A Cold Day for Murder (14 page)

Bobby stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“That son of a
bitch
,” Kate elucidated.

“Okay,” Bobby said hastily, seeing the wrath gathering in her light brown eyes, and wondering how the rage of a woman five feet tall was able to scare him the way no VC ever had. “Not my business. I understand.”

“I want to make a call myself,” Kate said. “To Jack in Anchorage. Can do?”

“Sure,” he said. “Tonight, if you want. KL7CC’s always awake.”

“No, the morning will do fine.”

“No swearing on the air this time,” he said sternly. “The FCC’s been on my ass enough lately as it is; I don’t need some YL fucking up my airwaves.”

Kate sat in thought, her brow wrinkled. He watched her for a few moments, before turning to grill more burgers to replace the two congealing on the hearth. They ate, Bobby ravenously, Kate with more determination than pleasure. Kate looked up from licking her fingers to find Bobby fixing her with his bright gaze. She smiled at him, this time putting her heart into it. “May I stay the night?”

He brightened instantly. “Hot damn, am I about to get lucky?”

She looked at him and knew a sudden, overwhelming desire to be held, to be petted, to be taken up the mountain and shown the view, to sleep afterward secure and undisturbed in the arms of a friend she trusted absolutely and without reservation.

She was mightily tempted, and he saw it in her face. His smile was half-tender, half-mocking, and all male. “No go?”

She rose and stretched and patted his cheek. “You got lucky six years ago, Bobby. So did I. Let’s don’t tempt fate.”

“Let’s do,” Bobby replied promptly, and they both laughed. “It’s that fucker Morgan, ain’t it?” he said shrewdly.

She gave him a look that should have frosted his socks. “I haven’t seen Jack—in that way—in more than a year.”

Unfrosted and unabashed, Bobby said, “Yeah, that’s right, you been screwing that dumb fuck from Bahstahn, where they pahk the cahs and go to Hahvahd. You’ve done better, Kate.”

Her spine became so straight and rigid that for a moment he thought it might snap. Her words came out measured and precise. “I will take the couch, thank you.”

He surveyed her from beneath raised eyebrows. “Damn straight you’re taking the couch. The only bed’s mine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t push your luck, Bobby.”

“I got nothing to lose, Katie,” he said, grinning, and popped two wheelies on the way to bed, just to show her.

Jack Morgan stood patiently while the tribal council examined the Cessna he’d flown in on, the bag in his hand and the pockets of his parka. He understood the reasons for the search; he even approved of them.

A year before, Niniltna’s tribal council had taken a long, hard look at the last ten years’ worth of alcohol-related murders, rapes, wife beatings and child abuse and had gone damp. Specifically, you could drink alcohol in the privacy of your own home, but you couldn’t buy anything stronger than orange juice. Having alcohol in your possession required careful thought and long-distance planning, however, because if you were caught buying or selling alcohol in any form to anyone of any age or race or faith within tribal boundaries, the council sicked Kate Shugak on you, and if that happened, as Sandy Halvorsen had been heard to say on his way out of the Park, “you might as well be dead, because you’ll wish you were.” Sandy Halvorsen had been the latest in a long line of Park bootleggers. The latest and, so far, the last.

On the airstrip it was your choice. If you didn’t like the law, you and your plane could leave without being searched and don’t come back, thank you very much, and there was a ring of tribal councillors, each with their very own 12-gauge, standing in a line between your plane and their town, just in case you got cute. Jack stood where he was and endured the patting down of his body and the shakedown of his plane. Kate was waiting for him at the side of the strip.

She was alone. Abel had materialized at Bobby’s door immediately after Bobby had put her call through to Jack. It took a judicious application of the best coffee in the Park and dogged perseverance to persuade the old man to allow her to meet Jack alone. She left Mutt behind, too. She wanted privacy for this encounter, with no inhibitors present to cramp her style.

Jack passed his frisk and was waved through. “You knew the kid called his father the night he disappeared!” she flung at him when he was still twelve feet away.

“No,” he said, in his deep, calm voice.

“You knew about the mine, too!”

“Gamble knew, Kate. I didn’t.”

“You
knew
Devlin had a motive to get rid of the kid! Goddam you, Jack! You want me to clean up your mess and you won’t give me what I need to do it! I ought to—”

Jack sighed and dropped his grip onto the packed snow of the landing strip. “Kate, just shut up for a minute and listen to me. Gamble didn’t tell me the kid called his father the night he disappeared, or at least he didn’t until we were back in Anchorage. He says there was some foul-up between Washington and the branch office in Seattle, but I figure Miller Senior didn’t want his name on an FBI file.”

“You son of a bitch,” Kate said, not listening. She felt suddenly, gloriously angry. He looked up and caught her expression and took an involuntary step backward. “You son of a bitch. You sent me in blind.” He saw the swing coming and caught her fist in one hand. “You sent me in here blind, the same way you did when you sent me out on that squeal fourteen months ago.” She kicked out at his shin and caught him sharply just above his right boot.

“Ouch!” he yelped, dropping her hand for his shin.

“You knew these guys weren’t just missing!” She swung and missed. “You knew you were sending me into trouble!” She swung and connected with a lucky one just above his belt.

Air whoofed out of him. “Goddamit, Kate,” he gasped, “cut it out!” He grabbed her arms and lifted her out of reach.

“Investigation in progress, you said,” she sneered. “We’ve only got the neighbor’s statement, you said. Probably nothing at all, but we’ve got to check it out and you’re up next.”

He paled beneath his beard. “Do you think I would have sent you there alone if I’d known?”

“No warning, no backup, nothing!” she tried to shout, only the scar on her throat wouldn’t let her. “For seven years I did every dirty job you gave me. Seven years of talking kids into testifying against their parents, wives against their husbands, sisters against their brothers and uncles. ‘You’re a woman, Kate,’” she said, mimicking his low drawl, “‘you’re a woman and you’re from the bush and you know more than any Outsider could possibly know about how these people live.’”

Fourteen months of suffering dark dreams in the dead of night, of waking dreams every day, of remembering the curious ripping sound a knife made in human skin, especially curious when the skin was your own, of trying to forget the sight of a naked child fighting with her bare hands to protect her father from Kate, the sound of the high, thin childish voice imploring, begging, pleading for it all to stop, for it all just to stop, the feeling of triumph that had overwhelmed her in a fierce, rejoicing, hideous tide when she surfaced to realize she was upright with the perp’s knife in her hand, bleeding but alive, as he lay in front of her with his intestines and his life oozing out of him, and the child, always the child, crying in the back of her mind. Waking, sleeping, working at rest, Kate knew with a dreadful certainty that she would never be able to forget the long, silent tears sliding down the cheeks of the naked, bleeding child.

For fourteen months she had said nothing, had blunted every effort by every friend she had to get at the hurt, had pushed back the reckoning, and now here he was, Jack Morgan, her nemesis, her fate, the man who had hired her to deal every day of her working life with hurt, terrified, defenseless children, who had loved her and asked, no, demanded that she love him in return, who had taken her rejection of himself, his job, his love and his world without apparent objection, who hadn’t so much as winced when she took up with his subordinate. She let him have it, all the bitterness, all the pain, the rejection and the guilt, fourteen months of it, a lifetime of it. She was powerless to stop the flow, and she wouldn’t have if she could.

Jack stood with his head down as the flood poured over him, unsmiling, his blue eyes unflinching. With every accusation and condemnation she shouted at him in her hoarse, ragged voice, deep down inside his gut he heard a full orchestra sounding another verse of the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

“If I’d tried to take that job away from you, you would have castrated me or quit,” he said softly when at last the worst of the flood had passed. “You were good at it, Kate. You were the best.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not much good for anything now, thanks to you.”

“Don’t be silly, Kate.”

“Don’t tell me what or what not to do,” she said, flaring up again. “The day is long past when I listen to anything you have to say.”

“Then be as silly as you want,” he said in that same soothing voice, and she eyed him resentfully.

“Prick,” she said with deep loathing.

He gave her a sudden grin that was as unexpected as it was dangerously contagious. “Feel better?”

“Fuck off!” she said through her teeth.

“You feel better,” he decided. “Let’s go find Mac Devlin.”

· · ·

They found Mac Devlin the first place they looked, with his feet up on Billy Mike’s desk. He was expounding at length on the future joys in store for Niniltna when Devlin Mining gained all its Mickey Mouse government permits and—Billy would forgive him for saying it—rid itself of all the Mickey Mouse aboriginal mining restrictions as well. When Devlin Mining moved into full production—well.

Mac was picking a date on which to take the company public with a stock issue that would unquestionably be listed on the Big Board within hours after its release when Kate and Jack walked in. Billy Mike was listening with an expression of saintly resignation. Kate didn’t fool herself for a moment that the pleasure with which the tribal chief greeted her and Jack had anything to do with how glad he was to see them. He bustled out from behind his desk, interrupting Mac in mid-oration, and grasped both their hands enthusiastically. He was a rotund little man with shiny black hair. He wore a shiny black suit to match, with a string tie drawn through a large, ornately carved and colored piece of ivory that looked as if it were holding up his chin.

Billy Mike was fifty-five years old. Born in Niniltna back when Alaska was still only a territory, he had never been farther away from home than Anchorage. He’d been elected tribal chief only when Ekaterina Shugak declined to continue representing the Niniltna Native Association at the annual Alaska Federation of Natives meetings. He embraced Alaska and the Park with an abiding and inarticulate devotion, he loved his wife and their seven children, he was happy and contented in his job, and he rejoiced openly in his good fortune without the slightest trace of smugness. Spending more than thirty consecutive minutes in Billy Mike’s company made Kate feel suicidal.

It didn’t help that almost all of his seven children had been, were now going or would be going to the University of Alaska, Fairbanks, where they would major in business administration in order to learn how to run the Niniltna Native Association when their father went on to his no doubt just reward. It was a given, like death or taxes, and six of his children understood that perfectly. The seventh, born male and afflicted with the name Dandy, was suspended for a year from school when he was caught with a retail-size marijuana crop in his second-floor room in UAF’s Lathrop dormitory. He was serving his sentence at home, making his life a burden unto his father by hanging out with Martin Shugak. Kate remembered this interesting piece of information at almost the same instant she remembered seeing him at the Roadhouse the night before, exiting the back end of a pickup with his jeans down around his ankles.

She smiled at his father. “So what’re you up to lately, Billy?”

“Oh, about two hundred and forty pounds, Kate,” he said comfortably, and showed them to seats. “Can I pour you some coffee?”

Kate refused, Jack accepted and Billy bustled around filling mugs. There was some conversation about the summer’s catch, the fall hunt and the current cold snap. The mugs were refilled and Kate got down to business. “Actually, Billy,” she said, “we’ve been looking for Mac. We’d like to talk to him. Would it be all right if we used a room here in the building?”

Billy had a lively sense of self-preservation and recognized an escape when it hit him over the head. He stood up again at once. “Use my office, Kate. No, really, it’s okay, it’s my pleasure.”

“Hey, Billy—” Mac began to say.

“No, I’ve got a meeting down the hall anyway.” Billy disappeared with a wave of his hand.

Mac Devlin raised his eyebrows over merry brown eyes. “The granddaughter of Ekaterina Shugak speaks, and the earth moves. Or in this case, those on it.”

“Where were you the night of October 26?” Kate said bluntly.

The brown eyes became less merry and the burly body stiffened in its chair. “Why?”

“Because that was the night Mark Miller disappeared.”

Mac looked from Kate to Jack and back again. “Why would you think I might have anything to do with that?”

“It’s too late to play coy, Mac. Because you knew Miller was going to call his daddy in Washington, D.C., and try to cross you up getting permits for the Nabesna Mine. You knew about it, didn’t you, Mac? Everybody knew about it; God knows Miller made no secret of it, but you had the most to lose if it happened. First he calls the EPA in on your operation on Carmack Creek, then he gets in between you and the Nabesna Mine.” She rose to her feet and circled around his chair. Mac’s head swiveled to follow her. “The kid was smart, he had ideas, and then he had that father of his, and you knew the only thing that could stop him was if he were stopped permanently. So you killed him.”

“Well, now, Kate,” Jack said soothingly, “maybe we should go easy on poor old Mac. I can understand how a man might be upset that his life’s work was on the line like that. It was probably just an accident.”