The door closed on the sight on its pneumatic hinge, but before it did, Liam heard Gilbert's voice. "Oh for heaven's sake, Rebecca. Stop making a spectacle of yourself."
Not as grief-stricken as his wife, and not the most loving and comforting spouse, either, Liam thought.
The door closed softly behind him, cutting Rebecca's soft keening off as if someone had thrown a switch.
SIX
Seen in sunlight, the town of Newenham rambled across twenty-five square miles of rolling hills, all of which looked alike, with one important difference: they were either on the river, or off it. The roads ranged from the two-lane gravel monstrosity that connected the town with the airport to the narrow streets of downtown that were more patch than pavement to half-lane game trails that ended abruptly at plywood and tar-paper cabins built on the bluff of the river, said bluff usually crumbling beneath them.
That morning Liam made three wrong turns, one that ended on a shaky dock built of oiled piling and worm-eaten planks jutting over the river, one that ended in a minisubdivision of six two-story houses on a perfect circle, all with identical blue vinyl siding, green asphalt shingles, and rooster weather vanes, and a third that would have taken him twenty-five miles south to the small air force base at the end of the road. Fortunately, there was a sign halfway there announcing that he was fifteen miles away from joining up. His father would have loved that.
He turned around and headed grimly back to town, throwing himself on the mercy of the first person he saw, a plump woman driving a Ford Aerostar with five children and a load of groceries in back. She was willing to help but a little distracted. Liam thanked her, drove around a corner, and was flagged down by a man waving vigorously from a parking lot. He remembered it vaguely from Jim Earl's quick and dirty drive-by the day before as the parking lot of one of the local grocery stores. The punks on the porch had vanished, with the exception of the one at present being held firmly in the grip of the man waving Liam down.
Liam muttered something beneath his breath and brought the Blazer to a stop. Through the open window he said, "Was there something I could help you with, sir?"
"There sure as hell is," the man said hotly. "I'm the manager over to NC, and this little brat's buddies know I won't let them into the store, so they been sending him in to steal for them instead." He shook the kid again. "This time by God I caught him at it, I caught him with the goods in his hand!" He brandished two packs of Camels triumphantly, and shook the kid a third time.
Liam put the Blazer into park and stepped out. "First of all, sir, it's not a good idea to be shaking the kid like that."
"If I let him go, he'll just run off," the man said indignantly.
"Let's chance it," Liam said, and with reluctance the man let the kid go.
The kid was quick, but Liam was quicker-he caught him before he'd gone two steps. "Slow down there, son, you're not going anywhere." He settled one large hand on the nape of the kid's neck and left it there. The body beneath it vibrated with tension and resentment. He wouldn't look up, presenting Liam with a view of a head of thick black hair that was shiny and clean, although it looked as if it hadn't been brushed in a week. Liam turned back to the store manager. "Now then, what's the story, Mr…"
"Gunderson, Dewayne Gunderson, trooper," Gunderson said, seizing Liam's hand and pumping it up and down. "You are the trooper, aren't you?" He gave Liam's blue shirt and jeans a dubious glance.
"Yes, I'm the trooper," Liam said, compelled to add, "I just got here yesterday-I haven't unpacked my uniform yet."
Mr. Gunderson waved his hand, too taken up with his own concerns to worry about a little thing like a trooper's being out of uniform. Lucky for him he didn't work for John Barton. "Where do I sign?"
Liam blinked. "Sign what?"
"A complaint!" Gunderson said. "I want to prosecute the thieving little bastard! You don't know what monthly inventory's been like since-"
The kid had gone very still beneath Liam's hand. "Mr. Gunderson," Liam said, trying to stem the flow, without much success.
"Cigarettes, candy, double-A batteries by the twelve-pack-packages of T-bone steaks, for crissake! It's a wonder they didn't wheel in a hand truck and start hauling stuff out by the case! I oughta-"
"Mr. Gunderson!"
The tirade halted.
"Mr. Gunderson, do you have concrete evidence of anything else being stolen by this young man-what is your name, son?"
The kid didn't answer. "I'll tell you his name, it's Tim Gosuk, and we oughta ship the little bastard back to his village before he robs the whole goddamn town dry!"
The kid raised his head and said something in a guttural language that sounded less than complimentary. Gunderson reddened and raised his hand.
"That'll do, Mr. Gunderson," Liam said sternly. "Do you know who Mr. Gosuk's parents are?"
Gunderson sneered. "He doesn't have any parents. He lives with that woman pilot over to the airport."
The boy's head snapped up. "She's not just some "woman pilot"-she owns her own air taxi," he said in a shaky but determined voice. "And she's my mother."
Something in the angle of his cheekbones gave him away to Liam: he was the boy on the street from the day before, the swaggerer with a penchant for holding up traffic. "What's your mother's name, Tim?"
"Wyanet Chouinard," the boy said, meeting his eyes defiantly.
Liam was silent for a moment, staring down into the boy's face. "Yeah," he said at last, on a long, drawn-out sigh of realization and resignation. "Of course it is."
Liam sat in the chair behind his desk, hands linked behind his head, and contemplated the boy seated opposite him.
Tim Gosuk returned the trooper's stare with an underlying nervousness he tried hard to cloak beneath a layer of defiant bravado. "Well? Aren't you going to fingerprint me or something?"
"Or something," Liam agreed peacefully. He eyed a red mark on the boy's left cheek. "Did Mr. Gunderson hit you, Tim?"
The boy ducked his head, disdaining an answer.
Liam left the subject for now, resolving to have a word with Dewayne Gunderson at his earliest opportunity. "Tell me about yourself, Tim."
"What?" The boy stared at him, puzzled. "What do you want to know?" A look of wariness settled down over his features, and he glanced at the door. "What's going on here? I want you to call my mother."
"In a minute," Liam agreed, still peacefully. "But first we're going to get to know each other a little better."
The boy was on his feet and the defiance was back at full throttle. "I don't want to get to know you at all! I know the law-I'm underage, you have to call my mother!"
"You're right," Liam said, nodding. "I have to call your mother if you're underage. Probably your friends told you that to get you to steal for them. All over sixteen, are they? What are you, twelve? They probably told you you wouldn't pull time, you weren't old enough yet. Right?"
"You have to call my mother," the boy repeated, but his voice was now more sullen than defiant.
Liam unlinked his hands and placed them flat on the desk. His eyes bored into the boy's. "Sit down," he said.
His words were flat, unemotional, and so imbued with menace that the boy dropped back into his chair without a word. Great, Liam thought, something else I've always wanted: the ability to cow little kids into submission. "How old are you?"
The boy fiddled with the arms of his chair. "Twelve," he muttered without looking up.