Chapter 20
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Hirst-Chichagof Mine—Klag Bay, AK
Joe’s watch showed quarter to five. Sam Worlson was late, and Joe didn’t like it. After the disaster in the dark with the killer whales, he didn’t want to be behind schedule. He sat in the mine office, drumming his fingers on the small wooden table, even turning down a whiskey offered by the clerk.
Joe gave the winding knob on his watch a couple of turns. Ten to five.
The clerk was unusually animated, pacing around the small room, tidying.
Something’s wrong.
“Sure I can’t fetch you somethin while you wait, Mr. Baxter?”
“Nah, I’m good. Just gotta catch up with Sam and hit the water. Don’t fancy rowin back in the dark again.”
“I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. Some Sitka folks are here today and he had to tend to them.”
The wooden floor creaked as the clerk paced.
The quiet gave a menacing gloom to the place, and every sound made Joe’s skin crawl. He had never been here without the persistent pounding of the stamp mill hammers as they crushed ore into gold dust and gravel.
“Any idea how long he’ll—”
The office door opened and a man Joe didn’t recognize stepped in. “You the radio guy? Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes, and—”
The man was carrying a clipboard, wore shiny black shoes, and had a sidearm in a belt holster. “Apologies, sir, but I’m gonna have to ask you to skedaddle. We’re running a security check here at the mine, and we need only on-site folks present. Sorry for the trouble.”
Joe was more than happy to leave. “I got several messages for—”
Clipboard man didn’t wait for Joe to finish. “I comprehend, sir, but those will have to wait. We’ve got a heap of ledger work ahead, and time’s short.”
Joe’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Sure thing. I’ll swing by in a couple of days.”
Joe put his journal back into his new book pouch, secured it, and walked to the door. Just as he stepped outside, Sam Worlson appeared, looking rattled. He extended his hand to shake.
Sam don’t never shake my hand.
“Mr. Baxter, I’m mighty sorry for the wasted trip. We didn’t reckon on this security check today.”
Sam don’t never call me “Mr. Baxter.”
Sam shook Joe’s hand, and then put his left hand on top of Joe’s as if to show sincerity.
Sam don’t never…Oh, hold on, something there—the bag. Oh God, he’s passin me a bag of gold!
“I, I understand Sa—Mr. Worlson. Not a problem.”
The bag was on top of the two men’s right hands, hidden by Sam’s left hand. Joe clumsily worked to let the bag fall into his own hand and almost dropped it altogether.
“…and thank ya kindly for bringin that message from my wife. We all sure do appreciate what you do here.”
I never gave Sam the message from his wife.
Sam released his grip.
Joe put his hands into his pockets, dropping the heavy bag into the right one. “It’s my job, sir. Happy to be of service. I’ll be outta your way now.”
Joe turned away from the gaze of the company auditors, who seemed distracted and weren’t paying much attention to the exchange. He walked not-too-quickly down toward the small dock where his rowboat was tied.
Just as he reached the dock, a voice called from behind him. “Oh, Mr. Baxter, there is one thing, if you have a minute.”
Joe’s armpits were damp with sweat, his moist shirt clung to his skin. The stolen gold weighed heavy in his pocket, and it seemed that the whole world could see it there. He angled his body away from the approaching man and shifted his book pouch to his right hand to block the view of his pocket.
“Yes?”
The man sped his gait to catch up with Joe.
“In one of your recent reports, you mentioned a hiccup in the yield totals. Looks like you sorted it out, but—have you noticed any hitches in the past?” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifted his chin to look through them at Joe.
“Anything that might need a bit more focus from a theft-prevention perspective?”
Last thing Joe wanted to talk about. “No, reckon I just messed up jotting them numbers down.” He squinted at his wristwatch. “My mistake, was hustlin that day and likely—”
The man held up his clipboard, as if about to write something. “We aim to tie up all the loose ends, you know. Since you’re a regular here, we figured you might catch wind of anything, you know, off-kilter or, perhaps, a bit suspicious, if you catch my drift.”
Joe’s throat tightened. He put his free hand into his pocket so the shaking wouldn’t be visible.
The man smelled like the honeysuckle from Joe’s mother’s garden—probably the Brylcreem pomade crap that slicked back his hair. His shiny city shoes had gotten dusty on the walk down from the office. He must be an accounting type—with a gun. Bad combination.
“Oh, nah, sir. Nuthin more suspicious than my rowboat. Lost it a couple of weeks back—near drowned. Them killer whales ambushed me.”
The man cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, that must have been downright harrowing.”
“Well, everything’s in order…Anything else?” Joe faked a laugh. “I oughta hit the water while the sun’s still up. Don’t wanna stir up any trouble twice.”
“No problem at all, sir. Thanks for your time.” The man lowered his clipboard to his side. “Apologies once more for disrupting your duties.”
Joe pulled hard on the oars all the way back to Radioville. He was glad to be facing astern. No boats on his tail. So far, at least.