Chapter 2 #3
Caroline would have no doubt had the place looking beautiful. Then again, who knew how long she would have lasted in—
“You’re quiet back there,” Moose said, turning northeast.
“Yeah. Thinking of Caroline. Thanks for bringing her up.”
“Sorry, coz.”
Dawson glanced at him. “It’s okay. Her parents usually call this time of year, just to check on me.”
“That’s nice.”
“I think it’s a way for them to remind me not to forget her.” He sighed. “As if.”
“It’s been five years. You get to move on.”
Dawson lifted a shoulder. Weirdly, Flynn’s comment rounded back to him. “. . . then you’d have to be all bright and sunny, and that would seriously jeopardize the dark funk going on.”
Right. “Maybe. I don’t have time to date, and . . . I have Caspian. We bachelors need to stick together.”
“A song I used to sing before I realized how stupid I was.” Moose glanced back at him and grinned.
Dawson offered a grim return smile. Not stupid. Safe. For everybody.
Especially since the accident.
“Just remember this, Daws. We can’t change what happens to us, but we can decide how we want to grow from what we experience.”
He rolled his eyes.
They flew over the Copper River basin with its finger tributaries and splash of lakes, now frozen dots of white amid the green.
A few cabin chimneys spiraled up smoke into the blue, the land a vast white.
From here, the Copper Mountain range rose, the sun glinting off the high glaciers, the peaks a white rumple along the eastern horizon.
Glorious and lethal. The Copper River traced its base as it ran south.
Dawson spotted the community of Willow, with the high-end vacation properties of the Silver Salmon township.
They’d cleared the land like small kingdoms.
“This is Remington land,” Moose said of the swath of forest below. “And Bowie land is just north of this.”
Dawson looked down over the massive plot owned by the private mining company west of Copper Mountain. “I see a cabin down there.”
“That’s a Forest Service cache cabin, for bivouac when needed. They come with stoves, a makeshift kitchen, and a ham radio.”
“Got it. Where’s Sully’s place? I can’t remember.”
Moose pointed out the front windshield to the east. “The Bowie Outpost? We’re just a few clicks away—you’ll see it below. It’s on the Copper River, just south of where it curves west, on the southern border of Bowie land and about two miles west of Woodcrest, the art community.”
“That’s right. Such a strange group.”
“They’re not strange. They’re just . . .
private. But good people. Accepting. They live off the land and make soap and jewelry and other things they sell in Copper Mountain.
I think they might even have online sales to the Lower 48, although I don’t think they have internet, so I think someone in town handles the sales for them. ”
As they flew overhead, he searched for the Bowie Outpost, tracing where the Copper River curved and—wait. The sun glinted off a crumple of red and white metal—
“Moose. I think there’s a downed plane on the riverbank.”
Moose looked out his window.
“This side. Turn the plane around—you’ll see it.”
Moose banked, then retraced his flight path. “I see it.”
Dawson got another look too. Seemed the plane had cartwheeled, its wings ripped off, the fuselage still intact but upside down, with gaping holes in the sides. And from the torn snowbank and crushed pine trees, it seemed recent.
As in today recent.
“Can we get down there?”
Moose checked his gauges, then glanced at the horizon. “Yes.” He banked and started to descend.
The riverbank widened, and Moose overshot the crash as he aimed for the shoreline. But Dawson got an up close view.
At least one person lay on the snowbank darkened with rusty blood. Luggage spilled out into the river, a gray duffel and a brown-and-gold roller bag. The wings had sheared off, and one propped against rocks in the river. The other lay embedded in a tree.
“I don’t see anyone alive.”
Moose nodded, his jaw tight. “Hold on. This might get rough, even with my tundra tires.”
Dawson put his hand on Caspian as the dog sat up. Probably he should have tried to belt the animal in. Instead, he pulled Caspian onto his lap and grabbed him around the body.
Moose put down, the wheels growling against the shoreline, then bumping against the rocks, jolting Dawson even as he braced himself on the back of the passenger seat.
Moose brought them to a halt. “Stay here.”
“Not even a little.” Dawson unbuckled his belt but turned to Caspian. “You, however, stay.”
He opened the door.
Caspian leaped past him, landing on the shoreline, running after Moose, barking.
“Caspian!” Dawson eased out of the cockpit, onto the wing—
Moose had stopped near the body, which lay on its back, crumpled, blood and gore puddling the snow around it.
Dawson limped up, slower than he would have liked. “Recognize him?”
“It’s Mack—Cade Maverick. Maverick Air.” He crouched then. “He’s gone. Looks like something impaled him. And he’s been shot.”
Blood saturated the man’s jacket and midsection, but a gunshot to his forehead said that something terrible had gone down.
Dawson’s cheeks tightened, and he stepped back, a strange sweat slicking down his back, his heart a fist as it hammered against his chest.
Caspian whined and came over to him. Sat on his feet. Looked up at him.
“Me too, bud.”
Moose stood up, hands on his hips, and looked around, then stepped near the fuselage.
Dawson took a breath and followed him. A seat lay on the riverbed, the belt unbuckled, but the other back seat had survived the crash. It was still in the fuselage, now upside down. The buckles dangled down.
Dawson poked his head into the cockpit. Broken glass webbed the instrument panels, but the seats survived, the belts also hanging from the ceiling. Blood coated the pilot’s seat, but he couldn’t see anything sharp that might have impaled Mack.
His heart stopped pounding so hard.
Moose was rooting through the debris on the roof of the plane. “He probably has a passenger list.”
Dawson spotted a few papers blowing into the river.
Caspian stood at the edge of the riverbank, almost on alert, his body taut, looking into the woods.
Weird.
“Footsteps,” Dawson said, now walking around the bank. “I think that’s a Sorel bootprint.” He pointed to a line of footprints with raised lines in the snow. “And maybe a moccasin?” He pointed to another set.
“Over here, next to the seat—there’s a third. I think. I don’t know.” Moose chased down a paper and stomped on it, lifted it.
“What do you have?”
“Yeah, this is the weight list. Looks like three passengers. Two men and a woman. Luggage for two, plus backpacks. Plane wasn’t overweight.” He looked at Mack, even as Caspian started to bark. “Not sure what happened. Maybe weather, but clearly there was foul play here. I’ll call it in.”
But Dawson’s attention stayed on Caspian as the dog rounded. Big eyes on him, muscles tensed. And weirdly, he heard a joke in his head from an old Lassie show. “Help, Timmy’s stuck in the well!”
“What’s going on, bud?” He took a step toward the dog.
Caspian turned, barking. Looked back at him.
Dawson took another step toward him. “Don’t go—”
The dog took off into the woods.
“Caspian! Come back!”
Aw. He glanced at Moose. “I gotta get him.”
“I’ll make a call and then see if I can track down any survivors. But hurry up. There’s a blizzard headed this way. And keep your head on a swivel for trouble.”
“No doubt. I’ll be right back.” Dawson picked his way up around the plane debris and over to where Caspian had taken off. “I’ll be right back.”