Charles wiped his hands on his napkin and folded it precisely in fours. “You said there was a journal?”
“Yeah, there's a journal.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
Liam looked at the last of his cheeseburger with regret, and savored it as it went down. “I had the M.E. test a sample of Nelson's tissue. He and McLynn had been getting their drinking water out of the Snake River. They'd been filtering it, of course, for beaver fever. But Nelson had traces of benzene in his body.”
“I repeat,” Charles said, very controlled, “what are you going to do with the journal?”
“I don't know,” Liam said. His brow creased in deep thought. “Wy's a friend of that reporter Nelson wrote to,” he offered. “Do you think she'd be interested?”
Charles's mouth set in a thin line. “Cut the crap, Liam. What do you want?”
“I want you to dig up that dump east of the archaeological dig,” Liam said promptly.
“Do you know how much that would cost?”
“Nope,” Liam said. “Don't care, either. Dig it up and dispose of it properly. And I'll be checking, Dad. Wy and I will be doing fly-bys on a regular basis. Dig it up, move it out, dispose of it, and I don't mean drop it in the Nushagak. I'll find out if you do, and I'll resurrect that journal and the results of that tissue sample. I'm pretty sure this was all your own idea, so I don't imagine the Air Force would be pleased to hear officially about it.” He smiled. “One thing for sure after that: you wouldn't have to sweat out any more promotion reviews.”
“You're blackmailing me,” Charles said.
“Oh, you noticed,” Liam said. “It's my first attempt, I was afraid it wouldn't go over. Yeah, I'm blackmailing you, and it's a damn sorry thing to have to do to your own father.” He wiped his hands and tossed his napkin down. “You raised me better than that, Dad.”
Thinking back on it now, on this lazy evening on the beach, he looked down at the powerful flow of the Nushagak and wondered what an analysis of its waters would produce. Maybe that was one of those things he was better off not knowing.
He wouldn't give Nelson's journal to Jo. He never would have, no matter what he'd said to his father. Jo was going to have to leave without her story. He hadn't even told Wy about what Nelson had written.
For better or worse, Charles was Liam's father, and if you were any kind of a human being, you looked out for your own. He hadn't told Charles that, of course. He wasn't sure he ever would. But he had used Nelson's journal to start the fire which was cooking their dinner.
For now, he had a hot dog so burned it was about ready to drop off the stick onto the fire, just the way he liked them, and a bun prepared with mustard, onions, relish, shredded cheese and jalapeño peppers, just the way he liked them. He was sitting next to the woman of his choice, that goddamn raven was keeping his distance, and… “Wy?”
She was absorbed with putting the finishing touches on her own hot dog. “What?”
“I know you were really young when you left the village and moved to Newenham, but do you remember any Yupik?”
She looked up from the bun upon which she was lavishing mustard. “Some. A few words. Like the word for storyknife.” She said it, and it still sounded like “yawning ruin” to him, just like it had when Frank Petla said it.
“What about ‘tookalook’?”
“What?”
“ ‘Tookalook,’ ” he said. “I heard it for the first time this week, and I was wondering what it meant.”
“Tookaluk. Tookalook. Um, maybetulukaruk?”
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “That's just the name of the dig.”
“Yeah,” she said, heaping chopped onions on the bun. “And raven.”
Overhead, the raven clicked,k-k-k-k-k-krACK.“Tulukaruk means raven?”
“Uh-huh.”
Liam thought about that afternoon on the island beach, with the hundreds of walrus between him and Old Walter. The old man had said two words. “Tulukaruk. Asveq.” Raven. Walrus. Had he seen a raven, there on the beach that afternoon? He said, “How long did you say Tim was going to be gone?”
“You didn't answer my question,” she said severely. “Why did you say, ‘Oh yeah,’ like that when I asked you if your father was gone?”
He fell in love all over again with her reproving frown and abandoned the hot dog to the fire to pull her into his arms. She came willingly and they tumbled down next to the big driftwood log they'd been leaning against. “God, you feel good.” He looked down into her face, at her eyes, her skin, her mouth, her hair. Maybe another man wouldn't see what he saw, maybe another man wouldn't see the beauty and the intelligence and above all the strength, but then maybe that was what made her the only woman for him. “You could live without me, couldn't you?” he said suddenly.
“I have,” she said simply, and smiled. “But I'd much rather not. If I have a choice.”
“You don't,” he said, and kissed her. He had her shirt up and her bra open and then he was cupping her breasts, biting her nipples so that she whimpered and arched her back, instantly ready. “That's what I love most about making love with you,” he murmured. “The way you respond. You go off like a rocket when I barely touch you, don't you?” He laved the nipple he'd bitten with his tongue. She moaned, her breath coming faster, and he felt like the king of the world. He slipped the snap of her jeans and slid a hand between her legs. “You're wet, ready and waiting for me. Only for me, Wy.”
“Please,” she said, “hurry.”
“I don't want to hurry,” he said. “I like you needy.” He rolled her to her back and captured her hands to hold them over her head.
“Liam.”
His free hand wandered, down, up, in. Her breath caught and her hips moved against his hand. He sought out another spot with his thumb and rubbed, oh so gently. Her eyes squeezed shut and she arched and cried out, and he watched with immense pleasure as a deep, dark flush rushed up over her breasts and throat and face. “You are so easy, Chouinard. How many times can I make you come?”
She opened her eyes to meet his. “That was one,” she whispered, and he was on her and in her before the last word was out of her mouth.
It was almost dark, or as dark as it gets in August in Alaska, and the fire had burned down to a steady bed of dark red embers. They lay breast to breast, and Liam could feel the slow thud of her heart next to his, the skin of her back warm against his palm. Jimmy's right, he thought through a haze of contentment. Maybe twenty-four hours, maybe sixty good years, it's not that long a stay. This was what made the sixty years good.
She stirred. “So Walter's home now?”
“Yeah.” He shifted and pulled her closer. “I could have charged him with obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact, but hell, he's just lost his lover, their child and his father. Going home to an empty house that is going to stay empty for the rest of his life is punishment enough.”
“Why did he do it? Old Walter? Why did he kill her, all of them?”
“He had a problem with booze. He used to live in Anchorage but he spent most of his time between Fourth Avenue and Cook Inlet Pre-Trial. The last time, about four years ago, right after Walter's wife ran off with the vipso, Young Walter flew to Anchorage and brought his father home. Kulukak's a dry town, but Newenham's only a plane ride away. I finally got Mike Ekwok to tell me that Old Walter was in the bag more often than not. I'm figuring he was fairly well oiled that Sunday night.”