“Shooting a jukebox is one thing,” Liam said. “Shooting a person is another thing entirely.”
“They were drunk,” Prince reminded him.
“Yeah,” Liam said, a little grimly. “They were that.”
Prince went off to interview the Kvichak and Engebretsen families, to see if Teddy or John had confessed to anything in the four hours between their return and their arrest. Liam called the house to see if Wy was home. After five rings Jim picked up, out of breath. Liam grinned out the window. The morning fog would have burned off by ten, and the sun, he well knew, would be beating down on the deck in front of Wy’s living room. “Having a nice morning?” he inquired solicitously.
“Up yours, Campbell,” Jim said. In the background Liam could hear Bridget chuckling.
“Wy there?”
“No. I’m hanging up now.”
“Hold on. You said you had something to tell me.”
A brief pause. “Yeah, but not right now.”
“Okay,” Liam said. There was something in the tone of Jim’s voice that warned him he wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was. “It sounds like it can keep.”
“Not indefinitely,” Jim said, and hung up.
Liam drove out to the airport, and was lucky enough to see 68 Kilo coming in on final. It was a runway paint job, smooth as silk, and Liam, safely on the ground, could admire the skill and the professionalism and be proud that his woman was so good at her job.
He thought of his wife, put in a coma by a drunken driver, from which she had never woken. He had enjoyed married life. He liked snuggling beneath the covers every night with the same woman. He liked drinking coffee with her the next morning and talking about what the day would bring. He liked coming home to eat dinner with her, catching up on what had gone right and wrong with the day. He’d liked long, lazy weekends on the couch, reading and watching television and eating popcorn and making love.
There hadn’t been as much of that last as he would have liked, given the responsibilities of his job, but Jenny had never complained. Jennifer. Jenny with the light brown hair. Jenny-fair, their high school French teacher had called her, and fair she had been. He still missed her, would always miss her. They’d been best friends all through middle school and high school, and when they came back from their respective colleges it had seemed as natural as breathing to marry. There had been no highs and no lows in his relationship with Jenny, no uncertainty, no anxiety.
Unlike his relationship with Wy. With Wy, it was either mountaintop or abyss. But then he hadn’t known there were mountains to scale or an abyss to plumb during his marriage to Jenny.
He missed his friend more than he did his wife, and he missed his son more than either of them. He wondered if he should be ashamed of that fact. He wondered if Jenny would understand.
The Cessna stopped ten feet away. Practically before the prop had slowed, the passenger door opened and a man bailed out. “Bailed” was the right word; he managed to miss the step on the strut entirely and hit the ground walking, rapidly, in the opposite direction.
Liam had exited planes in just that manner himself on one or two occasions, and he sympathized. “Rough flight?” he said to Wy as she walked toward him.
She shook her head and smiled. “That was Mr. Frederick Glanville of the Internal Revenue Service. He went out to Kokwok to perform an audit.”
Liam began to grin. “Let me guess. He’d never flown in a small plane before.”
“Nothing smaller than the 737 that got him to Newenham, would be my guess,” Wy said, nodding. “Plus, Stanley Sacaloff was waiting for him on the other end.”
Liam started to laugh. “He was auditing Stanley Sacaloff?”
“That was his plan. He was pretty tight-lipped when I picked him up this morning, so I don’t know how successful the audit was.”
“Pretty successful,” Liam pointed out, “if Stanley let him walk away from it.” He slid a hand around her neck and kissed her. It started out to be a quick greeting and evolved into something more.
She pulled back with a flush in her cheeks. “Remember the uniform,” she said, trying for casual and not succeeding very well.
“The hell with the uniform.”
She stepped out of reach and tried to frown. “Behave. What are you doing out here, anyway?”
His hands dropped and his smile faded. “I need a ride.”
“Sure. Where to?”
“Nenevok Creek.”
“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “Did you talk to John and Teddy this morning?”
“Yes. They said all they did was find the body.”
“They didn’t see Rebecca?”
“They say not.”
“She could have been scared. Running from the real killer. Maybe the same person who killed Opal Nunapitchuk.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I know you’ve known them forever. I know you don’t think they could kill anyone. But Wy, you’ve flown me out to incidents before. You know anyone can do anything, given the right motivation. They were on the scene. They had the weapon. They were drunk. And they have a history of harassing people in the area.”
“But not killing them,” she said quickly, repeating his own argument back to him.
“But not killing them,” he agreed. “Anyway, alive or dead, we’ve got to find the wife. If she’s alive, she’s got to be terrified, maybe lost. I’ve already talked to Search and Rescue out at Chinook Air Force Base. They’ve been quartering the area since dawn.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing, no sign of her, no smoke or flares. No signal of any kind.” He didn’t know how wilderness-savvy Rebecca Hanover was going to be, but even a beader from Anchorage ought to be able to follow a creek downstream. Trouble was, the killer would very probably be right behind her. If he wasn’t locked up in the Newenham jail.
“Any sign she returned to the creek?”
“No smoke from the stack, and she didn’t come out to wave when the plane went over. They told me they made enough noise to make sure she would hear them.”
No more bodies, Wy thought, I don’t want to find any more bodies. “Do you think she’s dead?”
“That would be the most logical assumption,” he admitted.
“But?”
He gave a frustrated shake of his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t like the smell of this. Something about the mine site is itching at me. Something important I saw that didn’t register. I want to go back and find out what it is. Are you available?”
She smiled then, a long, slow, incite-to-riot smile. “I’m always available. I’m just not easy.”
“You’re telling me.”
Wood River Mountains, September 3
She was so tired.
Tired and numb to anything but putting one foot down after the other.
That morning there had been planes flying overhead, and he had kept them both in the rough shelter of spruce boughs he had built the night before. He wouldn’t allow a fire, and she was as cold as she was tired. He had insisted she put on every article of clothing she had, and still she was cold, shivering, teeth chattering, she couldn’t seem to stop them.
It didn’t matter, because none of it seemed real, not from the moment she had heard the shots and come running down the path from the creek to see him standing over Mark’s body.
Mark, already dead. Mark, to whom she would now never be able to say she was sorry.
Somewhere deep inside, the pain and the grief stirred once, stilled again. To feel pain, to feel grief, one must think, and she would not allow thought.
She would not think of how he had stood looking at her as seconds passed, then minutes, as she did nothing, said nothing. No protest, no scream for help, she hadn’t tried to run, nothing. He’d told her he was hungry, and she’d made him the lunch she had planned for Mark. He’d admired her beadwork, and she’d said thank you. He’d told her to take her clothes off, and she had. He’d told her to lie down on the bed, and she did. He had raped her, and she had endured it, motionless, unprotesting, her husband’s body cooling in the creek not fifty feet from where they lay.