Murder at five finger light Read Online Free Page B

his head.
    With a few minutes left before boarding, she found a seat in the waiting area and sat down to casually assess the people who were about to join her on the way to Petersburg, or beyond it to stops in Wrangell and Ketchikan, before the plane reached its destination in Seattle. As usual for Southeast Alaska, and the state capital of Juneau in particular, they were a mixed assortment of mostly permanent and temporary residents, but few tourists, for that season had slowed to a trickle with cool weather and the beginning of the school year.
    From pictures seen in the news, she recognized a senior legislator from Fairbanks who stared at the floor and leaned close to listen with seeming attention to the appeals of either a constituent or a lobbyist who was emphasizing points with a forefinger jabbed repeatedly into the palm of his other hand.
    A group of five commercial fishermen—easily identified by the worn coveralls or jeans, and sweatshirts or flannel shirts they wore—were sprawled loose-boned in seats facing each other for somewhat spiritless conversation across the aisle. At least one slumped half asleep, his cap pulled over his eyes.
    An older woman in sensible shoes and a tan raincoat passed up a seat near them with a sniff and scowl of disapproval for their appearance and colorful language. She moved on to the opposite end of the row, where she plumped herself down beside Jessie, clutching her handbag to her ample bosom. “Disgusting,” she muttered. “Simply disgusting.”
    Visiting from Outside and not used to the typical behavior of some Alaskans, Jessie guessed, and suppressed her smile as she turned her attention to the rain that was falling steadily outside the wide western windows. Across Gastineau Channel bands of mist below sodden clouds obscured most of the forest that velveted the mountain slopes of Douglas Island. As she was hoping it wouldn’t continue to rain all week on the lighthouse island and feeling glad to have brought waterproof gear, the loudspeaker blared to life announcing first-class boarding. She stood up and moved closer to the gate, knowing her section of seats in the rear of the plane would be next, leaving the woman to cradle her handbag until her turn came.
    On board the plane and settled in her window seat, Jessie turned attention to the crush of passengers shuffling single file in her direction, bottlenecking traffic as they reached to cram their bags into overhead bins or bent to tuck them, like her daypack, under the seats ahead of them. One of the fishermen dropped heavily into the center seat next to her, nodding a hello after tossing his worn insulated jacket to the floor and stuffing it under the seat with a booted foot. “Petersburg?” he asked Jessie.
    “Yes,” Jessie told him with a smile. “You?”
    “Yup—back to another damp and miserable search for the elusive shrimp. But it’s already getting—ah—friggin’ cold out there.”
    “You from Juneau?”
    “Ketchikan,” he told her, massaging his temples with hands that were nicked and scarred.
    An image of taut lines and sharp knives on cold flesh reminded her that fishing was in many ways a dangerous business.
    “Just hopped across to the big city for a weekend of R and R,” he continued. “Damn, I’ve got a head. Spent too much time and money in the Triangle Bar last night.”
    Slouching in his seat, he pulled the long bill of his cap down over his face and she recognized that he had been the one half asleep in the waiting area. “Wake me when we get there, will ya?”
    “Sure.”
    As near as she could tell, he was instantly asleep.
    Slowly, as the last of the passengers located and took their seats, the aisle cleared. A flight attendant moved along it tucking in a dangling strap or handle here and there before snapping closed the overhead bin covers. The seat beyond the now gently snoring fisherman had remained empty and Jessie, feeling lucky, was considering the possibility of waking him