Singing of the Dead

by Dana Stabenow

  “Okay, I guess,” she said, and at his look added, “Better now.”

  “Good. I was sorry to hear about Jack Morgan. I know you two were close for a long time. How come you never married, anyway?”

  She looked away. “I guess we just weren’t the marrying kind.”

  “I hear his kid is staying with you.”

  “Yes.” He raised an eyebrow, and she said, “He’s fourteen. That’s all you need to know.”

  He laughed again. She’d always liked that about him, his laughter. He laughed a lot, over cribbage games at Abel’s homestead, over the bar at Bernie’s, at high-school versus town-team basketball games in Niniltna. He was as crafty an opportunist as ever did business in the Park, but he had a strong sense of the ridiculous and an even stronger sense of reality, and she respected him as much as she respected anyone in public office.

  “So what’s up, Pete?” she said. “You looked like you were waiting for me.”

  His hand still on Mutt’s head. “I was.” Their eyes met. “Brad? Take a walk, would you? Thanks.” The driver got out and the door closed.

  “I can’t believe you have a driver,” she said. “Pretty uptown for the Park. Aren’t you afraid someone will see?”

  “I hear you went to work for her. For Gordaoff.”

  “Gordaoff.” Not “Anne” or “Anne Gordaoff,” just “Gordaoff.” Pete had known Anne since she was in diapers, but there was no pretense at courtesy here. Anne was Peter’s opponent in a close race for a seat that by now Kate guessed he regarded as personal property. Using Anne’s last name was Pete’s way of repressing or even eliminating any personal relationship they might have had over the years. “He’s behind,” Kate remembered Billy Mike saying of Peter that morning, not once but twice, as if that was the answer to everything.

  Maybe it was. Kate hoped like hell it was not. This was the problem in working crime in a place like Alaska, where there was only one person per square mile, with most of them related one way or another, and most of the rest related to her. “I’m getting paid by the Niniltna Native Association, strictly speaking,” she said equably, “but yeah, I’m working for Anne’s campaign.”

  “Doing what?”

  She thought it over, and decided he’d find out soon enough on his own. “She’s been getting some hate mail. Threatening letters, like that. Her campaign manager got worried.”

  “Darlene Shelikof.”

  “Darlene, yeah.”

  There was a brief silence. “You want something to drink?” Peter opened a cooler and knew her well enough not to offer liquor. “Diet 7-UP, am I right?”

  “I’m off that,” she said. “I’d take a bottle of water if you had some.”

  He did, and poured a tiny bottle of Jim Beam over a thick mug full of ice. He sat back, sipping, watching her. She drank her water and watched back. His mug had his campaign slogan on it, HEIMAN IS YOUR MAN IN JUNEAU, gold letters on a blue background, just like Alaska’s flag. The gold flashed in the late afternoon sun.

  Minutes ticked by the way they do, one second at a time. Finally Pete laughed again and slapped his knee. “I should never try to outstare you or outstubborn you, Kate. I know better.”

  Or try to intimidate me, she thought.

  Still laughing, he said, “You want to come work for me?”

  “I’ve got a job.”

  “I’ll double whatever Billy Mike’s offering. You’ll need the money, now you’ve got a kid to support.”

  She drank water, more to give herself time to think than because she was thirsty. “You getting threatening mail, too, Pete?”

  “I don’t want you on her side against me,” he said.

  This time she laughed, the sound coming up rough and rusty past the scar on her throat. “Why, Pete, I believe you just gave me a compliment.”

  “I don’t want you on her side against me,” he repeated.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m working security. I’m not involved in the campaign, or in the campaign decisionmaking process in any way. I’m watching for bad guys. That’s it.”

  “Oh, hell,” he said, sighing. “I’ve never known you to back out of a commitment once you’ve made it, anyway. But I thought I’d give it the old college try.” He gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek and a rough hug and followed her and Mutt out of the Ford. The driver kept the SUV between them and him.

  They strolled across the parking lot, Pete’s arm around Kate’s shoulders, Mutt padding at Kate’s other side, and the first person they saw was Darlene Shelikof.

  Kate gave her a cool nod and swept by without speaking. “Darlene,” Pete said, stopping to put his hand out. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Peter,” Darlene said, eyes darting between him and Kate.

  “How’s your folks? Your dad still fishing over to the flats?”

  Kate moved toward the door and, thankfully, out of earshot.

  The Lodge was one of those Ahtna institutions that increased the town’s can-do commercial legend, the brainchild of a local welder who had gone to work on the Pipeline and had seen the opportunity inherent in its completion and the wholesale selloff of the remaining supplies and equipment. Artie Whittaker bid for six of the fifty-six man Atco trailers in which Alyeska had housed its temporary work force in twelve camps from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, finessed transportation costs by taking delivery of them in Ahtna, turned one into a kitchen, one into a restaurant and bar, added some bathrooms to give some of the rooms in the other four trailers private baths, added Arctic walkways to join them together, and opened for business. He was full from the first day, helped by a good cook, a first-class bartender, and that his only competition was a few bed-and-breakfasts in private homes and a run-down motel that catered to philanderers from Valdez up for an illicit weekend a deux, or a trois as the case might be. “There are things you just don’t want to know about your neighbors,” Artie had told Kate once, giving his head a gloomy shake. Considering that her line of work all too frequently put her in the category of Peeping Tom, she agreed with him wholeheartedly. It made a bond between them, and she was looking forward to seeing him again.

  But Artie wasn’t at the registration counter this afternoon. A dark, slender man with long hair swept back in an artful style and a single diamond stud in his left earlobe smiled at her. “How may I help you?”

  “Where’s Artie?” she said.

  “Artie’s in Kona.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. He’s retired,” he said cheerfully. “I bought him out last October.”

  “Did you,” Kate said. “What’s your name?”

  He drew himself up and declaimed, “My name is Luiz Antonio Orozco y Elizondo, prepare to die.” He grinned. “But you can call me Tony.”

  “Thank god,” Kate said.

  Tony laughed. “And you are?”

  “Kate Shugak. I should have a reservation.” At this point Mutt made her presence known by rearing up to place both enormous paws on the edge of the counter. “Any objection to dogs in the rooms?”

  On her hind legs Mutt looked Tony straight in the eye. “If I had, I’d rethink them,” he said.

  Mutt’s tail gave a preliminary approving wag. Kate’s four-footed character-defect detector. Except in the case of Jim Chopin, she was infallible. Kate decided Artie had sold well.

  The last time Kate had overnighted at the Ahtna Lodge reservations had been entered in an oversized red daily diary, in Artie’s famously illegible handwriting, and the keys had hung from a board mounted within reach of the counter. A guest was expected to pick a key, write down their name and room number in the diary, and pay whenever they saw Artie next.

  Now there was a computer, which spit out a slip of paper. “Ah, you’re part of the Gordaoff campaign,” Tony said. “You’re all in the same wing.” That was the first time Kate had heard the Atco trailers that made up the Ahtna Lodge referred to as “wings.” The keys were in little open-ended boxes against the opposite wall. Tony handed
one over.

  “Thanks. Any messages?”

  “No.”

  Kate looked down at the slip of paper. “Do you know how long I’m supposed to stay here?”

  One mobile eyebrow went up, but Tony said, “There should be a departure date on your receipt.”

  Before Kate could find it, she heard a voice call out her name. It didn’t sound friendly. “Kate!”

  Kate winced inwardly, and turned. “Darlene. Hi. I just got in.”

  “I saw,” Darlene said. “I’d like to talk to you for a moment.” She saw Tony watching and added with a wide, insincere smile, “Please.”

  “I wanted to take a shower,” Kate said, not really hedging. Bathing on the homestead involved a round, galvanized steel tub. A series of long, hot showers in hotel rooms was an added bonus to signing on with the Gordaoff campaign.

  “This will only take a minute,” Darlene said. She put out a hand to take Kate’s arm, encountered Kate’s look, and thought better of it.

  Kate shouldered her duffel and followed Darlene to a corner.

  “Why did you walk in with Peter Heiman?” Darlene said in a low voice.

  “He drove up at the same time I did,” Kate said.

  “What did he want?”

  “He’s an old family friend.” For the hell of it Kate added, “He wanted to offer me a job.”

  Darlene stepped forward, glaring. “What do you mean, he offered you a job!”

  Kate put a hand on Darlene’s chest and pushed her back a step. “The only way we’re going to make it through the next two months is if you don’t crowd me, Darlene.”

  Darlene took a deep breath and let it out. “What do you mean,” she said, spacing out the words, “Peter Heiman offered you a job?”

  “I think it comes under the heading of, better to have the camel on the inside of the tent pissing out than on the outside pissing in,” Kate said. “Don’t worry. I declined his very generous offer.” She watched Darlene’s face with interest, wondering if the other woman was going to suffer a massive heart attack right before her eyes. She hoped not. Her better nature might force her to give Darlene CPR.

  Darlene, with a powerful effort, brought herself back under control. “We want Anne to be safe,” she said, spacing out the words with care. “Jim Chopin says that people who write letters generally stick to writing letters. Okay, fine. But Anne’s the front-runner in this race, and that draws attention, especially when you’re the front-runner against a two-time incumbent who is wired into the Republican majority and has money coming into his campaign from Outside to keep him in office. Especially when you’re a Native woman running against a white man. Especially when you’re younger and he’s older.”

  Kate waited. Mutt, standing next to her, yawned so wide her jaw cracked.

  “You should know I’ve hired a researcher,” Darlene said. “She’s looking into Heiman’s background.”

  “Research for attack ads?” Kate said.

  Darlene’s lips tightened. “Depends on what he throws at us first.”

  Kate thought Darlene’s comment through to its logical conclusion, and didn’t like where she arrived. “You think Pete Heiman might be behind these letters?”

  “Why not?” Darlene said, adding, the world in two words, “He’s behind.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. “The only bent thing I know about Pete Heiman is his extreme bad taste in women. I don’t recall him ever stooping to hate mail, or anything remotely that tacky.” Something any law enforcement professional looked for in a suspect, a history of bad behavior. If you stole a trike when you were four, that was history, and in Alaska, no matter how reassuring the judge was from the bench about your record being expunged because you were a juvenile, that record never went away. So far as Kate knew, Pete Heiman had no record, other than that of being a good son, a successful businessman, a lousy hus-

  band, and your ordinary, everyday common or garden variety sold-to-the-highest-bidder Republican legislator. At least Pete didn’t get visions from God to guide him through the legislative session. At least Pete didn’t introduce a law to legalize billboards in the state. At least Pete knew enough about life in the Bush to get behind rural subsistence, and enough about Alaska Natives to be willing at least to discuss the issue of sovereignty.

  “He’s behind,” Darlene repeated.

  I’ll earn my keep, Darlene, Kate thought, but some of it’s going toward not letting you throw mud all over one of Abel’s best drinking buddies. “So I read the mail, I watch the crowds, I follow up on anyone that looks iffy,” she said out loud.

  “You protect the candidate,” Darlene said.

  “I can do that,” Kate said. “But let me repeat what I said before. Don’t crowd me, Darlene.”

  They stared at each other until a voice broke in.

  “Darlene?”

  They looked around and saw Anne Gordaoff’s husband, Doug, whom Kate had met briefly in Niniltna as Billy Mike was forcing her out of her own retirement. He was of middle height, with a youthful face belied by a thick thatch of gray hair and a quick, charming smile. Too quick and too charming, Kate had thought then, and saw nothing now to change her mind.

  “She wants you,” he told Darlene. “And the researcher, I can never remember her name, she called and wants you to call her back.” He flashed the smile at Kate. “Kate.”

  “Doug,” Kate said, and hoisted her duffel again. “I was just checking in.”

  “There’s quite a crowd of people at the gym,” Darlene said brusquely. “Get there as soon as possible.” She turned and walked away with Doug.

  “Certainly,” Kate said to her retreating back, and be-

  thought herself once more of the very large check folded inside her jacket pocket, ready to be deposited in the Ahtna branch of the Last Frontier Bank at 10:01 A.M. the following morning.

  6

  The Ahtna High School gymnasium, as befit a town that was the hub of its region, was large, with a floor divided into six basketball courts, bleachers that extended from both sides, and a stage that took up most of the third wall. The metal trusses had been painted alternately in the blue and white of the Ahtna Avalanche, the home team, although their color was nearly obscured by the forest of banners hanging from them like so many rectangular bats. Regional championships in basketball, wrestling, and volleyball; state championships in basketball and volleyball, and three retired jerseys were among the trophies, and the smell of popcorn indicated that the freshman pep club had seized upon the evening’s event to make a couple of bucks.

  The bleachers, Kate saw in some surprise, were crowded, as were the metal folding chairs lined up on the court below. People spilled into the aisles and stood three deep against the rear wall. Someone had propped open one of the fire exits so those inclined could nip out for a smoke and not have to come all the way around through the front door to reenter the building. No alarm was sounding, so they must have disabled it.

  On stage, challenger Anne Gordaoff and incumbent Peter Heiman were being miked, and moderator Mary Frances Chernikof stood frowning at a fistful of notes, all three flanked by the stars and stripes on one side and eight stars of gold on a field of blue on the other. In the audience, one woman had brought her knitting, another a mukluk she was trimming with caribou. A group of old men sipped something out of a paper bag and muttered among themselves. A group of young men were bent over a Game Boy. A few young couples were taking advantage of the dimmed lights to neck, and small children ran off an excess of energy in running up and down the steps bisecting the bleachers, shrieking with laughter at the booming noise they gave off. A mixture of Athabascan, Aluutiq, and English made a low background hum, and a crew sporting jackets with the gaudy logo from an Anchorage television station appeared to be having trouble with their cameras.

  Billy Mike stood next to Kate looking intent and serious, as befitted the tribal leader of the Niniltna Native Association. Outwardly, he was careful to maintain an impartial air, and Kate saw the incum
bent bend a long and thoughtful look on Niniltna’s chief. If Anne Gordaoff had Billy’s endorsement as candidate for state senate, Anne Gordaoff was as good as sworn in. Kate could see other Park rats following Pete’s gaze and coming to the same conclusion.

  “Kate?” a voice said.

  Kate looked around and saw a short, plump redhead beaming at her. “Tracy? Is that you?”

  “Kate! I heard you were coming, and I couldn’t believe it!” The redhead threw her arms around Kate and hugged her.

  “Tracy Huffman,” Kate said, freeing herself with difficulty. “What the hell are you doing in Ahtna? Last I heard you were reporting for the Daily News-Miner.”

  “I was, from the day after we graduated. I was with them until this April. Then Darlene came knocking at my door with an offer I couldn’t refuse.” She saw Kate’s expression and added, “You couldn’t, either, I hear.”

  Kate, about to deny it, decided to laugh instead. “Yeah, well. I guess I’ve sold out.”

  “Doesn’t take long, does it?”

  “No, it sure doesn’t.” She looked with affection at Tracy’s good-natured face, at the thick hair pulled back from her brow with a tortoiseshell band, at the big blue eyes sparkling with the sense of fun that had gotten them all into trouble more than once way back when. She was dressed in a long-tailed green silk shirt, black stretch pants, and ballet slippers. There was a black portfolio over one arm and a clipboard in the other. “What are you doing for the campaign?”

  “I’m the flack.” Kate looked puzzled, and Tracy translated. “Media consultant.”

  Kate provided her own translation. “You talk to reporters.”

  Tracy’s blinding smile beamed out again. “You’ve always been better than average bright, Shugak. I’ve always liked that about you.”

  Mutt interjected with a polite sneeze, and Tracy looked down. “You must be Mutt.” She offered a fist, palm down. Mutt sniffed it, sneezed again, and looked at Kate as if to say, I’ve had enough of dodging people trying to step on my toes, thanks.