“Are we less, then, than the rain?” he said softly, his face turned up into it. A sliver of sun, a deep, rich gold, appeared on the northeastern horizon. “Are we more than the sun?”
She sat very still. Moses was a drunk, but he was also a shaman, and, no matter how thorough her indoctrination had been at the hands of her adoptive parents and at the University of Alaska, Wy remembered enough of the first five years of her life not to reject the presence of what she couldn't see.
Moses opened his eyes and added a piece of driftwood to the fire. The salt crystals caught in the wood flared with color. The wood burned steadily, radiating warmth and light.
“You didn't answer my question,” he said.
“I don't have an answer,” Wy replied.
“No?” He smiled. “Need some help?”
Wy swallowed. She wanted to say no. “I don't know.”
“I say you do,” Moses said firmly.
Wy made a show of looking at her watch. “Gee, look at the time, it's past six-thirty. I'm flying in a couple of hours, so-”
“Sit down.”
She sat down with a thump, heart beating uncomfortably up high in her throat. “Look, I-”
“You will listen,” he said firmly, “and when questioned, you will answer truthfully.”
Sez you, Wy thought.
He eyed the mutinous line of her mouth and grinned, a wide, wise grin as full of charm as it was of guile. “Wy,” he said, his voice not ungentle, “what do you want?”
She huffed out an impatient breath. “I want to live my life. I want my business to succeed. I want to fly, and I especially want to fly this morning.”
Moses contemplated the fire. “You're in danger.”
She was startled again. She looked over her shoulder. No one nearby on the beach, no one on the river. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want?” he repeated.
“Goddamn it!” she shouted. “I want to adopt Tim! I want to live my life!” She leapt to her feet. “I want to be left alone!”
“Sit down,” he said again, and she subsided like a puppet who had lost its strings.
He picked up an eagle feather lying next to him in the sand, and used it to cup smoke from the fire over his face, eyes closed, expression meditative. She struggled for composure, and found it in the tuneless humming that emanated from his rusty old man's voice.
He opened his eyes. “Are you so afraid?”
“I'm not afraid of anything,” she said, and was immediately ashamed. She sounded exactly like a child whistling past the graveyard. “I'm afraid of everything,” she said, as her defenses fell with an almost audible thump. “I'm afraid customers will show up who won't fly with me because I'm a woman. I'm afraid I won't earn enough to make my loan payments. I'm afraid Tim's natural mother will steal him back. I'm afraid-” She stopped.
“Yes?” Still with that unnaturally gentle voice.
“You know what I'm afraid of.”
“He's a good man.”
“I'm not a bad woman,” she snapped. “I'm smart, I'm capable. I don't need rescuing, or redemption.”
“How about company?” he snapped back, a momentary backsliding of role, wise shaman to cranky drunk. “He's pretty good company, that guy, even if he is a cop.”
“There's nothing wrong with being a cop!” she said indignantly. “They catch the bad guys. They keep the peace. Every day they get their noses rubbed into the worst of human behavior. When someone's shooting off a gun, they have to go take it away. They don't get near enough credit or even half the pay they deserve.”
He smiled, a brief, nasty little smile, and she blushed hotly, annoyed at being maneuvered into defending Liam.
“So you don't object to his profession.”
“Of course not.”
“What is it, then? What stops you from going to him?”
“Maybe,” she said through her teeth, “just maybe I don't think there's anybody out there more fun to live with than me.” She pushed her jaw out, daring a response.
She got it, a full-throated belly laugh that rocked him backward. “Oh yeah,” he said, wiping away a tear, “oh yeah, you are just like your mother, just full of piss and vinegar, self-righteous and pigheaded and so damn sure you're right.”
She said sharply, “You knew my mother? My natural mother?” He said nothing. “Moses?”
“Yes,” he said finally. His smile faded. “I did. She's dead.”
“I know that much. And I know our family came from Icky. What I don't know is her name. Mom and Dad would never tell me.” She waited.
He rearranged himself, refolding his legs, and produced a pint of Chivas Regal. Uncapping it, he took a long swallow.
“Moses-”
“Make up your mind, Wy. You either want him or you don't. You don't have much time left. You may have none.”
“What? What does that mean?” She rose to her feet as he did, and followed him to the steps. “Moses, you can't say things like that and then retreat into that goddamn druidic silence of yours! Talk to me!”
“Got me a smart woman in a real short skirt,” he said, winking at her, “or in this case, a pair of really tight jeans. Time I got back to her.” He took another swig from the bottle and headed up the steps.
“Moses?”
Something in her voice halted him halfway up.
“Did you know my father, too?”
There was a long silence, into which crept the sounds of a Bush village waking up: a light plane taking off, the hum of an outboard motor, the start of a truck, bird calls, fish jumping.
“Yes.” He began to climb again.
“Moses?”
He halted without turning around.
“Are you my father?”
He stood for a long time on the makeshift stairs, his back to her, and then he continued up and over the edge of the bluff. Moments later, she heard the engine of his truck turn over, heard it grind into gear, heard it leave the clearing and trundle down her lane to the road.
She stood where she was for a long time, listening, watching, waiting for him to come back. He didn't.
Liam donned his only other clean uniform, also tailored, also immaculately pressed, and boxed up yesterday's for mailing to the dry cleaner in Anchorage.
The post office was open, with a new clerk behind the counter, a young, plump-faced man with a sunny smile and a name tag which read Malachi Manuguerra. Malachi sent Liam's uniform priority mail and chatted about his new baby girl, just a week old that day. Liam dutifully admired the picture of the squinched-up, red-faced mite bundled in hospital white, and from the post office went to the Bay View Inn, Newenham's only hotel. It was a twostory building that looked suspiciously modular, sporting neat green siding with brown trim and a corrugated silver roof. It had been kept up, though; siding and trim were freshly painted and the wooden stairs leading up to the front door had recently had some of their steps replaced. The sun shone benignly down on pansies and nasturtiums planted in two homemade rock gardens, and the windows had that just-washed gleam.
The lobby was empty but for a clerk behind a counter. She was readingThe Celestine Prophecythrough little round glasses that had slid down to the very end of her long, thin nose. Her gray hair was cut closely around her face, and she wore a bright yellow cardigan over an even brighter orange shirt and red polyester pants.
It took him a moment to recover from the glare of the primary colors. “Excuse me.” Sharp eyes the color of wood smoke looked at him over the silver rims of her glasses and took in his uniform. She moved finally, straightening to reveal a tall frame, lean, long-limbedand supple. Norwegian, Liam thought, or Swedish. Scandinavian, anyway. There was a lot of that going around the Bay.
“You're the new trooper.”
“Corporal Liam Campbell.” It was getting easier to say.
She extended a hand, square-shaped, callused and confident. “Alta Peterson. You looking for your new trooper?”
So Prince had found the hotel after all. “She spend the night here?”