Chapter 14
.-- . .. --. .... -
Radioville Island, AK
The wet burlap bag plopped out of Joe Baxter’s boot onto the table with a heavy thump. He placed identical squares of paper on each plate of his balance scale, poured the gold from the bag onto one side, then added weights to the other side until it balanced.
He opened a new blank moleskine journal and turned to the first page.
He didn’t need the code sheet anymore. He’d gotten quite fast at doing it in his head, even after a drink or three.
The coded journal was strictly for his own reference and protection at this point.
He couldn’t foresee a situation where he’d want someone else decoding it.
Once the weight and date had been recorded, he divided the pile in half.
Half for yours truly, and half to split “evenly” with the fellas.
He removed the weights and moved gold dust to the other side a bit at a time, pouring it from one paper square onto the other until the two sides balanced.
He returned one half to the original bag, and wrote the weight and “JB380321” on the bag.
He got a new bag, wrote the date on it, and added the other half to that.
Joe sometimes felt guilty about secretly stealing half of the take for himself, but the whole thing was his idea in the first place, wasn’t it? Neither one of those guys would be within a mile of that money if it weren’t for Joe.
When he finished weighing and dividing the gold, Joe pulled his chair across the room to his utility cabinet, stood on the seat, and retrieved his old backup radio transmitter from the top.
He brought it back to his workbench, removed the cover, and used a special screwdriver to open an aluminum box labeled “Power Transformer 2” on the main circuit chassis.
Joe dropped the bag of gold he planned to split with the guys into the aluminum box, reassembled the transmitter, and lifted it back to its place.
Should be safe there until Fellows’s next pickup.
Hiding the gold in his own cabin between pickups was probably unnecessary. Visitors were extremely rare, but Joe slept better knowing it was safely tucked away regardless.
He pulled his boots on, grabbed the burlap bag with the other half of the gold—the half he was keeping for himself—and walked out to the woodpile.
He removed the army tarp that protected his seasoned wood from the rain, climbed to the top, and unscrewed the metal cap on one of the vertical pipes that served to stabilize the stack.
Joe dropped the bag into the pipe, hearing a satisfying thud as the bag landed in the drum buried beneath the ground.
Joe loved the thud. He considered it a receipt from his wilderness drop safe.
He figured if anyone were to search the place and decide to check the woodpile, it would take hours to unstack the wood.
Then they’d just see a row of support pipes buried in the ground.
They’d have to be pretty clever, lucky, and determined in order to dig up the correct one and find the fifty-five-gallon drum he’d buried below.
It would be enough of a chore for him someday, but the reward would be worth it.
Joe reattached the cap, lifted an armload of seasoned wood from the older section of the stack, and carried it back inside, placing it beside the woodstove. He added one log to the fire. His cheeks absorbed the warmth as the rolling flame built inside the iron enclosure.
Static from the receiver filled the cabin, a soft, chaotic music he found almost soothing.
He adjusted the tuning dial with a practiced hand, slowing at each faint tick in the signal.
The code key sat ready under his fingers, the logbook open beside him, half filled with outgoing messages from earlier in the week.
A few taps arrived—just a ping from Sitka’s relay station.
Joe fired up his transmitter and keyed back:
Ready
The first replies were routine: the fuel shipment had finally left Juneau, someone named Mallory was coming north on the next steamship, the new stamp mill had been approved. He scribbled them down quickly. Then came the personal wires.
TO CARL FROM BETTY STOP THE GIRLS MADE YOU A BIRTHDAY CARD STOP WE MISS YOU TERRIBLY STOP WRITE WHEN YOU CAN STOP
TO VICTOR FROM MA STOP CHURCH IS PRAYING FOR YOU STOP THE WEATHER’S TURNED COLD STOP YOUR COAT STILL FITS STOP
Those he let through untouched. It was the next one that made him hesitate.
To Denman From Wife Stop Package Came Open Stop Money Order Gone Stop Thanks for the Wooden Horse Stop Sam Loves It Stop but We’re Short on Rent Again Stop Package Smelled Like Whisky Stop Please Be Careful I’m Worried About You Stop
Joe sat back in his chair, staring at the pencil marks. The last line hit hardest. Please be careful. He knew that tone. He’d heard it in his own wife’s voice once, long before he’d left for good.
Denman had given Joe the package last month, wrapped in oilcloth and string. Said it was something for his boy—he’d carved the little horse out of driftwood and stained it with crushed berries. Didn’t look like much, but his hands shook the whole time he handed it over.
The company’s mailbag system wasn’t known for its finesse. If the money order had gone missing, Denman’s family was in real trouble.
Joe slid the original message under the blotter.
He wrote out a new one:
Package Arrived Fine Stop Sam Loves the Horse Stop Everything Included Stop We’re Okay for Now Stop Love You Stop
He’d deal with the money later—send a few dollars himself under Denman’s name, same as he’d done for Chuck. The company would never know. Or if they did, they’d look the other way, same as they always did when the work kept getting done.
Denman. The guy with the jittery hands, the thousand-yard stare even when he was laughing too loud in the chow line. Joe had seen him sneaking sips from a flask, and had once found him passed out behind the generator shack, snoring in the oil-streaked gravel.
But Joe had no moral high ground there. His own flask sat within reach, tucked under a folded rag in the drawer beside him. Most nights, he didn’t sleep without it. Most days, he didn’t want to.
He set down his pencil and rubbed his temple, then took a long pull from his own flask. The burn steadied him, the way it always did.
He wasn’t fooling himself. Denman was on a downward slope. So was he. But maybe they didn’t have to hit the bottom at the same time.
Joe sat for a moment, staring at the quiet radio set, the hum of the tubes soft and steady in the background. He could still hear Bing Crosby’s croon from the Victrola a few feet away, “Pennies from Heaven” winding toward the final chorus.
The whiskey tasted like mercy tonight.
He opened the drawer, took out a clean sheet of paper, and picked up his pen.
Maybe he couldn’t save Denman. Maybe he couldn’t even save himself. But maybe he could leave something better behind. A small map. A pile of firewood.
He wished he knew the boy’s name.
Dearest Son,
I reckon by now you’re aware I had no choice but to bid adieu to you and your mama before your arrival into this world.
I needed to earn money to take care of you even though it took me far away.
There was a time when your mama and I would lock horns, sparks flying in heated debates.
It seemed wisest if we plied separate paths.
In this northern expanse, I endeavored to forge a foundation for a brighter life, one that I hope you’ll witness firsthand when you’re all grown up. Enclosed herewith is a map to the small island in the Alaska Territory I presently inhabit.
Should you find me absent upon your arrival, kindle a fire for yourself.
There’s an abundance of timber stacked out yonder in the woodpile.
In truth, it boasts surplus enough to keep you warm and content for the entirety of your days.
Take your time, relish the splendors of this beautiful place.
See where I lived and enjoy the house and everything that comes with it. I’m leaving it all to you.
Love,
Your father