“Still,” he said. “Sometimes we act like it’s the only war that ever happened, that ever mattered. Shit. Some battles in the Civil War, they lost more casualties in a day than we lost in our whole time in the Nam.”
“So you’re not into self-pity,” Jim said. How the hell long did it take to cut a head of hair, for God’s sake? He shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “We got that. What about Higgins? What did his record say? Did something happen to him over there to make him like he is now?”
“Jesus H. Christ, haven’t you been listening! Something happens to everybody over there, in every war!”
Katya, used to Daddy’s bellow, slept serenely on, but Dinah gave him a severe look. More temperately, Bobby said, “Of course something fucking happened to him. He was stuck down in the middle of a jungle and people were shooting at him. Somebody shoved a rifle in his face and told him to shoot back. Maybe he shot a kid.” He cast an involuntary glance over his shoulder at Katya. “Maybe he fragged his looie. Maybe his looie did a Calley and he went along, and maybe the only way he can deal with the world is not to come back to it. It happens. It happens in every war.”
Bobby pointed with his mug. “And you have to consider this, too-maybe nothing happened. Maybe he was just one of those poor bastards who can’t take combat, period. It was battle fatigue in World War Two, shell shock in World War One, and they probably called it something else in the Civil War and something else again in the War of the Roses. Who the hell knows? Guys like Higgins, some can deal, some can’t.” He rubbed the stubs of the legs sticking out over the edge of his wheelchair. “Some can’t,” he repeated.
“He’s crazy as a bedbug now,” Jim said with a sigh. “I guess that’s what matters.” He looked back at Kate, and didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed to see Dinah untying the dishcloth and using it to flick hairs off Kate’s shirt.
Kate was looking at Mutt, who was snoozing in front of the fireplace, her head resting on what looked like the jawbone of an ass, or maybe a woolly mammoth. “She let him scratch her head.”
“What? Who?”
“Mutt. She let Higgins scratch her head.”
Jim looked at Mutt. “You been stepping out on me, girl?”
Mutt twitched an ear but did not otherwise respond.
“The thing is,” Kate said, and then thought better of it. “Never mind.”
“Never mind what?”
Kate made a face. “She’s good about people, okay? She doesn’t like bad guys. And she let this guy scratch her head. It’s just-odd, that’s all.” She looked sorry she’d said anything.
“Who wants dessert?” Dinah said briskly, folding the towel around the shears. “Apple pie, left over from the pot-latch. Great potlatch, by the way, Kate. You done good.”
“Yeah!” Bobby said. “That old broad would have had a hell of a good time. The true test of a good wake, if the deceased would have wanted to be there.”
Dinah brought out pieces of pie adorned with whipped cream. It wasn’t as good as Ruthe’s rhubarb, but it wasn’t bad.
“Listen, Bobby,” Kate said, “did you ever hear anything about Dina Willner being-ouch!” This when Jim kicked her, not gently, in the right shin. She glared. “What?” “Great pie,” Jim said, his mouth full. “Isn’t it?”
Out on the porch, Jim said to Mutt, “So you let Higgins scratch your head, did you, girl?” He cast a look at Kate. “Considering the way she usually greets me, you must think I’m a prince.”
“Why did you stop me from telling them about Dina and John Letourneau?”
“Because we’re going to see Letourneau next, and I want to talk to him about it before Bobby broadcasts it on Park Air.” He paused. “He wasn’t at the potlatch.”
“He doesn’t go to them, usually. Why do you want to talk to him about it at all? It’s ancient history. You said yourself that the marriage certificate was from twenty-five years ago. Jim!” She trailed after him to her snow machine, upon which she had found herself chauffeuring him around that afternoon. Mutt was lucky Kate had hooked up the trailer to bring the potlatch pictures into town. “And what’s with this ‘we?” “
“It’s not that far. Stop whining and drive.”
9
They trod the steps to the broad expanse of split-wood deck, neatly shoveled, a wrought-iron table leg peeping from beneath a lashed-down blue plastic tarp in one corner. She knocked, far too conscious of Jim Chopin standing directly behind her.
They waited. He must have heard them coming up the river road.
The door opened. “Hello, John,” Jim said.
“Jim,” John said. He looked down. “Kate. You’re back. Come on in.” He stepped back and pulled the door wide. “Get you a drink? Or some coffee?”
“Coffee’d be fine,” Jim said.
John served it up in the same carafe on the same black lacquer tray, this time with a plate of Oreo cookies. “Got a sweet tooth,” he explained, and took a handful for himself before he sat down. Mutt sat next to Kate’s chair. She had not greeted Letourneau. He had not saluted her. “What can I do you for, Jim?”
“It’s about Dina Willner.”
Letourneau didn’t start or pale. “That a fact. And why would you think I would have anything to tell you about Dina Willner?”
Kate, watching Jim, saw the split second it took him to make up his mind. “Maybe because you were married to her.”
“Mmm.” Letourneau ate another cookie with studied nonchalance, but Kate, watching him now, got the impression that he was anything but unconcerned. “So we were. For about three seconds once, a long time ago.”
“Twenty-five years ago, to be exact.”
Letourneau’s eyes moved restlessly beneath heavy lids. “If you say so.”
“The marriage certificate at Dina’s house says so.”
“Ah. Surprised she kept that. Dina never was one to collect souvenirs.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No,” Letourneau said coolly.
“No?” Jim said.
“No,” Letourneau repeated, and stood up. “If that’s all, I’ll say good night.”
“John.” Jim sat where he was.
For the first time that evening, John Letourneau’s voice rose. “I thought you had whoever killed her locked up in Tok.”
“I thought I did.”
Letourneau stiffened. “You thought you did? You mean you don’t think he did it?”
“There are some loose ends.”
There weren’t, or not any that would stand up in court, Kate thought, and wondered again why she and Jim were there.
“Well, this isn’t one of them. My marriage to Dina had nothing to do with her death.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Jim wasn’t the self-effacing type, but he could put on a pretty good show when he thought it might get him information he wouldn’t get any other way.
The moment hung in the balance. It could have gone either way. Seconds ticked by.
Letourneau sighed and sat down again. Rate walked over and refilled her mug, grabbing up a couple of cookies while she was at it. She wandered over to the window and stared out on the moonlit expanse of river, frozen hard and, due to the stresses and strains exerted by the subsurface current, anything but smooth. It was covered with snow machine tracks, swooping and winding around bergs and pinnacles. An open lead streamed gently, then vanished as she watched, the ice closing it off again.