She blinked at him. “Sinking?” Her voice faltered. “As in, below the surface of the harbor?”
“Slowly.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. What brings you down here at this time of night?”
Recalled to duty, she sat up straight and made a praiseworthy attempt to forget that the boat she was sitting in was sinking, however slowly. “I flew back out to Kulukak this evening.”
He went very still. “I thought I told you to get some rest.”
“I wanted to canvass the villagers for information on the Malones, and pick up what information I could on Monday's fishing period.”
“I see.” Liam sipped his coffee and waited for his irritation to subside. Well, what the hell, she'd already done the deed, he might as well let her tell him what she'd learned. Her air of suppressed excitement clearly indicated that she had discovered something. He lowered the mug and said in a deliberate understated tone, “What did you find out?”
She made a wry mouth. “Well, first off I found that none of the villagers wanted to talk about it.”
“I'm not surprised.” Her brow furrowed, and he explained. “Most of them were born there, have lived there all their lives. Their first loyalty will be to their neighbors.”
“Yes, but-”
“Second, most of them are still pissed at our boss for fighting the Venetie sovereignty case all the way to the Supreme Court.”
“John Barton went to court?”
“Our boss the governor.”
“Oh.” She nodded, still not quite understanding. “I've never paid much attention to politics.”
“I'm tempted to say that now would be a good time to start, but I don't know. Maybe the more ignorant you are, the better.” He sipped his coffee. “You vote?”
She was insulted. “Of course I vote.”
“How do you choose, if you don't pay much attention to politics?”
She hesitated. “Well, actually, I call my father and ask him how he's going to vote.”
“You let him tell you how?”
“No,” she said, and reached to her collar to loosen her tie. “No, then I vote the exact opposite.”
He looked up. She was dead serious. “Oh.” Liam decided they didn't know each other well enough for him to pursue that line of inquiry. He wondered how many times he and his father had canceled each other's votes out. He wondered if everyone had a love-hate relationship with his or her father. He wondered how he was going to get through dinner the next evening.
Diana set her mug down, pulled out a notebook and returned to the subject at hand. “Since I couldn't get much from the villagers, I went down to the harbor and went from boat to boat.” She paused expectantly.
“And?” Liam said obediently.
“And I found a few fishermen who weren't local who knew the family. The Malones have lived in Kulukak for fifty years. David Malone's grandfather served in the Aleutians during World War II, and took demobilization in Anchorage after he sent for his family. In 1948, they moved to Kulukak.”
“Wonder how he got to Kulukak.”
She flipped back a page. “One of the people I talked to-darn it, where is that?-here, a Sam Deener told me that Malone Senior, was looking for a place to get away from it all and raise his family in peace and safety.”
His son had found neither, following in his father's footsteps, Liam thought.
Unconscious of irony, Diana plowed on. “He and his wife, Mae, had one son, David. David went away to school, took a fisheries management degree from the University of Oregon and brought Molly home when he graduated. They've lived there ever since. Every five years or so, David buys-bought-a bigger and better boat. They've been adding on to the house at about the same rate.”
“Mmm.” Liam drank coffee and thought. “How many other white people are there in Kulukak? Year-round residents, I mean?”
She looked puzzled. “I never thought to ask.”
“The answer might be interesting.” She still looked puzzled, and he relented enough to explain. “A lot of these smaller villages don't tolerate outsiders coming in.”
She looked back down at her notebook. “I didn't get a feel for anything like that.”
“You wouldn't; you're white, too. There's a lot they won't tell you, or me, for that matter. Not only are we cops, we're white cops.”
He could see by her expression that she understood. “They covered that pretty thoroughly in the course on community relations.”
“They did in my time, too.” And to give the academy credit, the emphasis laid on the responsibility of troopers posted to the Bush to keep everybody's peace, regardless of race, was thorough and decidedly firm. The present colonel was Native, too, which by itself was enough to raise everyone's consciousness a notch.
But, in the end, the troopers worked for the state of Alaska. They enforced laws passed by the Alaskan legislature. Going into a Bush village, Liam never forgot he was white and an employee of the state, and that of the two, the latter would get him into more trouble than both together. Prince would have an added disadvantage; she was a woman.
“Why doesn't Kulukak have a vipso?” Prince asked. “It's big enough, they could use a local cop.”
Liam sighed. The Village Police and Safety Officer Program took rural applicants into the trooper academy in Sitka, trained them in police procedures and then sent them back to keep the peace in their villages. An excellent idea, but it had its drawbacks, one of which was that in any small Bush village, the chances of any local applicant's being related in some way to the rest of the village was very high. “They had one,” he said. “About four years ago. Or so I hear tell, as I have been making some calls of my own. He was young, bright, good at his job. Then he quit.”
“Just like that?”
“Not quite. He got caught in the sack with a woman of the village. Name of Patty.” He met Prince's eyes, and added ruefully, “Patty Larsgaard. When he left town, she went with him.”
“Oh,” she said. Comprehension dawned. “Oh, I see. Wife?” He nodded. “Young Walter or Old Walter?”
“Young.”
“Oh.” She thought. “That's interesting.”
“How so?”
She hesitated. “Nobody actually said anything…”
“Yeah, but?”
“Well, I get the feeling there was something going on between Larsgaard and Molly Malone.”
Liam remembered Larsgaard's hesitation in speaking of Molly Malone. “I got that feeling, too, when we were all up at the Malones' house.”
“Shall I interrogate him on it?”
“We both will. We're flying back in tomorrow morning.”
“Eight, right?”
“Ten,” he said firmly, and repressed a chuckle at her expression. “I've got some phone calls to make. The M.E. might have some preliminary findings, and I want to talk to him before we leave.” He drained his mug. “That all you got?”
“I haven't been able to track down Max Bayless yet.”
“I've got someone working on that for me. Anything else?” She hesitated. “Well…”
“What?” He stretched, yawning. “I'm bushed. It's been a long day. Time to hit the rack.”
Her triumphant smile stopped him. “I found a witness, sir. A deckhand on a boat that broke down in Kulukak toward the end of Monday's period.”
That caught him in midstretch. “You're kidding.”
“No. Chad Donohoe, from-”
His tone was deceptively mild. “And you didn't think this was information important enough to tell me first?”
Her smile slipped. “Well…”
He met her eyes. His face didn't change expression but hers did. “Next time? Just run it down in order of importance. Especially at this time of night.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, subdued. She flipped to the appropriate page in her notebook. “Chad Donohoe, from Mount Vernon, Washington State. He was deckhanding on board theSnohomish Belleand she broke down just as the period was endi
ng, about five-thirty. The skipper-Anders Ringstad-had to call in an order to Newenham-Reardon Marine-and have it flown into Kulukak late that night, about ten o'clock.” She added parenthetically, “That strip must be rated for after-dark operations. I'll have to check. Of course, if you're not flying passengers, the rules aren't as stringent. Anyway, Ringstad sent Donohoe to Kulukak in the skiff. Where they were fishing is about an hour from the village by skiff. He should have been back by midnight, twelve-thirty at the latest.
“But…” Prince looked at Liam over the top of her notebook. “It seems that Donohoe has a girlfriend in Kulukak. Among other places.”
“Aha.”
“So it was about three a.m. when he got back to theSnohomish Belle.”
Liam cut to the chase. “What did he see?”
“He says it was real foggy out, first of all. Worse than it was this morning.”
Liam groaned. “Oh great.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought, and it was right down on the water, too, he couldn't see but fifty feet off the beam-what's a beam?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
“Anyway, he couldn't see fifty feet off the beam in either direction. But he says a New England dory-what's a dory?”
“A skiff. A big skiff.”
“Oh. Donohoe saw this New England dory pass real close off to starboard-that's right-about ten minutes before he got back to theBelle.Almost sideswiped him, he said, it was that close. He never would have seen it otherwise. He could hear the engine, of course.”
“Why of course?”
“Sound carries in a fog.”
Liam thought of the various noises he had heard in and around Kulukak that morning, the rifle shots, the boat engines turning over, the landing plane. “Yes, it does. Did he see the person driving the skiff?”
“He saw a man, he said. He didn't know who he was.” Prince looked up, triumph in her eyes. “But his description sounds a lot like Walter Larsgaard.”
Liam thought about that for a few moments. Prince waited, her expression indicating a willingness to leap into the Cessna and fly down to Kulukak this minute to make an arrest.
Liam wasn't so sure. He'd seen Molly's picture; all right, maybe she did have a face-and a body-that would launch a thousand dories, maybe even one that might get her husband killed.
But her children? Her brother-in-law? Her husband's deckhands? Herself, ostensibly the object of her lover's affections?
He shook his head. Prince looked disappointed and Liam said, “Just thinking to myself. Here's a little piece of information for you. A fisher named Darrell Jacobson saw a New England dory leave Kulukak harbor at about ten p.m.”
“Who was driving it?” she said eagerly.
“He didn't know, he's not from Kulukak, but Jacobson was headed for Togiak, so we can pull him in for an identification if need we need him.” He could almost hear Prince's tail thumping the floor and held up a hand, palm out. “Look, we've got a couple of pieces of information, and we'll use them when we need to, but let's not jump the gun. Larsgaard fishes where he lives, I think he's his father's sole support, and he's tribal chair besides. He's not going anywhere. We'll brace him tomorrow, ask him what he was doing out on the Kulukak at that time of night. If it was him, maybe we can surprise an answer out of him.” He stood up and put his mug in the sink. “Now I'm hitting the rack, and I suggest you do the same.”
Prince handed her mug over without protest. “Sir-”
“It's Liam,” he reminded her, taking the mug.
“Is it okay if I bunk here for the night, Liam?”
“No.” He wasn't aware that he'd barked the word until he saw her flinch.
She nodded at the bunk opposite. “You've got the room, and as you know, I haven't had time to-”
“No. Well, I mean… well, I mean, no.”
“But-”
“I mean, no, you can't sleep here. I-it isn't a good idea. I don't-I can't-”
“But Liam-”
He realized, first, that he was babbling, and, second, that his forehead was beaded with sweat. He whipped around and slid the hatch back. “Goodnight, trooper.”
She sighed. “Goodnight, Liam.”
“Maybe you better call me sir after all.”
“All right,” she said, submissive. “Goodnight, sir.”
He gave her a sharp look. Submissive didn't seem quite in character for Trooper Diana Prince.
“Goodnight,” he said, and stood stiffly as she slid past him and up the stairs to the deck. Her hair nearly brushed his nose. It smelled good, some kind of fruity scent. He didn't want to be smelling her hair. He slid the hatch smartly closed behind her, and waited as the boat tilted and righted itself again as she stepped to the slip.
Some sound came to him a few moments later, which might have been that of muffled laughter, but it might also have been the sound of water lapping against the pilings. He went back to bed without trying to figure out which.
FOURTEEN
The next morning dawned early, like all summer mornings in the Bush. The sun would be officially up by six-fifteen, although it had been light out for hours before that. By the end of July they were losing four minutes and twenty-four seconds of daylight every day. You'd never know it by the extended sunrise.
The advantage was that there were very few times of day or night during the summer when you couldn't see your way down the path. It was a steep one, carved into the crumbling side of the bluff, a length of manila line looped between wooden posts the only thing between Wy and disaster. Some of the steps were large rocks, flat sides up, set into the dirt. Others were reinforced with scraps of wood left over from various building projects, onebytwelves, two-by-fours and one piece of metal grating. On normal days she rather enjoyed testing the limits, seeing how fast she could get down to the beach, but this morning she walked slowly, one hand just touching the rope, tapping each post with her fingertips as she passed it.
The mouth of the Nushagak opened before her, a wide stretch of water gray with glacial silt moving with stately deliberation between banks a mile apart. It formed part of the lifeblood of the Bay, along with the other hundred rivers of the area, providing the way home for salmon returning from the sea. It was, as well, the umbilical cord connecting the interior villages to Newenham. It was to Newenham they came, by boat in summer and by snow machine in winter and by plane year-round, to shop, visit relatives, play basketball, buy duck stamps, apply for moose permits, attend school, stand trial, serve time, take communion. Wy flew the river every day, upstream and down, and its size and power and importance in all their lives never failed to impress her.
In her more fanciful moments, she thought of the river as a woman, old and infinitely wise, loving but stern, never capricious but never quite predictable, either. When she took a life, or lives, when she sucked down a skiff with swift gray intent, or opened a lead in her frozen winter face to swallow a snow machine, she had her reasons, good ones, and if those on shore were left to mourn, why, death was a part of life, after all, and that was the way of the world, and the river, to give and to take with the same hand.
The beach was a wide strip of gravel and sand littered with driftwood bleached white by time and tide. That driftwood made for wonderful fires, and Wy could see the smoke from several here and there. Fishermen out early for the first red of the day.
The closest one was right at the base of her cliff. The last step was a big one, twenty inches to the beach. She jumped it, landing both feet solidly in a patch of gravel that rattled loudly on impact.
The man feeding the fire didn't so much as turn around.
“I already practiced, old man,” she said to his back.
“I know,” he said. “I saw you on my way down.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, and then moved forward to sit next to the fire, a little apart from him.
They contemplated the flames in silence. The weight of the river pulled at the banks, tangling in its current here a downed spruce, there a
n empty skiff that had slipped its mooring. A river otter chittered at her young where a creek flowed into the river. An eagle soared overhead, causing a flock of ducks and half-grown ducklings clustered at the edge of the water to fall silent. The tide was out, revealing the muddy banks of the river and the goose grass growing there. The water was half salt, half fresh, and the marsh on the Delta supported a rich and varied avian lifestyle. The ducks were fattening nicely, and both Moses and the eagle eyed them with approval. When the last salmon had made its run up the river, the ducks and the geese would be next on the menu.
Wy looked at Moses. He wore a dreamy expression, one she didn't see often, one he did not permit to show through his usual cantankerous crust. His mouth, usually held in a disapproving line, was relaxed, caught in a half-smile. He seemed to be remembering something pleasant. It didn't happen often, and she didn't try to interrupt.
He looked up suddenly and caught her eyes in his. “Are you angry when it rains? Do you blame God?”
“Blame?” she said, puzzled. “Who's to blame? The weather's the weather. It happens.”
A light, brief shower of raindrops fell on her hair and she looked up, startled. There were clouds overhead, big, cottony cumulus clouds not heavy enough with moisture to shed any of it. Had they been there when she came down the bank?
“Are we less, then, than the rain?” he said softly, his face turned up into it. A sliver of sun, a deep, rich gold, appeared on the northeastern horizon. “Are we more than the sun?”
She sat very still. Moses was a drunk, but he was also a shaman, and, no matter how thorough her indoctrination had been at the hands of her adoptive parents and at the University of Alaska, Wy remembered enough of the first five years of her life not to reject the presence of what she couldn't see.
Moses opened his eyes and added a piece of driftwood to the fire. The salt crystals caught in the wood flared with color. The wood burned steadily, radiating warmth and light.
“You didn't answer my question,” he said.
“I don't have an answer,” Wy replied.
“No?” He smiled. “Need some help?”
So Sure Of Death Page 17
