Chapter 2

 

I pulled my new Jeep Liberty into the parking lot overlooking Fire Bay and turned off the engine. I leaned back and took in the view. Hell, it was more than a view. It was like looking at a picture postcard of a seascape. The kind with mountains across a bay, with sailboats making their way into a stiff breeze to wherever it is that sailboats go. I removed my wire-rims and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, sure enough, Fire Bay was still there. Now, if Jeanette were here with me, this bliss would be complete. 

The trip to Fire Bay had begun two days before when I traveled from Howes Bluff to Bethel in a small single-engine plane. That took a half hour. Then after a two-hour layover, there was the hour flight in a small commuter jet from Bethel to Anchorage, a distance of some 300 miles with nothing below but wilderness. Alaska is huge. All of Scandinavia plus most of Ireland would fit nicely inside it. Every other place in this world pales in comparison, and I couldn’t see myself living anywhere else. 

After arriving in Anchorage I checked into a motel in a section of the city called Spenard, a section known for its shady nightlife, although loyal residents might dispute that. Of course, I had to go to an old favorite watering hole of mine. To my surprise the bartender still knew me. Come to think of it though, I probably had bought enough booze there in my self-pitying alcoholic hazes of years gone by to justify a partnership. I nursed a Jack Daniel’s and fended off a couple of old bar buddies looking for source of unlimited free rounds of their favorite poison. Thank God I had had the strength to leave that world of comfortable haze. I spent the rest of the night in the motel, listening to giggles and bedsprings squeaking that old familiar rhythm. 

Luckily, Fire Bay was within driving distance from Anchorage. It was a long trip, but the highway was in good shape, and the moose had kept to themselves. Best of all, I was in a brand new automobile. I had received a few sidelong looks from Jeanette about getting one, but we did have the money and, with winter coming on, I wanted a good car. I could have had the use of a Postal Service car, but every time I drove around town people would be asking what the heck was I doing, burning up post office money for a cup of coffee? Nope, it was better this way.

I looked in the rear view mirror and passed my hand through my thatch of brown hair, trying to decide if I should go into the Fire Bay Post Office. To hell with the post office, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and I was tired. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.

 I fired up the Jeep and headed down the hill to the town. A lot of people say the seascape around Fire Bay is some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. How do you beat blue glaciers, green hills, and mountains, lining a bay that is about fifteen miles wide at its mouth? You don’t. Add the excellent halibut fishing and you have a paradise, at least for some folks. But as someone once said, “You have to pay to live in paradise.” 

And, if it was true for Alaska as a whole, then I was sure it was true for the town of Fire Bay. Fire Bay had been around since the turn of the century, mostly serving as a coaling station for ships in the northern Pacific. Now it was a town that depended on fishing and tourism. Throw in a few artists and writers and you had a community. It was a community with a history, certainly different from your average town in Midwest America. A place not quite urban, but sure as hell not bush country either. A bumper sticker on a car I passed going down the hill perhaps said it best, “Fire Bay, a quaint little drinking village with a fishing problem.” With my history, I hoped I could bypass the drinking part.

Before going to a motel, I decided to take a quick tour. Ocean View was the main street with the expected two or three gift shops still in their summer finery, still looking for the late-season tourist. There was a movie theater with its marquee only a couple of weeks behind those in Anchorage. There were four or five restaurants and I wondered if they stayed open in winter. There were at least two watering holes, places that I as the postmaster or O.I.C., had to avoid. But not to worry; the alcoholic person inside me noted that there was a liquor store. Then came a four-way stop—the only one in town. After a small hesitation I made a right down another commercial street past a lumberyard and hardware store, other small offices and, wonder of wonders, a MacDonald’s. Another stop sign, another right turn onto a bypass that went past the post office with its flag flying. After tomorrow it would be mine. 

Naturally, with all that rubbernecking, I almost ran into a car pulling out of a business next door. But all I got was a sour look from a woman. I smiled in return and drove on, hoping she would forget the incident. This bypass took me back to Ocean View and a nearby motel. After checking in at the motel, I dragged my baggage to my room, gave Jeanette a call to let her know I was safe and sound, and then I crashed. 

* * *

I sat upright and shook my head in the darkness. I reached out for Jeanette, seeking the comfort of her warm presence. Then I realized that the security of Jeanette and the village were no longer within reach. My stomach rumbled. I needed food. I was ready for anything, but I decided to play it safe and go to the motel restaurant. No need to go out and expose myself to the community yet. Far better to sit in a lonely booth and read the Anchorage newspaper with a before dinner drink or two.

I had just dived into a well-done steak, when a couple, two booths over, professional types by their dress, got a little loud. Since we were the only occupants in the dining room, they were easy to hear.

“Damn it, Samantha, I don’t know what else to call it!”

“George, you know better.”

“Crap! I hate this!” The man’s fork clanged on his plate as he slammed it down.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman shake her head. “Take it easy,” she whispered, “We’ll get through this, remember, we work for the medical examiner’s office, but we have to be careful what we say. This is the U. S. Postal Service we’re talking about and we’re talking about a federal crime, for Christ’s sake!”

It was only by the sheerest effort that I kept on eating, pretending I had heard nothing.