Her phone rang then and she snatched it up without looking at who was calling. “Hello?”
“Hi, Kate, this is Gavin Mortimer. I was just checking in to see if—”
“No ID on the bones yet, Gavin,” Kate said and hung up before he could say anything else. Her phone rang again immediately. “What the FUCK do you want from me! I told you there’s no ID yet! They aren’t fucking miracle workers down at the lab! Maybe if you idiots in Anchorage ever voted for a goddamn tax they could hire some more people!”
There was a short, sharp silence. “It IS you!”
She looked at her phone and put it back up to her ear. “Brendan?”
“Who the hell else would it be! You’re in town and you didn’t call me first thing! What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Nothing, now.”
“Good to hear that from the source, is all I’m saying. Jesus, Kate, I—”
“—heard I was dead?”
“Well…yeah.”
“As it happens, I’m not.”
“Good to know.” She heard him swallow and say in a different voice, “Goddamn good to know.”
She smiled into the phone.
“Is Jim with you?”
“No. I’m on my own.”
“Dinner?” he said, sounding even more cheerful.
“Have you ever known me to turn down a free meal?”
“Who says I’m buying?”
The two joggers with strollers went by in the other direction. “Hey, do me a favor and dinner’s on me.”
“Oh?” His voice filled with suspicion, mostly mock but not entirely because he’d known her a long time. “And what favor would that be?”
“A guy went missing in the Park during an orienteering race four years ago. Could you see what’s on file about that?”
“What the hell is orienteering?”
“Near as I can figure, it’s jogging in the Bush with a compass.”
“What’s wrong with GPS?”
“Will you do it?”
“Sure, fine, whatever. What’s his name?”
“Barney Aronsen. And thanks, Brendan.”
“Yeah, yeah, just bring your wallet. Everything I drink Robert Parker will have rated a hundred points before it gets to the table.”
“You realize I have no idea who Robert Parker is.”
“And you have to wear something other than jeans.”
“What!”
When he stopped laughing he told her where and when, cussed her out again for not calling him, and they hung up.
Nine
Friday, November 4th
the Park
Jim drove straight home from Bobby’s, strapped on a set of wireless earphones, turned the volume up to nine and put the Stones on his phone. It was exactly the beat necessary to split and stack firewood and since he was aiming for total physical exhaustion so he could crash and burn that night there was no one better to lead the way than the perpetually peripatetic Mick Jagger. The blue-gray sky, the gray temperature, the gray landscape (which wasn’t really gray but felt like it with all the bare-branched trees and shrubs looking grimly determined to survive another year in spite of everything an Alaskan winter could throw at them), all of it combined for a gray mood.
The upside was she had come down out of the mountains.
The downside was she hadn’t come home. Never mind the found remains or the missing man or the dead woman or the case she had apparently taken on before she’d been back a full day, she hadn’t even bothered to let him know she was back before she was gone again.
He added what he had split so far to the stack of firewood that was threatening to engulf the entire west wall of the hangar, roof to ground. He exercised great care to stack it evenly, neatly, and nonviolently.
It wasn’t like he figured she’d ever forgive him. After the first blind panic following her disappearance, when he’d finally realized where she’d gone, he’d understood and from somewhere found the self-control to leave her be. But he missed her. God almighty, how he missed her. It was infuriating. Coffee and watching the sun rise over the Quilaks in the morning was somehow diminished alone. Working, together or apart, during the days, not knowing if she’d be there when he got home but knowing she would always at least end her day there after she’d tied up her latest case. The attempts to outdo each other in the kitchen. The evenings on the couch in front of the fire, legs tangled as they read. The warm weight of her next to him in bed when he woke in the night. The laughter, even the fights, the loving—“Yes, all right,” he said, or maybe yelled or possibly bellowed to the gray sky, “I said the fucking L word, you gonna revoke my fucking man card?”
The firmament provided no answer, which only proved there was no god, goddammit.
He slammed another round of wood in the splitter and threw the switch. Stack and repeat.
Theirs wasn’t what you could call a traditional relationship. He’d had the needle for her from long before Jack died, and then he’d suffered through her near miss with—what the hell was the guy’s name, the childhood sweetheart? Edgar? Edwin? Ethelred?—and then when she finally condescended to sleep with him he was determined to keep it at just that, sex and nothing more. And then the next thing he knew he’d moved into her house. Suckered him right in, make no mistake about it, the female was deadlier than the male, and the worst thing was he had liked it. Kate and Johnny and that goddamn dog were the closest he’d ever come to having a real, live-in family. A family that actually liked him. And he got laid on a regular basis without having to work for it and it was the best sex he’d ever had when he’d been afraid everything would get old fast and he’d want to move on. Hell, he’d meant to move on, it had been his MO since puberty, but Kate Shugak had a gravitational well he hadn’t been able to climb out of. Or wanted to, truth to tell. He didn’t know which was scarier.
He should have known when he’d been last in California and his ex had indicated a willingness to start things up again, and he hadn’t. He fucking hadn’t, and he fucking should have known then. When they have you by the balls your heart and mind will follow. No question Kate Shugak had Jim Chopin by his balls. Oh the embarrassment.
He tried to mourn for the old careful-never-to-get-more-than-laid Jim. He really did try. Mostly all he could drum up was an echoing ache of loneliness. Kate and the dog were gone and Johnny was in Fairbanks and here he was, rattling around in a house that got creakier and lonelier and colder by the day. And by the night. Especially the bed. Once, waking up alone had been his preference.
He split more rounds and stacked them. He was having to stretch now to reach the top of the pile.
Hadn’t he been a good man? (Well, after he got her shot.) Hadn’t he? He’d left her alone for four fucking months. He hadn’t written her so much as a fucking note, or even asked for the smallest sign that she was alive or, much as he wanted to, headed up into the mountains after her. He sneered at the round of wood he picked up. No, he’d been a good boy and minded his manners and hadn’t intruded where he was very obviously not wanted. Or needed.
Every moment of daylight that he could spare away from the airstrip since July had been spent combing the entire homestead with a rented excavator with a claw on one end and a blade on the other, knocking down and stacking beetle kill and pulling stumps and building slash piles that burned for days. He never touched a pile of beetle kill until he had crawled over and under it, dreading and hoping to find Mutt. By fall there wasn’t one of the hundred and sixty acres he hadn’t been over on foot at least twice. He hadn’t found her but no one, not even Kate, could say he hadn’t tried.
So if he was such a good man, where was his reward? Where the hell was she? Not here, that was for damn sure, and not even in fucking Niniltna, although she’d been there, oh yes she had, but she sure hadn’t bothered to stick around long enough to see him.
And now he was terrified, practically fucking paralyzed with fear that he’d ne
ver see her again, ever.
Two wedges of wood fell from the splitter and he picked them up and hurled them, one after the other, at the wall of the hangar with all his strength. They hit hard and fell to the ground, taking half of the top row of firewood with them and leaving two dents side by side in the brand new aluminum siding.
He stood there, glaring at the dents, and was startled when someone poked him. He turned to see Howie Katelnikof. He stared at him for a long time before he turned off the splitter and removed his headset. “I’ll give you this, Howie, you got some serious balls showing up here.”
Howie, as skinny and greasy-haired as ever, had new, improbably white teeth he had dressed up with a new mustache, a wisp of black straggling down both sides of his mouth like twin centipedes. They moved when he talked. It was a little disconcerting. He shuffled in place and looked everywhere but at Jim.
Jim waited. When Howie didn’t say anything Jim said, “Was there something you wanted, Howie? After which I can take immense pleasure in telling you to fuck off?”
“I figured you weren’t doing anything…” Howie’s voice trailed away as he looked beyond Jim and becoming aware of the airstrip, the hangar, the generator shed, and the pile of uncut logs that was beginning to rival the height of Tower II of the Hotel Captain Cook in Anchorage. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet some more and wisely let that thought die a natural death.
“As it happens I am busy here, Howie. What do you want?”
“I’m scared somebody’s after me.”
Jim gave Howie a long, incredulous stare. And burst out laughing. It was the last reaction either one of them expected, but he laughed loud enough to make his ears ring, hard enough to make him bend over and lean his hands on his knees, long enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Oh Howie,” he said finally, straightening up and catching his breath. “Who knew you’d bring me the best news I’ve had all year.”
Howie looked panicked. “I’m not kidding, Jim!”
“I don’t care, Howie.”
“But I could—they could—”
Knowing he shouldn’t, Jim said, “Who are they?”
“There’s these two guys in the Park. Big guys, mean-looking bastards with prison tats and everything!”
Unimpressed, Jim set a round of wood in the splitter and threw the switch. Barely bothering to make his voice heard above the engine, he said, “If you’re all that scared, why don’t you talk to your producer? Seems they’ve got a vested interest in keeping you healthy.”
But Howie, the little weasel, had ears like a weasel, too. “Jesus, Jim! I can’t tell them I was bootlegging!”
Bootlegging. Color Jim surprised. “Why not?” He tossed the splits and picked up another round. “They could write it into the show. Swashbuckling frontier entrepreneur, prospect of violence. Work some sex into it and they’d probably come in their pants at the very thought.”
“Jim.”
To Jim’s surprise, Howie actually had the guts to step next to him and turn off the splitter. He had thought that Howie’s main purpose in life was to stay out of arm’s reach of anyone who might wish him harm, which included just about everyone in the Park except Willard. “Jim,” he said, staring all the way up at Jim’s six feet four inches from his four-foot eleven and managing not to look too pitiful as he did so, also a surprise. “First off, these guys aren’t fooling around. Martin’s already disappeared.”
“Martin? Martin Shugak?”
Howie nodded vigorously. He did, now that Jim had cause to examine him more closely, look really and truly frightened. Kind of like a rat in a corner facing down a whole bunch of cats. Or two, anyway. “Martin was in on it with you?”
Howie swallowed. “Well, you know, after you put Ken Halvorsen out of business, booze in the Park kind of dried up. Besides, the elders are talking about making Niniltna dry again, and not everyone wants to drive fifty miles out to Bernie’s for a shot and a beer.”
“So you and Martin saw a demand and supplied it.”
“What? Well yeah, people wanted booze and there wasn’t any, and so…you know how much you can make on a pint of Windsor Canadian? I mean, not as much as a place you have to fly into but still. And then there all those villages on the river, and well, Martin has a boat, so…”
Martin Shugak was one of Kate Shugak’s many cousins. He was worth about as much as Howie Katelnikof, but still, he was one of Kate’s cousins. She would have gone looking for him had she been here. Which she wasn’t. “You think these two goons disappeared him?”
“They were looking for him, Jim. Either they disappeared him or he saw them coming and disappeared himself. And if they made him talk first they’ll know I was his partner.” He was almost sniveling now. “You gotta help me.”
“Jesus, Howie. If there were a gold medal in fucking up I’d award it to you personally. Who do these goons work for?” Howie’s eyes slid away and Jim snorted. “Your supplier? And, oh, let me take a wild guess, you’ve stiffed them on their money?”
Howie looked down at his feet, one boot digging a hole in the dirt. “Well, no, not really, except maybe I guess they might think so, but really it wasn’t our fault.”
“I know, Howie. It’s never your fault.” Jim’s voice was so understanding that Howie looked up, startled. When he saw Jim’s expression his face went a dull red. He looked up at the roof of the hangar and started bouncing nervously in place.
“So your supplier fronted you a plane- or a truckload of booze, you took delivery without paying for it—later you’ll have to tell me you how you did that because it sure sounds a neat trick—and your supplier, understandably peeved, has sent two men in to either get his dough or take it out of yours and your trusty partner Martin’s hides. Does that about sum things up?”
Howie bounced harder.
“Lovely,” Jim said. “And they may or may not have already, uh, schooled Martin. And you want me to make everything all better.”
Howie’s familiar whine came back full force. “Geeze, Jim, it’s not like I’m asking you to take them out or anything.” He let the suggestion lie there for a moment, and then for a moment longer. When Jim didn’t pick it up he cleared his throat and shuffled his feet and said hastily, “Just, you know, maybe talk to them. You’ve got that whole scary ass trooper thing going on.”
Jim’s answer was fast and hard. “Not anymore.”
Howie snorted. “Yeah, right. Look, just maybe let them know someone’s watching. Mention that there are twenty million acres in the Park and people go missing here all the time.” He remembered Martin and swallowed. “Hey, you could tell them about that body they found up at Canyon Hot Springs. Nobody even knows how long it was there, right?” He pursed his lips and considered. “But, you know, don’t mention my name or anything.”
· · ·
Jim pulled up in front of Auntie Vi’s B&B and sat in the cab of his pickup with the engine off for a few moments. He was not looking forward to this but he was damn sick and tired of splitting and stacking firewood, and it seemed that the Amazing Reappearing and Disappearing Kate Shugak had given him some nervous energy to work off.
If he couldn’t see her, talk to her, touch her, maybe he could help someone for her. He steeled himself and went inside.
Auntie Vi was at her kitchen table. Auntie Joy and Auntie Balasha were with her. None of them looked happy to see him. “She was here,” Auntie Vi said, her expression fierce. “Where you?”
He took a calming breath. “I don’t know what you thought I could have done if I had been here.”
“Stop her!”
He could feel the red creeping up his neck and tried to will it back. “Have you met Kate Shugak, auntie?”
She wasn’t listening and he was subjected to the same tirade she had unloaded on him at the homestead. He knew that much of it was built-up worry over the Suulutaq mine suspending operations and sorrow over the death of one of their own and even anxiety over the election—as women and women of color and Alas
ka Native women of color there was a lot on the line for them. Auntie Balasha punctuated every statement with an emphatic nod and Auntie Joy looked as if she was going to burst into tears. All he could do was wait until Auntie Vi ran out of steam, which she did do eventually and ended up staring at him with angry, wounded eyes. Jim understood that it was his penis that was specifically under fire here. He took a deep breath and gentled his voice. “I’m sorry, auntie.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder and was shocked at how frail she felt. He looked around the table. For the first time the aunties, who had seemed well nigh immortal just four months ago, looked old, and, even more frightening, tired. “I know you’re upset,” he said, “and I’m sorry for it. She’ll probably be back in a day or so. She never stays there long, you know that.”
Auntie Vi let his hand rest on her shoulder for perhaps a second and half before shrugging it off. “What you want.”
“I’m looking for Martin.”
“Why?”
Jim debated with himself how much to say. “Howie was looking for him.”
“Howie?” Auntie Vi looked at Auntie Balasha, who looked at Auntie Joy. All three of them looked at him with vast skepticism. “You help Howie find Martin.”
Jim chose his words carefully. “Howie is worried that something might have happened to Martin because he hasn’t seen him around for a few days. It’s probably nothing, but he asked me to see if I could find him. Martin.”
Auntie Vi snorted.
That seemed to be the general consensus. No help forthcoming here, which left one other place to go in town. If he had been reluctant to walk up the steps to Auntie Vi’s B&B he was doubly disinclined to knock on Bobby’s door.
The door to the A-frame swung wide, Bobby on the other side. He stood for a long moment, inspecting Jim from head to toe and back again. Behind him Dinah said, “Hey, Jim.”
Less Than a Treason (Kate Shugak Book 21) Page 11
