it back. “I guess this wasn’t the honeymoon you wanted.”
For the first time, she smiled at him. “Actually, it’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Lawson wasn’t sure what to say in response. On the table, Cora had spread out a few pages of handwritten notes, along with the photo of the silent city. He indicated it. “You really believe in all this?”
Cora followed his eyes, then looked back. “Are you married, Mr. Lawson?”
Lawson grinned. “Not exactly. Not a lot of eligible girls where I’m from.”
“If you were married, you’d know that it doesn’t matter what I believe.” She paused. “Sam and I have more in common than you might think. We’re both stubborn. It’s hard to get an idea out of his head, even if he has to go halfway across the world to prove it. I’m the same way.”
“What does he do for a living?” Lawson asked. “He wasn’t too clear on the subject.”
“He’s a writer,” Cora said. “You might say that he’s a kind of journalist. For a while, he was working for Scripps Howard. I think you have a mutual friend there. A columnist named Ernie Pyle?”
Lawson recognized the name. In better times, reporters had come up to Juneau once every couple of months to get fresh copy, and he had taken a few of them on glory hops into the interior. “Are you a writer, too?”
“You might say that. Sam and I are working on a book. This will be one of the chapters. Assuming—”
She broke off. For the first time, he saw the strain in her face. “Are you worried?”
“No.” Cora glanced at the shutters, which were shaking against the frame. “Sam can handle himself. He doesn’t take anything for granted. And maybe this will even teach him a lesson.”