“Well,” Bobby said, recovering from his stupefaction. “At least they’re spending some of it in your place of business. We could use a next new thing, what with the Suulutaq Mine failing its EIS and all.” He reflected. “Didn’t I hear something about Erland Bannister buying into a local film production company with Tom Hanks or somebody?”
“Not Tom Hanks, although imagine if it was and he brought Rita Wilson with him.” Bernie’s eyes went dreamy. Bernie’s obsession with Rita Wilson dated from her role as the hooker in That Thing You Do, and had been revived by a recurring role on The Good Wife, all seven seasons of which he now owned on DVD.
Bobby snapped his fingers in front of Bernie’s face. “Hey. Hey!” Bernie blinked and returned to his body. “If not Tom Hanks, who?”
“Huh? Oh. Gabe McGuire.”
“Oh. Hey. Wow. Interesting.”
“Jesus, Bobby, you actually seem impressed.”
“I saw Kandahar.”
“That the one he won the Oscar for?”
“Yeah. Deserved it, too, which is more than you can say for most Oscar award winners.”
Bernie carefully kept his mouth shut, because he knew from sad experience that on no provocation whatever, Bobby could go off on an hour-long rant on how The Right Stuff losing out best picture to Terms of Endearment was sacrilege and a travesty and the end of what little there was of American culture and how Oscars voters spent more time checking their hair and their pecs in mirrors than picking out the real best movie of any given year. Unchecked, he could go for another hour on Gandhi.
The door opened on a blast of frigid air and they looked around, every Park rat in the room with a working Y chromosome sensing the arrival of a woman over eighteen and under eighty. It happened that this one was worth looking at, five five, long blond hair, big blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose, a rosebud mouth, curves in all the right places visible even beneath a down jacket and jeans.
She looked around the room, hesitating beneath the onslaught of so many pairs of male eyes, and then straightened her shoulders and went to the bar. She waited without visible signs of impatience for Alicia Kvasnikof to leave off flirting with Dan O’Brian and come down the bar to ask her pleasure. It wasn’t a drink, because no conversation that long was required for a Cosmopolitan, which is what the new girl looked like she’d drink. Alicia shook her head and pointed at Bernie.
The woman came to their table. “Bernie Koslowski?”
Bernie straightened right up. Alison might have competition. “That’d be me.”
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Sylvia McDonald. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
Bernie’s smile was by no means dimmed when he looked for and found the wedding band on her left hand. “Why, surely, Ms. McDonald,” he all but purred. He got up, tipped Howie Katelnikof out of his chair and held it for her.
“Hey!” Howie said from the floor.
Bernie ignored him, looking expectantly at Sylvia McDonald.
Sylvia McDonald sat down without missing a beat. Pretty woman privilege.
Bernie resumed his seat, smoothed back errant strands of the receding hairline collected in a ponytail that reached his waist, and said, “What can I do for you, Ms. McDonald?”
“Call me Sylvia, please.”
“And I’m Bernie, of course.”
“And I’m Bobby Clark,” Bobby said. “If anyone’s interested.”
Bernie flipped him off where Sylva McDonald couldn’t see.
She shook Bobby’s hand, too, and then sat for a few moments, her brows knit together, chewing on her bottom lip, which Bobby was sorry to see, as it was a very nice lip. She looked up and offered them a smile that was half apologetic, half embarrassed. “I’m looking for my husband.” She looked around, her smile fading. “I can only imagine how many women have walked in here on the same errand.”
Bernie’s beam dimmed but only a trifle. “Well, the Roadhouse is where a lot of husbands end up around here, Sylvia.”
“His name is Fergus but everyone calls him Mac. He’s a geologist.”
“He work up at the mine?”
“The Suulutaq?” She mispronounced it, Sooltack instead of Soo-oo-loo-tack. “Yes.”
“Have you been up there?”
“Yes, just today. Mr. Perry very kindly let me ride along with him on one of his supply runs.”
“I just bet he did,” Bobby said.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind,” Bobby said. “I take it your husband wasn’t up at the mine?”
“No. They say he was on personal leave, which I knew, but he stopped texting and calling three days ago and that’s just not like him. They haven’t seen him since he left.”
“On personal leave where?” Bernie said.
For the first time her eyes shifted away from his. “In the Park.” Her laugh was unconvincing. “Sort of a busman’s holiday, you could say. One of the reasons he took this job was so he could wander off with his rock pick and poke around places he’d never get a chance to see otherwise.”
“What does Fergus look like, Sylvia?” Bernie said.
She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone and held it up so both of them could see the screen. It was a photograph of the two of them, a selfie. Fergus had his arms around his wife and both of them were laughing into the camera, his arm extended to get them both in the frame. He looked to be about the same age as she did, mid thirties, with thick brown hair, dark brown eyes, a strong nose, a firm jaw. He looked, Bobby thought, a little like a younger Gerard Butler, the fucker.
“Sure, I remember him,” Bernie said. “He was in here a couple of times. He liked Scotch.”
“He’s Scots,” she said. “He liked Glenmorangie, if he could get it.”
Bernie shook his head. “Too high end for me to keep on the shelf,” he said. “He had to make do with Johnnie Walker Black. I remember—”
“Yes?”
Bernie smiled. “He gave me a hard time about the Black. Said I might as well serve him watered down molasses.” He handed the phone back to Sylvia. “Nice guy.”
“Have you seen him recently? Like maybe anytime during the last three days?”
There was a pleading note in her voice and Bernie shifted uncomfortably. “No, I’m sorry. The last time I remember seeing your husband was…” He appealed to Bobby. “When did the EIS statement come out on the mine? October something?”
Bobby nodded.
“Yeah.” Bernie turned back to Sylvia. “We had a lot of mourners down from the mine that day, and I remember your husband was one of them.” He reflected. “He didn’t seem as upset as the rest of them, as I recall. Most of those yahoos were drinking down their last paycheck as fast as they could gulp. Mac was just nursing his.” His brow creased. “He’d brought some work with him, took it to one of the tables.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
Bernie shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She looked around the room. “Do you think anyone else here might have?”
Bernie followed her gaze and then looked at Bobby, who shrugged, grabbed his now empty bottle and thumped it on the table, once, twice, three times. “Listen up, everybody!”
The basso profundo at full volume quieted the room but for the roar of the Warriors three-pointing the hell out of the Memphis Grizzlies, poor bastards. Bernie went for the remote and muted it.
“Meet Sylvia. Her husband has gone missing in the Park. Everybody get in line to take a look at his photo, tell her if you’ve seen him lately.”
The room lined up and one by one shook their heads. “Might have seen him at the bar a time or two,” Ernie Ivanoff said. A few of the other regulars agreed.
When everyone had filed by Sylvia McDonald slumped back in her chair. “Well, thank you, Mr. Koslowski—”
“Bernie.”
She smiled, a real one this time. “Thank you, Bernie.” She sat for a moment, looking a little lost.
“Have you spoken to the trooper in
Niniltna?” Bobby said, looking as if the words were dragged out of him.
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “No, I, no, not yet. But of course I will.”
“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Bernie said. “I have cabins for rent out back. All the modern conveniences.”
“Thank you, but I’m staying at a B&B back in town.”
“Sure, Auntie Vi’s. You have a ride?”
“I hitched here with someone. I hoped I could do the same back to town.”
“Let’s see who’s in the parking lot.”
Bobby watched as Bernie led her outside before getting laboriously to his feet. He didn’t often wear his artificial legs because they chafed, mostly because he didn’t wear them often enough to build up callouses, but keeping up with a five-year old with opposable thumbs often required more speed and agility than a wheelchair provided. Not to mention which they opened up new possibilities into sex with his wife.
He ambled up to the bar and flagged down Alicia Kvasnikof, who fluttered her eyelashes and served up another beer with a smile and an up-from-under glance that was pure invitation. She was legal if she was working at the Roadhouse but not much over that, and she was very pretty, and he was a happily married man. He sighed, more because he didn’t want anyone to revoke his man card than in longing for back in the day.
The door banged open to unloose a flood of offensively fit Millennials on the sanctum sanctorum of the Park rats, Bernie right behind them and bright-eyed at the prospect of the night’s bottom line turning suddenly even blacker than after Alison got behind his bar.
Bobby had to close his eyes against the glare of technicolor spandex. “Oh god. It’s the orienteers again, isn’t it.”
“It sure is,” Bernie said happily. “They’re running the Heaven Trail again.” He rushed to Alicia’s aid. She’d need more hands to rake in all that money.
“Where’s Dinah?” Dan O’Brian came to stand next to him, studiously ignoring the quality filmmakers who were trying to get his attention.
“At school with Katya.”
Dan looked at the clock on the wall.
“It’s an after hours, once a week music class.”
Dan stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Who’d they get to teach it? And are they working for free? I thought the state was broke.”
Bobby shrugged. “One of the Suulutaq people who was laid off wanted to stay in the Park. Says she’s got a music degree from somewhere. She offered her services to the school.” He turned his glass in a circle. “They’re essentially giving her a classroom for free one night a week, and she’s charging a fee per student.”
“How’s it working out?”
Bobby shrugged again. “She might actually have a music degree. The class is open to everyone still in school, so the students are K through twelve. They’re learning to read music, sing choir, and play piano and guitar. And she’s reaching out to local groups to come in and do workshops, like Pamyua and the Athabascan Fiddlers. Dinah says no one has said yes yet, but no one has said no, either, so…”
“Pretty cool.”
“It is, actually.” Bobby cracked his neck, once left, once right. “Turns out Katya can sing.” He changed the subject. “You met the new trooper?”
“I have.”
“Ain’t got no fucking clue.”
“Some people have to be happy about that.” Dan was looking at Howie Katelnikof. “And come on. Cut the guy some slack. It’s a pretty steep learning curve at first. Jim always said the Park ain’t for sissies.”
“He coulda hung on at least until they found a grownup.”
“Or they could have rotated a bunch of fifty-somethings through the Niniltna Post, all more interested in upping their retirement payout than in doing any actual serving and protecting.” He pointed with his chin. “Isn’t that Demetri Totemoff?”
Bobby looked over at a corner table. “Yeah.”
“Who’re the Cabelas with him? Can’t be clients this time of year. Salmon are done, moose didn’t happen, and caribou season doesn’t open until January.”
“Don’t know.”
“Bet he’s happy now the Suulutaq’s on hiatus.”
Bobby snorted. “You’re not?”
Dan sighed. “Could we not do this again?”
“Hello.”
He looked around to see an attractive brunette with hair cut like Tinker Bell only in mink brown, wearing an air of sophistication that hinted at a glass of Pernod in one hand and a smouldering Gaulois in the other. Spandex was a good look for her. She smiled at Dan. “I’m Juna.”
He smiled back. “I’m Dan.”
The guy was typical Irish, not very tall, built like a fireplug, topped off with red hair and freckles, yet in spite of all those drawbacks he never lacked for feminine company. It was a mystery.
“Yeah, and I’m Bobby, and I’m taken, not that anyone’s asking,” Bobby said grumpily. “I understand the attraction—” not “—but could you kind of rein it in there for a minute, honey? This is a private conversation.”
She was still smiling at the chief ranger. “I’m almost out,” she said, holding up her glass.
Dan’s smile widened. “Give me a minute, Juna, and I’ll see what I can do to remedy that.”
Juna turned, casting a come-hither look over her shoulder that made the floodlights over the bar look dim by comparison.
“Have you seen her?” Bobby said.
Dan took a swallow of beer and held it in his mouth like it had been brewed by Saint Arnold himself. He knew Bobby didn’t mean Juna. “I keep hearing she’s dead.”
“Come on, Danny.”
“No,” Dan said, relenting. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Jesus, your office is halfway there.”
The Park’s chief ranger shook his head. “I have no inclination to intrude where I’m not wanted.”
“How the hell do you know you’re not wanted? How does anyone? She could be hurt.”
Dan’s expression darkened. “She was.” He looked at Bobby. “She’s a woman, she’s short, and she’s an Aleut. At first glance no one would ever see her as any kind of force or threat.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So she’s lived her life as both.”
“And?”
“And she won’t allow herself to be seen as less.” Dan stood up. “You remember who told me that?”
Bobby’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Yeah.” Dan looked over his shoulder and smiled at Juna, who was leaning against the bar, one eyebrow raised. “In the meantime…”
Bobby flapped his hand. “Go, go. People to see, babes to nail.”
He took a last look around the Roadhouse. Demetri and the tree huggers, the reality TV show people and the Park rats determined to make a good living off them, the *cough* fisherwomen *cough* from Anchorage, the Spandex Gang and their admirers, including Ranger Dan, the aunties and Annie Mike, the old farts, all looked as if they were in until Bernie threw them out. Ace and Deuce had left and as Bobby watched Bernie did a sweep and a wipe of their table, picking up the one remaining glass by splaying his fingers inside the rim. Understandable. You’d want to avoid any cooties a guy sporting a mullet might be carrying around.
He drained his beer and heaved himself to his feet. Maybe Dinah and Katya would be home by the time he got there. Maybe they could lock Katya in her room and they could see how his legs worked up against the couch.
Although he did spare a passing thought for Jim Chopin. Who also hadn’t been seen much around the Park the last four months.
About as long as Kate Shugak had been MIA.
Four
Wednesday, November 2nd
the Park, Canyon Hot Springs
The hundred and sixty acres of the homestead was mostly vertical. Tucked away in a twisty canyon, it wasn’t easy to find even by someone who had been there before. The Quilak Mountains looked loftily down from six to ten to thirteen thousand feet, peaks like swo
rds’ points permanently encased in a layer of snow and ice. The canyon ran roughly perpendicular to the north-south ridge of mountains, into which the sun shone directly only a few hours per day, even during the summer.
In contrast, the narrow floor of the little canyon was almost but not quite flat, which probably had something to do with the series of eight ponds that rose first in a bubbling hot springs and then tumbled merrily one into and after the other nearly all the way to the dogleg that hid the canyon’s entrance. They never froze, and sometimes in winter the snow piled high enough that visitors could pack a slick, icy slide that began ten feet back and ended with a mighty splash in the middle of the first and largest pond.
There was a spring up a little ramification behind an edgy thrust of granite on the south-facing canyon wall which created a rocky rivulet of cold fresh water, meltoff originating from the snowpack above. The spring seldom froze completely solid even in the dead of winter, making it one of the few boltholes in the Quilaks with fresh water year round, most years at any rate. There was nothing sure or certain year to year in the Quilaks, or in the Park or even Alaska for that matter, especially recently. Last winter there had been hardly any snow to speak of below five thousand feet, and it was late this year, too. It wasn’t climate change so much as it was a plain damn nuisance, according to disgruntled Park rats with dogs to run and snow machines to race.
In years past, if someone did find their way through the foothills and switchbacks and bushwhacked through the dense undergrowth and the endless scramble of spruce beetle kill and perchance stumbled onto the right saddle and by accident or luck happened upon the right dogleg, there they would find a tumbledown log cabin that provided adequate shelter for a day, or even an extended weekend if they had packed in enough in the way of supplies. There was even an equally tumbledown outhouse out back, and a respectable pile of firewood for the wood stove inside.
But today no trace of that old tumbledown cabin remained. Instead, a new cabin sat in the same spot, this one built on concrete piers set deep into the ground, or as deep as one person with a Bosch Hammer Drill could make them. It had a fourteen by twenty foot floor plan with a four-foot wide porch built of two-by-eights on the south-facing exterior wall, sheltered by an extension of the roof. The builder had used windlock asphalt shingles for both roof and siding, a golden brown for the roof and buff for the walls. There was a single slider window on each side of the cabin, white vinyl, unpainted, and a windowed door, also white vinyl, opening in from the left side of the porch. An aluminum chimney stack with a conical cap poked through the roof at the rear of the house, a wisp of smoke trailing up into the pale blue sky.
Less Than a Treason (Kate Shugak Book 21) Page 3
