“Yeah,” Frank said, eyes locked to Liam's. “Messing with my ancestors, man.”
“So you lose it. You coldcock one, you let off a couple of rounds at the other, winging him-nice shooting, Frank, by the way.”
“Thanks, man,” Frank said involuntarily.
“So you did shoot him,” Liam said softly.
Frank tried panic. “No! I didn't shoot nobody! I don't even have a gun!”
Liam looked surprised. “You don't? Well, gee, Frank, who does this rifle belong to, then?” He picked up the.30-06 he'd leaned against the left front tire. “You had it when I caught up with you.”
“I found it,” Frank said. “It was laying on the ground.” Inspired, he added, “I almost ran over the top of it with my four-wheeler, man. Somebody must have dropped it.”
“Maybe a hunter,” Liam suggested. “Sure,” Frank said eagerly. “A hunter.” Liam scratched his chin. “Well, maybe that's so, Frank.” He paused, and looked skyward for revelation. “It's a pretty nice rifle, guy what owns it must take pretty good care of it. Doesn't look like it's been laying out too long.”
Frank hunched a shoulder.
“What do you think he was hunting?” Liam said.
“What?” Frank said. “Who?”
“The man who lost the rifle,” Liam said patiently. “What do you think he was hunting?”
“I dunno,” Frank said, bewildered. “Ducks, I guess. Geese? Plenty of those around, this time of year.”
“Well, sure,” Liam said, warmly congratulatory. “Ducks and geese.” He paused, and added reluctantly, “Of course, they aren't in season at the moment. Another month or so to go before you can even buy a duck stamp.”
Frank forced a smile. “That don't mean nothing out here.”
“No,” Liam agreed. “You're surely right about that, Frank.” Frank brightened, until Liam added, “Of course, I don't believe a lot of hunters go after ducks and geese with a thirty-ought-six, now, do they? You'd have to be a mighty fine shot to do that, wouldn't you?”
“I dunno.”
“A shotgun would be more likely for someone looking to bring home some birds for the stew pot, now, wouldn't it?”
“I dunno,” said poor Frank.
“And I think any hunter worthy of the name takes better care of his firepower than to leave it lie in a swamp somewhere.” Liam shook his head disapprovingly. “Lousy thing to do to a fine piece of equipment like this here Winchester.”
“It's a Remington,” Frank said. “A two-eighty. Oh.” He looked wildly around for support and found none.
“It's your rifle, isn't it, Frank?” Liam said sorrowfully.
“I guess so,” Frank said, looking ready to burst into tears.
“And you shot this man and hit this trooper with it, didn't you?”
Too late Frank realized what he'd admitted to and tried desperately to backtrack. “I never shot nobody!”
“I can see how it would happen,” Liam said, ignoring Frank's outburst to paint a revised scenario. “You're fishing out of Newenham, you're between periods, you borrow a four-wheeler and you come here to visit the village. Maybe your folks come from here, and you've come to pay your respects.” Liam folded his hands and did his best to look pious. “But maybe you had a few before you came, and when you got here you found two people poking their noses in where they didn't belong.”
“Now, wait just a minute!” McLynn exploded. He was on his feet, and feeling much healthier, if the look of outrage on his face was any indication. “This man was grave-robbing! I got here and he was stuffing all the artifacts that I had excavated over the summer into a bag!” He pointed, triumphant. “That bag right there, tied to the handlebars!”
Liam looked thunderstruck, and slid the drawstring of the dark blue nylon stuff sack from the right handlebar to hold it aloft. Its contents pressed against the sides to cause interesting bulges in the thin fabric. “This bag?”
“That exact bag!” McLynn stood where he was, glaring. “I was going to stop him and he shot me!”
“Frank,” Liam said, his heart broken. “This can't be true.”
“I didn't shoot anybody,” Frank said obstinately.
Liam emptied the contents of the sack on the ground.
McLynn pounced. “There, there's the carvings we found in two-E, probably amulets. This is the needle we found in five-F, and this is the awl we found in six-C.”
“And this?” Liam held up what looked very much like a knife carved from a translucent length of bone. It had a short hilt, carved with figures long since worn to little more than faint ridges, and a short, wide, slightly curved blade that came to a sharp point. There was blood on it, dried brown and flaking, but it was something Liam had seen too often to mistake now.
Frank looked frightened. He said nothing.
McLynn hesitated.
“That's a storyknife,” Wy said from behind Liam.
He'd known she was there and didn't jump, but Prince and McLynn did. “What's a storyknife?”
Too interested in the artifact to maintain her attitude of frozen fury, she took the knife and held it up. “I've got one of these. Mine's made of ivory. It's much smaller, though. This is beautiful. Look at the carving on the hilt. And it's old, too.” She lowered the knife and looked at Prince. “It's a toy used by young Yupik girls. They take their younger siblings down to the riverbank and carve stories into the sand. Teaching stories, mostly, about kids who disobey their parents and are subsequently killed and eaten by monsters.”
Prince chuckled. “That'll teach 'em, all right.” She winced and put a hand to her head.
“I'm surprised to see one here, though,” Wy said. “I thought storyknifing was a custom practiced only on the Delta. North of the Kuskokwim Mountains, anyway.”
McLynn came forward and nipped the storyknife out of her hands. “Yes, well, that's all very well, but it is an important part of my research and my paper-”
“That's the knife we saw sticking out of Nelson's mouth when we found the body,” Prince said.
“I thought it might be,” Liam said, and took the knife from McLynn. He looked at Frank.
“I didn't do it!” Frank said frantically. “I found the sack! It was laying on the ground!”
“Right next to the rifle, I bet,” Liam said.
Frank didn't even hear him. “I didn't take nothing! I didn't shoot anybody! I didn't kill nobody! I didn't do anything! I want a lawyer!”
There were six people, one of them dead, and two 2-seater planes, not to mention a pilot with a bump on her head. “Can you fly?” Liam asked Prince.
She managed a nod, although it looked painful.
“No shit, now, Prince,” he said sternly. “Are you fit to fly?”
“Yeah, no shit,” Wy said, the owner of the plane Prince was about to strap on.
“I can fly,” Prince said shortly.
Wy surveyed her with a narrow stare. Prince met it without flinching. “All right,” Wy said at last. She really had no other option, not if she wanted the Cub back at its tiedown that evening, and she knew it. She had an early flight the next morning, too, into a strip like this one that the Cessna was too heavy for, and she wasn't sure how many times the dentist from Anchorage was going to let her borrow the other Cub. “What about you?” she said, staring fixedly at a point somewhere above Liam's right shoulder. “We're flying full. How do you get back?”
The afternoon sun glinted off the rooftops of the Air Force base, ten miles to the east, and Liam, unwillingly, was put forcibly in mind of Moses' announcement of Colonel Charles Bradley Campbell's arrival in Newenham, and his request to see his only son and heir. It was a reunion Liam would just as soon take place in private. “You take McLynn back. Prince will take the suspect and the body.” To Prince he said, “Take Frank here to the local lockup. Get Wy to show you where. Take the body to Alaska Airlines. Get it out to Anchorage on the next jet. I'll call the M.E.” Which crusty old bastard would have a few pithy things to say on the subject of filling up his morgue. “I'll take the four-wheeler over to the base and hitch a ride in from there.”