His ears reddened. “Not a lot of commercial fishing in Glenallen.”
“That's no excuse,” she said severely. “You've been on the Bay for three months now. Anyway, that's where most of your boats will have been, outside the markers of the Kanik, trying to get in between the fish and fresh water.” She pulled her cap on.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Ivory, walrus ivory.”
“The tusks. Sure, what about them?”
“I know only Natives can sell them. Can they sell them as is, or do they have to be carved into something first?”
“The law says it has to be carved on or into something. Walk into any gift shop on Fourth Avenue in Anchorage and look around. You'll see whole heads with the tusk sporting one little carving of a mask or an animal, just to make it legal.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? Is there something you're not telling me, something going on to do with my side of the patch?”
He told her about the suspiciously fresh chunk of ivory tusk he had found in the service tent at the dig. She listened with interest, and when he was done said, “Like I said, it's the law, the pieces have to be finished.” She smiled. “But if everyone obeyed the law, we'd both be out of work.”
Charlene left the post, and as Liam returned to his desk the phone rang. It was a man, on the ragged edge of losing his selfcontrol, his voice so choked that Liam could barely understand him. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
The man cleared his throat. His voice was shaken but clear. “My name is Donald Nelson, Senior.”
Liam closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then sat up straight. “Yes, sir. This is Liam Campbell with the Alaska State Troopers. Are you Don Nelson's father?”
The voice broke again. “Yes.”
“I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Nelson.”
“Thank you.” There was the sound of a sob, quickly suppressed, and Liam set his teeth. “Please, can you tell me what happened? I just talked to Don last week, and he was fine. He was fine, he sounded happy, and excited about his work.” There was a sound something between a laugh and a sob. “He said Alaska was beautiful and the people were crazy.”
“He was right about both, sir,” Liam said gently. He would rather respond to a hundred scenes like theMarybethiathan talk to one grieving parent, but this was part of the job. He had a thought, and sat up. “Mr. Nelson, how did you find out your son was dead?”
“I don't know,” Nelson said drearily. “Some woman called.”
“When?”
“This morning. Just a little while ago.”
“What time?”
“I don't know. About nine o'clock, I think. Mary? When did she call? Yes, about nine.”
Eight o'clock Alaska time. Prince? “And you're calling from Seattle?”
“Why, yes,” the man said, bewildered all over again. “How did you know?”
“Your son's identification stated his residence. Who called you, Mr. Nelson? Who was it on the phone this morning?”
“I don't know. Mary, where is that piece of paper…” Paper rustled in the background, and someone blew his nose. Nelson's voice came back on. “Here it is. Somebody from Anchorage.”
Liam relaxed a little. “Someone from the medical examiner's officer, perhaps?”
“That was it. She told us he was dead, and when we asked how, she gave us your name. How did he die, Mr. Campbell? He was fine when we talked to him last week,” Nelson repeated. He sounded dazed. “He was-he was fine. Was it an accident?”
“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Nelson, but no, your son did not die in an accident.” He thought of the hilt of the storyknife protruding from Nelson's mouth and added evenly, “There is evidence of foul play.”
“Foul play? Foul play? What the hell does that mean?”
Liam hated the phrase “foul play” himself; it made him think of an Agatha Christie novel. “Mr. Nelson, your son was killed,” he said bluntly. “I'm sorry,” he added.
“Killed?” Liam had expected the rise of anger in Nelson's voice; it always happened, shock, followed by grief, followed by rage. “Who killed him? Who did it?”
Liam looked at the door, which Charlene had closed firmly behind her. “We don't know yet for sure, Mr. Nelson.” He was thinking of Don Nelson's body lying in a sprawl so awkward it could only be death when he added, “But we do have a suspect in custody.”
“Who?”
“A local man,” Liam said circumspectly.
“How was he killed?”
Even more circumspectly, Liam replied, “Your son's body is at the medical examiner's office in Anchorage, Mr. Nelson. I expect cause of death will be pronounced within a few days. I can give you their phone number, if you like, so that you can make arrangements.”
“Make arrangements.” That was almost as bad a euphemism as “foul play.” Much as we do to sanitize it, Liam thought, everything we do to clean it up for public view, death is messy and painful, and will not be called to order. He thought again of Frost's poem.
“All right,” Nelson said, sounding suddenly exhausted. Liam gave him the M.E.'s number. “Thank you.”
Before very long Don Nelson, Senior, was going to want answers.Who, what, where, how and, above all, why? It was Liam's job to provide them. “You're welcome. Mr. Nelson, did your son have a particular friend here in Newenham? A girlfriend, maybe?”
“What? No. At least… he never said.” The tears were coming back. “He would have said, wouldn't he? If he'd met a girl, he would have said. He would have told his mother. He would have. He-”
“So there wasn't anyone?”
“No. Not that we know of. And if it had been serious, we would have known. We were very close.”
“I'm glad,” Liam said, and said it forcefully. “Did Don have any siblings? Any brothers or sisters that he might have talked to since he talked to you?”
“He had a sister, Betsy. She didn't say he'd called when we talked to her this morning.”
“May I have her phone number?”
Liam scribbled it down, and they said their goodbyes, Liam promising to call with any new information. Nelson Senior would call back first, he knew. It would take a day or two for him to filter the information Liam had given him through his grief, but when he did he would be on the phone breathing fire and smoke over the suspect in his son's murder, and if Liam was very unlucky, in less than a week he would be stepping off a plane at Newenham Airport.
The thought brought him to his feet. He donned cap and weapon and headed purposefully for the door. When he opened it, the white, shocked face of Tim Gosuk was on the other side.
“Tim?” Liam said.
“Is it true?” Tim said.
“Is what true?”
“Is it true that Mike Malone is dead?”
“How did you know Michael Malone?”
“I played guard opposite him at regionals last year. Is it true?”
Liam sat down on the top step, and with a gentle hand pulled Tim to sit next to him. “Yes, Tim, it's true.”
Tim sat, staring numbly in front of him. At twelve you are immortal and indestructible. This time next year is an aeon away, and the end of your life shrouded in mists you won't penetrate for another forty years. Death just doesn't happen when you're twelve.
It doesn't happen to your friends, either. “I can't believe it. I heard Mom and Jo talking about a boat burning and the crew all dead. I didn't know it was Mike's boat. He was-he was the greatest guy, Liam. Really nice. If you made a good play, he'd slap you on the back and yell, ‘Way to go!’ Even when you were on the other team. He was a good player, too, always had his hands up, had a great rebound.” Tim swallowed hard. Liam pretended not to notice. “He was just a great guy. I learned more playing against him than I did in a year's worth of practice.”
There was a rustle of branches overhead, a soft croak. Liam didn't look up. “Did you know the rest of his family?”