"You didn't ask?"
The trooper shook his head more definitely this time. "There was no
point. She was a very . . ." he cast about him for exactly the right
words, and settled somewhat lamely on " . . . independent person. When
she did something, she had her own reasons for it, and she didn't
believe in wasting time explaining to whoever couldn't keep up."
"Another guy, you figure?"
"That's the obvious, most likely reason, I know. But with Lisa. .
." "What?"
The trooper shrugged. "Lisa Getty was a lot of things. `Obvious' wasn't
one of them. She was a complicated lady."
"Just because she dumped you?"
For the third time Jim Chopin surprised Jack Morgan. He gave the
question a detached sort of consideration.
When it came, his answer was without emotion, given,
indeed, with the dispassion of the trained investigator. He shook his
head, back and forth once, decisively. "No. We were about as close
physically as you can get, but .. "But what?"
"But what." Jim studied his hat as if the answer were
written under the brim. "She had this ability, this talent." Jack raised
his eyebrows a little over that. "Talent for
what?" "I don't know exactly what to call it. A talent. for
concentration, I guess. Maybe, compartmentalization?" "Whoa."
"I told you, I don't know exactly what to call it. All I know is she had
the ability to shut down the rest of her life while she was
concentrating on one specific part." Chopper Jim fidgeted a little. Jack
had never seen him fidget before, and he had to admit to himself that he
enjoyed it.
"When we were together, she concentrated on me, on us,
on what we were doing. It was pretty ..." "Intense?" Jack suggested with
a straight face.
Fidget, maybe, but nobody'd been able to embarrass
Chopper Jim since the age of six. "I guess that's as good
a word as any. It was only after it was over that I realized that,
however intense it had been, I never did get to know her all that well."
"Great." "Yeah," Chopper Jim said. "I know. I don't know if
I should have tried to know her better, or never started up with her at
all."
"It'd make this job that much easier if you had tried to know her
better," Jack observed somewhat sourly. Chopper Jim shrugged and leaned
back in his chair.
Confidences concerning his personal life were clearly at an end.
"What're we going to do about this?" Chopper Jim shrugged again.
"If you can't go in, who're we going to send? No one knows the Park
better than you."
"Oh, I don't know." Chopper Jim was readjusting the crease in the crown
of his hat with a delicate precision Bill admired. "I'm sure you'll find
someone capable of doing the job." He made a minute alteration to the
twin tassels at the end of the gold cord encircling the brim. "Better be
careful. You know how they are in the Park about protecting one of their
own."
Jack thought back to the previous December and couldn't suppress an
inner shiver. "Yes. I know. So?" The trooper set his hat on his head,
tilting the brim so
that it came down low over his eyes. He looked up, his expression
somewhere between rueful and resigned. "So. Looks like Kate's all we got."
"Looks like." Jack made a pretense of straightening a pile of paper on
his desk.
"When you going in? Tomorrow?"
"No." Jack thought. "I'll have the team go over the ground one more time
and bag everything that doesn't actually move out of the way. And I
think I might have ballistics run the bullets through CLIS." He raised a
hand in the face of Bill's unspoken protest. "I know, I know, but with
Kate Shugak you want to make sure."
"Make sure of what?" Bill asked.
"Make sure there's no way she can back out of it," the trooper said
shrewdly.
Jack's thick black eyebrows twitched together but he didn't rise to the
bait. "I know a guy, Gamble, on the FBI. He owes me. He'll get them
through the data base and get me a printout on the rifling
characteristics pronto. I should be able to go into the Park on," he
leaned forward to flip through his desk calendar, "at the latest, Sunday."
"Want a lift?" Chopper Jim said.
Jack shook his head. "I'll fly in myself."
Kate. His spirits rose. He was going home, to Kate, when he hadn't
thought he would see her again until his vacation in May. His heart
actually skipped a beat, and he couldn't keep the smile from forming. He
looked from Bill's curious and slightly disapproving expression to the
trooper's knowing one and laughed out loud.
three
KATE was replacing the window Mutt had charged through to her rescue
nine days before. The sky was clear and calm, the sun warm on her back,
the temperature above freezing and the task simple and straightforward,
occupying her hands while letting her mind wander. That was the problem.
"Yes," she said, "there is something about apprehending murderers in
mid-massacre that tends to take the edge off of spring fever."
Saying it out loud didn't help as much as she had thought it might.
Grunting, she lifted the window in its prefab aluminum frame and settled
it into the wall of the cabin. Through the glass Mutt looked at her
pleadingly. Kate fumbled in her pocket for screws and began to set them
in, one at a time, concentrating with a kind of stubborn determination.
The horror of the scene on the road dogged her heels like a shadow,
always on the periphery of her consciousness. It tarnished the promise
of the early spring days and poisoned her dreams.
Across the clearing there was a rustle of brush and she looked around to
see Mutt's boyfriend springing to his feet and looking up in the sky to
the west. Kate paused and cocked her head. A faint buzz sounded the
approach of an airplane. The noise became louder and lower, and she
whipped her head around just in time to see a blue, black and silver
Cessna 172 roar over the clearing, the gear
skimming the tops of the trees. A full-throated baritone made itself
heard above the engine, belting out a song about dames and how there was
nothing like them.
She started to smile. The Cessna came around for a second pass and
another verse. She was grinning as she grabbed her parka and ran for the
garage, an indignant and frustrated Mutt yelping from the cabin. As she
rolled the snow machine outside, the Cessna roared overhead for the
third time and the chorus. The Super Jag unaccountably started at first
try. Kate hit the throttle and roared out of the garage without stopping
to close the door behind her, past the mystified wolf crouching beneath
the hemlock tree and up the path to the road, without a glance or a
thought to spare for anything but how fast she could make the
twenty-five miles to
Niniltna.
He should have been on the ground long since, but when Kate got to the
airstrip he was still circling the field and continuing to sing out of
the Cessna's open window. As a dozen friends and relatives were
later
delighted to inform her, in the interim he had made a couple of low runs
over the town itself and one foray out to the Roadhouse, serenading all
who passed beneath his wings. The two tribal policemen on duty that day
gaped up at him from one end of the runway, so struck by this spirited
rendition of Rogers and Hammerstein that they didn't bother to turn as
Kate came up behind them.
As soon as he saw the Jag emerge out onto the open snow at the head of
the strip the pilot banked and sideslipped into a landing, rolling out
to within ten feet of her and swinging the tail around with a flourish
before killing the engine. He was out of the Cessna before it stopped moving
and strode past the tribal police
to swoop down on Kate. She was proud she didn't squeal.
"Jack?" Pete Kvasnikof cleared his throat. He shuffled his feet. "Jack?"
He cleared his throat again. Finally he set his rifle butt down in the
snow and reached his free hand to tap timidly at the big man's shoulder.
"Uh, Jack?"
Jack pulled back from Kate and looked down at her flushed face with
satisfaction. He growled once, low in his throat.
"Jesus, Jack," Pete said, hoping he wasn't blushing himself, "Kate
oughta put you on a leash."
Jack turned, arm firm around Kate's shoulders, and appeared to see Pete
for the first time. "Oh hi, Pete. Go ahead, search the plane."
"Gotta pat you down, too," Pete said awkwardly. "Sure, sure, I know the
drill." Jack stood, arms stretched out at shoulder height, one eye on
Kate to make sure she didn't step out of reach.
"Okay," Pete said, stepping back. "You're clean." Another man came
panting up. "No booze in the plane, either."
"Who're you?"
"Jack Morgan, Tom Will. He's a new hire."
"Glad to meet you." Jack gave Tom's hand a brisk shake and as a
continuation of the same movement turned to steer Kate toward the Super
Jag. "See you later, boys."
The sound of the snow machine's engine starting drowned out Will's reply.
Kate barely had the door open when Mutt crashed out between them and
tore into the woods.
"Mutt!" Kate yelled. "Come back here!"
Jack took her arm and pulled her inside. "Jack," Kate said, trying to
twist free, "let me go. I've got to go get her. Jack! She's in heat,
dammit."
"So am I." Jack kicked the door closed behind him. A second later Kate
was flat on her back in the middle of the
floor, a trail of discarded clothing between her and the door and a
large, warm man sprawled on top of her. With tender lips and gentle
bites he traced the scar that twisted around her throat like knotted
twine. She squirmed a little beneath the tickling sensation. "You
shaved," she murmured, nuzzling him. "How come?" He bit her to get her
attention and she forgot what she had been going to
say next.
The afternoon and evening passed too quickly, in laughter and loving and
a midnight raid on the kitchen. Jack woke before her the next morning
and lay quietly, watching her. Asleep, her face held a kind of stubborn
concentration that made him smile, and sigh. Her skin was smooth and
gold. Her eyes, with just the hint of an epicanthic fold, when open were
large and a light, clear brown and tilted upward toward her temples. Her
hair fell straight and all one length to her waist, with no hint of wave
or curl, as black as a shadow at midnight and as soft as silk.
Awake and in motion, she was short without being stocky, lithe without
effort and beautiful without trying, at least in his eyes. He touched
her, and she woke as she always did, at once and immediately aware of
herself and her surroundings. She smiled at him, a wide, irresistible
smile, and he leaned down into it and into a kiss that ended some time
later less gently than it began but all the more satisfactorily for that.
She went back to sleep afterward. He rose and dressed and went
downstairs to pump up water to wash and make coffee.
She woke up an hour later, feeling gratifyingly used in various places
but not near as used up as she had been. She smelled coffee and smiled.
Dressing quickly in jeans, sweatshirt and thick socks, she swung herself
onto the ladder and slid down, letting the uprights slip between her
feet and hands. She hopped the last few feet and turned with a cocky smile.
He was seated at the table, wearing businesslike horn rimmed glasses and
surrounded by a dozen bulging manila file folders. Her smile faded.
"Coffee's on," he said without looking up, "and I sliced some bread."
He had his work face on. Curious, she hesitated for a moment, but she
could tell he wanted her to ask, so she turned and headed outside. There
was no sign of Mutt. She called and waited, called again. Still no
response, and Kate swore beneath her breath, used the outhouse and
returned to the cabin.
She poured coffee, piled a saucer high with bread and carried both to
the table. Jack gathered his files together in a bulky pile and shoved
them to one side. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, and
thought how to put it for maximum effect. In the end, bluntness won out.
"Roger McAniff didn't kill Lisa Getty."
Kate's hand stilled on the butter knife. She sat looking down at the
slice of bread as if she'd never seen white flour, water and yeast mixed
together before in her life. When she raised her head, Jack smiled
inwardly. "What did you say?"
"Ballistics says the bullet that killed Lisa Getty came from a different
rifle than the bullets that killed the other victims."
She looked at him steadily. "Different rifle." "Yup.
"Different shooter?" "Looks like."
She put down the butter knife, balancing it just so on the saucer. When
she put down the bread he knew he had her. Not much got between Kate and
food.
"Before you ask, we double-checked for errors. I even had Gamble run the
printouts on the rifle through the CLIS data base. Same answer, three
times."
"Gamble," she said. "The suit you brought in last year?" "Uh-huh." He
indicated the files that littered the top of
the table. "Want to take a look?"
"No." She picked up her bread, spread it with salmon berry jelly and
took a big bite. The words muffled, she added, "But I will."
After breakfast, she retired to the couch with the files and read
steadily through the afternoon. At about three o'clock she put down the
one she was reading and went outside. She climbed the ladder to the
cache and rooted around. There were two small packages of caribou steaks
and a moose roast, all that was left of her winter meat supply. She
brought it all down. It was still freezing at night, but the days were
warm enough now that the meat would soon spoil. "Mutt!" she called. "You
horny bitch, get your hot behind home! Now!" There was no reply. She
hadn't really expected one. There were legends about timber wolves and
their stamina. Kate didn't know whether to laugh or swear. In the end,
she did both. "Oh hell. Enjoy it while you can, girl."
Inside, she choppe
d all three packages into stew meat. Lighting the
propane cooker, she put her biggest stew pot over the flame and into it
sliced a can of bacon and the two largest onions she could find in the
root cellar in back of the barn. Mincing a couple of large cloves of
garlic, she stirred them into the bacon and onions. The smell made her
stomach growl. Adding the meat and dried herbs she Sautéed the mixture
until it was brown. She found some celery that wasn't too withered and
some carrots in excellent shape. She produced a couple of cans of stewed
Stabenow, Dana - Shugak 02 - A Fatal Thaw Page 5
