Chapter 53
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Sitka, AK
Sam checked himself in the motel room mirror. Oilskins, flannel shirt, galoshes—fisherman. He’d blend right in on the docks. His Colt revolver pressed against his side underneath his waterproof jacket.
Sam could handle Fellows. It was other people he was worried about.
He needed to confront Fellows where he had some time—some private time where he could force him to tell where the money was.
Fellows had probably gotten the drop on Joe—the element of surprise and all.
But now the element of surprise was on Sam’s side. And he had experience.
If Fellows’s boat didn’t have a cabin that was private enough, Sam could follow him home. Or, if he could hide on the boat somehow, he could just wait for Fellows to take it out and get him at sea.
But…then what? He didn’t want to kill Fellows. He didn’t even want to steal from him.
Sam resolved to take only half the money—and give Fellows the other half.
Half would be more than he’d need to set things right back home with his wife.
Then Sam and Fellows could part on equal terms. That didn’t make up for Joe, but Joe was gone.
Nothing anybody could do about that now.
Sam didn’t see how taking a fair half made him an accomplice in Joe’s death.
That was on Fellows. And Joe. Sam had no idea what had gone wrong, but that was between the two of them.
Part of the risk you take when becoming a criminal.
Sam took one last look in the mirror, double-checked that the Colt wasn’t putting too much of a bulge in his coat, and pulled on a black stocking cap.
There. Fisherman. No question.
He put a hunting knife in his lunch pail, along with a length of rope and a thermos of coffee.
He left the small motel room and walked down the street toward the boat harbor.
The sun had just broken over the mountains, turning the snowcapped peaks a dark cool blue and casting a warm orange glow over the grid of boats docked in the harbor.
When he reached the ramp down onto the dock, Sam took one of the dock carts that were lined up against the fence. He’d look like he was going down to get something from his fishing boat. That would give him a chance to survey the situation.
The slip to the left of the ramp was occupied by a commercial trolling boat. That couldn’t be the one.
The slip to the right was empty.
Maybe Fellows’s boat had been moved since redheaded Juneau went for her ride.
Sam continued down the dock, looking for Fellows’s boat—white with a green stripe. He walked each finger, nodding or saying hello to each person he passed. When he reached the end of the last finger, he still had nothing. No boat that even remotely resembled what Juneau had described.
Had Juneau lied to him?
Sam walked back up the dock to the ramp.
Two fishermen were unloading a net from the gillnet boat next to Fellows’s slip.
“Hey, you folks seen a guy around here—small boat—new—white with a green stripe—guy’s name is Fellows, I think?” Sam tried to sound casual. “I ran into him a couple weeks back and borrowed a tool from him. I need to return it.”
“Ha! From that kid?” One of the fishermen chuckled.
“Didn’t know he knew how to use tools. Figured him for more of a city boy.
He left outta here early this morning, before dawn—said he was going fishing.
Wish I could see that operation in progress.
I hope you’re not counting on him to bring you dinner. ”
Sam tried to fake a laugh. “Well, it’s not a big deal. I’ll find him tomorrow and return it. How’s fishing been?”
“We haven’t really started our season yet,” the fisherman continued. “Just getting the rig ready. Curious what your boy is going after. He came in here early this morning with a bunch of fishing gear that looked new from the store. Kid’s got more money than sense, I’d say.”
“Yeah, he didn’t seem…” Sam wanted to move on. “Well, you gentlemen have a good day. I’m gonna go meet a buddy.”
He rolled his empty dock cart up to the top of the ramp, leaned it against a fence, and walked along the edge of the parking area until he found a bench with a good view of the harbor. He sat quietly, thinking about how he’d approach when Fellows returned. It would be tricky.
Around midday the whistle of the SS Alaska steamship announced it was departing port.
Steam belched from the massive stacks as the huge ship maneuvered its way past the boat harbor and up the channel, passengers lining the railing and seeming to enjoy the view as the vessel navigated the narrow passages between islands.
The ship visited Sitka once a month and brought passengers and critical supplies to the town.
Without a proper holster, the Colt revolver in his waistband dug painfully into Sam’s side as he sat. It wouldn’t fit into his lunch pail. He loosened his belt and repositioned it, looking for a more comfortable spot.
Every couple of hours, Sam walked up the street to a market where he could use the restroom.
He bought himself some jerky and a handful of candy to keep him alert as he waited.
He also bought a couple of magazines that he would periodically pretend to read.
He worried that someone would get suspicious of the amount of time he was spending there, but nobody seemed to notice him.
Luckily it was a sunny day—rare this time of year, and people were distracted by the day’s bright, warm fortune.
When the sun began to set, Sam wondered what was up. Nobody on their own in a small boat like that stayed out fishing after dark. The two fishermen he’d talked to earlier in the day appeared at the dock, heading up the ramp. They got into an old pickup truck and took off toward town.
Sam figured they were gone for the day. He didn’t see any other signs of life in the boat harbor, so he headed down to the dock and walked out on the finger between the fishing boat and the empty stall where Fellows’s boat should have been.
The fishing boat’s rear cockpit had several places to hide.
Nobody was around, and the only sound was the peal of an eagle on top of the mast of a derelict sailboat a couple slips down.
Sam stepped into the fishing boat and dropped down below the gunwale.
He removed the Colt and checked that it was properly loaded and the hammer was in the safety position, then slipped the weapon into a scupper hole—just out of sight, but within easy reach.
The breeze rang lightly through the rigging of the fishing boat. A halyard clanked against a mast. The rippled water in the boat harbor made a gentle slapping sound on the hull. Several seagulls flew by calling to each other. Somewhere in the distance, a sea lion barked.
Sam kept low and positioned himself so he would be able to see if anyone came down the ramp toward the docks.
He’d also be able to see and hear if Fellows’s boat pulled into the next slip.
Sam figured if nobody else was around, he’d act like he was working and offer to help Fellows with his lines as he docked.
He could take him there at gunpoint, maybe tie him up and take him back out on his own boat.
Need time to question him away from prying eyes.
The darkness settled in, and there was still no sign of Fellows, but he was bound to return eventually.
Sam gnawed on a piece of reindeer jerky to stay awake.
The meat was salty and under-smoked, and was too gamey for Sam’s taste.
He chewed on a chunk for a while and finally spit it into his hand and threw it overboard.
Sam had a bad feeling. Fellows had no boating experience.
Everyone Sam had talked to agreed—he had no business being out in a boat, especially not alone.
He’d left before dawn, saying he was going fishing, but now the sun was gone and the harbor was quiet.
No lights approaching, no distant thrum of a boat motor.
These were unforgiving waters. Even seasoned crews made mistakes out here. But Fellows wasn’t seasoned. He was a city kid with a brand-new set of gear and more ambition than sense.
Still, the boat was small. Not meant for going far. Probably didn’t even have an anchor. Sitka was the only harbor for miles, and there was no hiding on the water. If he was out there, he’d have to come back.
Sam stayed low in the fishing boat, watching the gap in the breakwater, listening for the faintest sound of return. His knees ached, and the damp was beginning to settle into his bones. He pulled his coat tighter and sipped the last of the cold coffee from his thermos.
It would be foolish to leave now. Fellows might pull in any minute.
So Sam waited—staring into the dark void, hand resting near the Colt in the scupper, every sense tuned to the silence.
He’d wait through the night if he had to.
Tomorrow, if needed.
He wasn’t leaving without answers.