Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

Mercer turned to Collins, hoping he still had the other man intrigued. “Why did you say that the terminal itself is secure? I didn’t have any problems getting in.”

“You’re still on the guest list; all others are being turned away. We’ve even suspended the regular visitors’ tour bus from town. Besides the access road, there’s no other way into the terminal. Fences, active and passive detectors, and patrols keep everyone from getting within a mile of any vital area.”

“Mercer, you’ve been focusing on why someone is smuggling liquid nitrogen into Alaska. Have you stopped to ask yourself who?” Though Lindstrom obviously didn’t believe in a threat to his private domain, he acknowledged the possibility of terrorism.

“Oh, I already know who,” Mercer said sharply.

“PEAL?” asked Collins.

“No. This may be their type of operation, but it’s way out of their league.”

“PEAL?” Lindstrom didn’t immediately recognize the name. “Oh, wait. Aren’t they the environmental group with the big research ship anchored in the bay?”

“Yeah,” Collins said. “They’ve been here for a couple of weeks, boycotting Petromax gas stations, giving interviews to the army of reporters that follow them around, and generally making everyone around here as edgy as hell.”

“They don’t have anything to do with this,” Mercer repeated. “They want to stop the drilling in the Arctic Refuge, but this is just too big for them. Boycotting gas stations is one thing, but coordinating an attack against Alyeska is entirely different. Listen, guys, I’m not up here in any official capacity; the Feds are handling the investigation. In fact, I’m in Alaska against the FBI Director’s direct order. But while they’re off looking for clues, I think they’re forgetting to watch over targets. I’m surprised no one from the Bureau has been here to talk to you. That’s what you get for having too many law school graduates and not enough people with brains.”

“You sound like you know who’s smuggling the liquid nitrogen. Who is it?” Collins asked.

“A former KGB colonel named Ivan Kerikov. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s utterly ruthless. He would kill without a moment’s hesitation. Oh, shit, that reminds me. Can I use your phone?”

Lindstrom nodded, and Mercer dialed quickly, the phone number being one of the hundred or so he was able to keep straight in his head.

“Homer Police, Chief MacLaughlin speaking.”

“Chief, this is Philip Mercer-”

MacLaughlin cut Mercer off before he could continue. “How the hell did you know the Jenny IV wouldn’t be there?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Bullshit,” MacLaughlin exploded. “No one gets hunches like that. I’ve just changed the deaths of Jerry and John Small from misadventure to murder. Add them to the death of Dave Heller, the guy we found in his beached boat, and it means I’ve got three unsolved killings in a town that hasn’t seen a murder since I became Sheriff. I want some fucking answers.”

“You’ll have them as soon as I do, Chief. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say right now. I can tell you that you won’t find the murderers in town; they’re long gone.”

“No kidding,” MacLaughlin said sarcastically. “Just because I’m a small-town cop doesn’t mean I’m a simpleton.”

“I’m not saying that, but I think your investigation will be better served if you concentrate on finding where the Jenny IV was sunk the second time.”

“Fat fucking chance. After my brother-in-law failed to find her by dragging the bottom, I sent out nearly every boat in the harbor. Forty boats, all equipped with fish-finding sonar, failed to find anything. They must have searched a hundred square miles.”

Mercer could imagine their search. Captains and crews half drunk, thrilled at playing cop for a day, running randomly across the water without any logical search pattern. Mercer guessed that MacLaughlin’s one hundred miles was more like ten. There was no sense in pointing this out. MacLaughlin was so angry right now that any criticism would probably set him off like a volcano. Mercer couldn’t blame MacLaughlin; he was caught up in something so big that he didn’t know which way was up.

“Really?” Mercer said, trying to sound impressed while thinking that he might call Dick Henna and have him get an antisubmarine vessel into the area. With its side-scanning sonar, it would be able to find the hulk on its first pass. “I appreciate that, Chief, I really do. I’ll let you know if I get anything more on my end.”

Mercer cut the connection before MacLaughlin could protest.

“What was that all about?” Collins asked suspiciously.

“Maybe something, maybe a red herring. But a couple of nights ago, the Jenny IV was moved from where the Coast Guard had sunk her. Whoever did it killed the owner of the boat they used.”

“You think it was this Kerikov guy?”

“Either him or someone working for him,” Mercer said, keeping a tight rein on his building anger. “Like I said before, I really don’t have any right being here and talking to you two. But my ass is on the line here. I’m the only living witness to the discovery of the Jenny IV , and I don’t think Kerikov’s going to stop until I’m dead. My only choice is to stop him first. I don’t want to end-run the authorities, but if anything, and I mean anything , out of the ordinary happens here, I’d like to know about it.”

“Nothing will, but sure, we’ll keep you in the loop,” Lindstrom answered indulgently.

Mercer gave him the name of the hotel he’d be staying at. He felt he’d done the best he could with what little information he had and could only hope that his warnings wouldn’t go unheeded.

Twenty minutes later, he parked the Blazer in front of his hotel, a large clapboard structure that had seen better days. It wasn’t the best place in town, which suited him fine. After settling into his room and taking a quick shower, he enjoyed a salmon dinner in the nearly deserted dining room. The adjacent lounge was almost as empty, so he decided to head out for a while and maybe talk to some of the PEAL activists who might be in town.

Although he didn’t think PEAL was involved with the smuggling of the liquid nitrogen, he wanted a better handle on the group, partially for his own investigation and partially because he wanted to know more about Aggie Johnston, and PEAL seemed to be a major portion of her life.

Ever since she had stormed out of his house, thoughts of her weren’t too far away. At first, he’d tried to simply will her from his mind, but he gave that up. Aggie was not the type of woman Mercer could forget. In just a short time, she had worked her way into his head so deeply that he found he could recall the specific scent of her hair and the way her eyes softened when she first saw the bandage on his face from the pistol whip. Mercer had never believed the old adage about opposites attracting, but then he’d never really faced it before. He was both hurt and confused that Aggie hadn’t tried to contact him. But he had too much going on to allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of her, yet he still wanted to find out more about her, a lot more. Everything.

He walked along North Harbor Drive, paralleling the small boat marina. The sun had set, and the sound of waves slapping against the hundred pleasure craft came out of the darkness like an eerie recording. The few streetlights cast hazy puddles on the sidewalk, their glow barely glinting off the chrome trim of the nearest boats. The air was heavy with the tangy perfume of the ocean. Although the sidewalks were fairly crowded for a town of only three thousand, there was a loneliness here that was found in all of Alaska except for its larger cities. Out in the harbor he could see the running lights of a large vessel he knew must be the Hope .