There shouldn't be spruce up this high, but the little basin was south-facing and well protected, a tiny patch of microclimate the spruce had claimed for its own. They weren't very tall, almost dwarfs, and grew in such a tangled thicket, one on top of the other, each desperate to grab its own square foot of arable soil, that it was difficult to see under them.
"Well now," Jim said. Under them, as he saw now, was where all the action was. There were snow machine tracks going in and out, leading to the remnants of a large caribou slaughter, a pile of skins, another of racks, and an assortment of quarters, looking even at this distance frozen solid in the frigid November air. The hunters had taken care to do their butchering under the trees, and some of the trees had been encouraged to form a shelter by lopping off a lower layer of limbs. To one side there were a couple of dark green tents with two snow machines parked beside them, one blue, the other black. He thought he saw the shadow of a third but not distinctly enough to discern any identifying color or make.
A figure darted from a tree near the meat mound and ducked into one of the tents. They'd heard him. He climbed back to cruising altitude and resumed the lazy eight, the possessor of more facts than he'd had before he arrived.
Caribou hunting season in this game unit didn't begin until January first, over a month away.
The black snow machine was instantly recognizable as the brand-new Ski-Doo Expedition TUV, a cherry little tricked-out sled that had emptied out the Roadhouse when Howie drove up in it the first time. It retailed for just under thirteen thousand dollars, and a lot of Park rats had wondered out loud how Howie, noticeably lacking in gainful employment, could afford it.
Jim had wondered, too. Howie dealt strictly in cash, having learned well from his mentor and master, the execrable Louis Deem, that checking accounts had an uncomfortable way of revealing your transactions at the most inconvenient possible time, and that credit card companies sold your information to everyone else. Now Jim wondered if perhaps Howie had been supplementing his income by retailing commercial quantities of caribou. Gas was expensive, with the price per gallon increasing every day, especially in the Park, where it had to be hauled in by the barrel after winter shut down the road in. It made hunting, even from a four-wheeler or a snow machine, that much more expensive, too.
He peered below again. Three snowgos meant three people. All three, displaying a prudence beyond what their current activity would suggest, remained inside the tents.
He decided that he'd tested the limits of aeronautical safety enough for one day. He put the Cessna's nose on three-one-five and let the ground fall away from him as he flew down the broad plateau of the valley.
He had a little time to think over what he should do next. It was vital to lay hands on Howie Katelnikof as soon as possible, but there was nowhere flat or long enough for him to sit down that was near enough to the camp for him to get to them before they took off, which they would do because they'd hear him land and because they had ground transportation and he didn't.
The trailer and its rudimentary airstrip sat in the middle of a very wide valley that he estimated was a minimum of four to six miles across. If he put her down there and waited, they'd just go around him. Aerial bombardment was pretty much all that a Cessna in the air could do to stop a snow machine on the ground, and Jim was fresh out of grenades.
The mouth of the valley widened to a slope that fell gradually down to the east bank of the Kanuyaq River, the southwest-facing hill well treed but nowhere impassable by snow machine. If he set down in one place, top or bottom, they'd simply go another way. They would have recognized the white Cessna with the gold stripes and the gold seal on the fuselage, so they would be doubly wary coming out.
There was no point, he decided, in trying to apprehend them from the air. Now that they knew he was looking for them, they'd probably leave the kill to the ravens and the wolves and the rest of the Park's carnivores. He couldn't swear it was Howie he saw running for the tent, and while he had recognized Howie's Ski-Doo, Howie could always ditch it and say it had been stolen. It wouldn't be the first time.
No. He had to think up some way to make Howie come to him.
Movement a thousand feet below caught the corner of his eye and he banked the Cessna a little to see George Perry's Cub take off from next to the GHRI trailer. Had he dropped someone off? Someone like Talia Macleod, perhaps? He changed channels. "Piper Super Cub at Suulutaq, that you, George?"
There was a burst of static. "Jim? Where you at?"
"On your six, a thousand feet."
A pause as George looked up and back. "Oh yeah, I gotcha. Where you coming from?"
"Up the valley. Sightseeing. Did you just drop somebody off at the Suulutaq trailer?"
"Yeah."
"Macleod?"
"I wish. No, one of her caretakers. Poor bastard. They're marooned out here for a week at a time, with only a bunch of Debbie Does Dallas DVDs for company."
"But I hear she pays well."
Jim could hear the smile in George's voice when he replied. "That she does."
"Think I'll go down and say hi." "Guy makes lousy coffee."
"I have been warned. Cessna seven-nine Juliet, out."
"See you back at the ranch, Jim. Super Cub one-three Tango, out."
Jim dropped down to a hundred feet, buzzed the trailer to alert the occupant of his imminent arrival, and landed.
Gallagher was waiting in the open door. He didn't look happy when he saw Jim coming, but he was civil. "Sergeant Chopin, isn't it? Dick Gallagher."
"That's right, we met at the Club Bar in Cordova, didn't we?"
"That we did, sir. What can I do for you?"
Jim shrugged. "Just stopped by for a cup of coffee."
Gallagher didn't believe him, but he stepped back and let Jim inside.
George was right, the coffee was awful, but then Jim, who ordered his Tsunami Blend direct from Captain's Roast in Homer, was something of a coffee snob. He hid his wince and said, leaning against the counter, "Nice job you scored here."
"Pays well," Gallagher said, sitting behind the desk.
Jim nodded at the desk. "You heard what happened here, I guess. We always try to keep that kind of thing quiet while the investigation is ongoing, but…" He shrugged.
"Yeah," Gallagher said with feeling, "I heard, all right. I had to clean up the mess. Jesus." He seemed to grudge the mess more than the murder.
"You're new in the Park, aren't you?" Jim said.
Gallagher went wary again. "Yeah. Couple of months."
"New to Alaska, too, I take it."
Gallagher shrugged.
Now, it was a maxim of Alaskan etiquette never to ask where somebody was from, but Jim had a badge that said he could ask anyone anything anytime. "Where you from?"
" Arizona," Gallagher said promptly.
Jim smiled. "Jeez. It's a lot warmer there come this time of year. What brought you north?"
"Heard there were jobs here."
Jim gestured at the trailer. "You heard right."
"Yeah," Gallagher said. "It pays well."
"It must, you said that twice," Jim said. "Maybe I should quit troopering and hire on with Global Harvest."
Gallagher grinned, but it seemed forced. "Maybe you should. Although I hear state employees do okay in Alaska."
Jim laughed. "We do all right," he said. "Wonder if you could do me a favor."
Whatever Gallagher was expecting, it wasn't that. "Sure. I guess. If I can."
"Might be some guys driving snow machines down the valley later on. Two, maybe three of them. If they stop in, be helpful if I knew who they were."