Kate walked to the window and looked out. It was a clear, cold night, and it was early enough that there shouldn't be any traffic on the river and less on the road. She stared at the track that led from Bobby's yard to the little bridge that crossed Squaw Candy Creek and disappeared into the trees, willing the nose of the white Blazer with the trooper seal on the side to appear.
It didn't. By a sheer act of will she turned her back on the window and walked away.
Bobby's house was one large, open A-frame room, except for the bathroom in one corner-bedroom, kitchen, living room surrounding the central work station in one continuous space. At the work station, a doughnut-shaped desk supported a whole bunch of electronic equipment, which was connected to a snake's nest of wires writhing up a central pole to disappear through the roof. Outside, they were connected to antennas and microwave shots and who knew what else hanging off the 112-foot tower that stood out back.
Bobby Clark had lost both legs below the knee in Vietnam. After too long in a vet hospital, he spent the intervening years making a lot of money in endeavors that no one was so impolite as to inquire into before he arrived in the Park, flush in the pocket and with a mind to buy land and build. The A-frame and the tower went up the first year and shortly thereafter Bobby became the NOAA weather observer for the Park. It was gainful employment that gave him a vague aura of respectability and more important, a verifiable income. If said income didn't come close to equaling his expenditures at least its existence laid the hackles of law enforcement personnel who might be otherwise inclined to inquire as to the provenance of his additional funding.
Bobby broadcast Park Air from that same console, a pirate radio station featuring pre-seventies rock and blues, with occasional forays into post-acoustic Jimmy Buffett, and irregularly scheduled public service programs featuring swap and shops, talk radio, and broadcasts for messages on the Bush telegraph. He flew a Super Cub specially altered to accommodate his disability, drove a pickup and a snow machine ditto, and he was Dinah's husband and the father of a three-year-old imp named for Kate. She'd delivered the imp and done duty as best man and maid of honor both at Bobby and Dinah's wedding, all three on the same day, the memory of which never failed to give everyone involved the heebie-jeebies.
She looked around the room, noting the distance between Katya's crib and the California King not that far away, and her eyes came to rest on Dinah, who was watching her with a worried expression. "You're going to need to add on," Kate said. "Katya's getting to be an age where she could seriously interfere with your love life."
Dinah actually smiled. "Tell me about it. She's already interrupted us a couple of times. There is nothing more, um, deflating, than a three-year-old kid saying, 'Daddy, get off, you're squishing her!'"
Kate laughed dutifully.
"We've already talked about building another room," Dinah said. "Where will you put it?"
Appreciating Kate's determination to act as normally as possible, Dinah fell into discussing the proposed addition. It would be built on the east side of the existing house, cutting a hole in that wall, extending the foundation, and building the room on top of it. "She's almost too big for the crib now anyway, she's been climbing in and out of it for almost a year. We think-"
Mutt's ears pricked up and she padded forward. "Listen," Kate said sharply, running to the window.
The white Blazer bumped into the clearing, followed by the brand-new black Ford Ranger Bobby had bought Dinah for her birthday that year. The motion detector lights on the outside of the A-frame lit up the two snow machines lashed to the trailer it pulled, both of them looking worse for wear.
Kate gave something like a sob. "Kate-," Dinah started to say, but by then Kate was out the door and halfway down the steps.
Jim popped his door and stuck his head out. "They're okay, Kate," he said. "They're all okay."
By then Johnny was out of the cab and on the ground, looking tired and beat up, and Kate had her arms around him and her face buried in his bib overalls. She wasn't crying, she never cried, but she didn't want anyone to see whatever it was on her face. His arms came around her, hugging her back just as fiercely.
She might have sniffled, just a little, and then she forced herself to let him go. "You're okay, then," she said, a little gruffly.
"Yeah," he said, with a long sigh.
She looked past him, at Ruthe and Van, Ruthe angry, Van exhausted. "All of you?"
"Yeah. All of us. Kate?"
"What?"
He suddenly looked older than his years. "Mac Devlin has been murdered."
ELEVEN
Jim was in the air at first light, on his way to Suulutaq. Kate was with him. "You'll need help loading the body," she said. "And if some nut is running around out there with a gun, you could use the backup, preferably backup that knows enough not to mess with your crime scene."
No point arguing with that, and Jim didn't waste his breath. She had her snow machine. If he hadn't let her come with him, she would have been on the river by sunrise.
Bobby had fetched the Grosdidier brothers, who patched up the walking wounded and made sure everyone saw two fingers, after which Bobby drove them and Van home. Ruthe put away a gargantuan breakfast, eggs and bacon and potatoes and the better part of a loaf of bread, toasted and slathered with butter, and departed for home on the Jag, resisting Dinah's entreaties to rest up on one of the couches before making the journey. "Gal's almost psychic, she'll know something's wrong and she'll be anxious after me," she said, adding, not unaffectionately, "Damn cat."
On the doorstep she paused. "I never liked Mac Devlin much," she said after a moment, appearing to chew on the words. "But he was a Park rat, and a neighbor. We lent him one of our cabins the year his burned. He stayed there for two months while he rebuilt. After that, whenever we needed some dirt work done, he was there with his D6 or his front-end loader. Never had to ask more than once. Never had to ask, really, just had to say what needed doing and he was there, usually the next day."
She looked at Kate. "You'll find out who did this, and why, and you'll make sure they get what's coming to them."
"Yes," Kate said.
Ruthe nodded, still in that ruminant way, and took herself off.
Katya attached herself to Johnny like a barnacle and refused all attempts to remove her, until she finally fell asleep, drooling into his shoulder. Dinah detached her and put her to bed. In turn, Johnny passed out on one of the couches. Kate covered him with a blanket and stood looking down at him.
"Little fucker like to give his momma a heart attack?" Bobby said fondly, rolling his chair up next to her.
"Shh," she said, "you'll wake him."
"Couldn't wake that boy with a goddamn air horn," Bobby said. "Wanna try?" Without waiting for an answer he rolled to the table and tucked into his own breakfast. "When's my next fare?" he said between bites.
"Me to the airstrip," Kate said. "I'm flying out to Suulutaq with Jim as soon as it's light."
Bobby chewed and swallowed. Mutt was sitting next to him, gazing at him with an adoration that had very little to do with the strip of bacon he was eating. He fed it to her anyway, still eyeing Kate. "Mac Devlin," he said. "The Park's least favorite miner. At least until Global Harvest came along. You know Global Harvest bought him out for about ten cents on the dollar?"
"Yeah."
"He wasn't happy about that."
"No," Kate said, "he wasn't."
"He's been popping up everywhere in the Park that Macleod broad has shown up talking about the mine-Bernie's, the Riverside Cafe, up the store. I heard he was at the Chamber of Commerce meeting she spoke at in Ahtna, even. You could almost say he was stalking her."