Talkeetna Trouble

The blue tarp outside Jeremy Gunner’s cabin had come loose again, snapping in the Talkeetna wind like somebody applauding a very bad idea.

Jeremy stepped onto the porch in his wool socks, one hand gripping a mug of coffee and the other gripping the tarp’s flapping corner. The Talkeetna Spur stretched pale and muddy between the spruce trees, with last winter’s snow hiding in the ditches and a raven complaining from the roof of his shed.

“Hold still,” Jeremy told the tarp.

The tarp did not.

He set down his coffee, climbed onto the porch railing, and reached higher. At thirty-five, Jeremy was still convinced most problems could be solved by standing on something unstable and pulling harder. He gave the tarp a mighty tug.

The tarp came free.

Jeremy sat down hard on the railing. His coffee tipped, splashing his sleeve. The tarp sailed over the yard and landed across the path leading toward his neighbor’s storage shed.

“Fine,” he said. “You win.”

He climbed down, retrieved the tarp, and noticed the tracks.

They crossed the damp ground beside the shed, narrow tire marks pressed into the soft earth. Nothing unusual about that, except the tracks ended at the shed and began again several yards away, as if a vehicle had appeared, dropped something off, and disappeared.

Jeremy crouched beside them.

The mud held a small blue thread.

He touched it with one finger. The thread matched the torn edge of a canvas bag lying near the shed door. His neighbor’s name was painted on the bag in broad white letters, though the last name had faded until it looked like a question mark.

For three weeks, supplies had been disappearing from that shed. Flour. Propane canisters. Canned peaches. Once, an entire box of coffee filters. Jeremy had offered several explanations, including a hungry moose with excellent organizational skills, but none had satisfied him.

He wanted to know what was taking the supplies.

More precisely, he wanted to know before his neighbor accused him.

Jeremy picked up the canvas bag. It was empty except for a yellow receipt folded into the bottom.

A gust rattled the spruce tops. Somewhere down the Spur, an engine coughed and settled into a steady hum.

Jeremy looked toward the road.

A white van moved between the trees, too far away to see a license plate. It slowed near the bend, then continued toward town.

“Probably groceries,” Jeremy said.

The van stopped.

Jeremy lowered the bag.

The driver’s door opened, but nobody stepped out. After a moment, the door shut again. The van rolled backward, turned around, and disappeared in the direction of the old logging road.

Jeremy stood very still. His coffee sleeve was cold against his wrist.

“That is less probably groceries.”

He hurried inside and returned wearing boots, a jacket, and the knit cap he had received from a woman at the Talkeetna winter market who had told him it made him look “approachable.” He had not known whether that was a compliment.

The yellow receipt was still in his hand. He unfolded it on the kitchen table.

The paper listed a storage locker, two propane canisters, coffee filters, canned peaches, and something called “cleaning solvent.” At the bottom was a handwritten note.

H.M. - Tuesday. Back road.

Jeremy read it twice.

“H.M.,” he said.

He considered Hungry Moose, Home Maintenance, and Hot Muffins. Then he remembered the little community north of Talkeetna known as Hundred Mile, where the back roads twisted through timber and old cabins.

Hundred Mile.

The thought landed in his mind with the heavy thump of a dropped toolbox.

He tucked the receipt into his jacket pocket and went back outside.

The tracks led past the shed and into the trees. Jeremy followed them, stepping over roots and ducking beneath low branches. The ground smelled of wet bark and old leaves. A raven flew ahead of him, making a sound like a rusty hinge.

At the edge of the woods, he found a second piece of evidence: a strip of black plastic caught on a broken branch. Beneath it sat three empty boxes, each stamped with a freight company name and a destination in Hundred Mile.

Jeremy touched one of the boxes.

“Okay,” he whispered. “That’s a clue.”

A truck engine rumbled nearby.

Jeremy dropped behind a spruce.

The same white van came along the back road, moving slowly enough that he could see a blue tarp tied over its cargo area. It stopped beside the boxes. A person climbed out wearing a red stocking cap and a gray coat. The figure gathered the boxes, placed them in the van, and then stood looking directly toward Jeremy’s spruce.

Jeremy held his breath.

The figure raised one hand.

Jeremy raised his hand back.

The figure lowered theirs.

Jeremy lowered his.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then the person got into the van and drove away.

Jeremy waited until the sound faded before crawling from behind the tree. His knees were wet and his hat had caught a twig.

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