He was silent for a moment. “So Fitz is really dead.” Almost inaudibly he added, “And Dad.”
“Yes. They’re both dead. But not completely gone.” She took a deep breath, trying to channel the air around the sharp but not entirely unexpected pain of the admission.
“I guess I was lucky,” Johnny said.
“What? Why?”
“I had Dad for twelve years,” Johnny said simply. “Much as Mom tried to mess it up, tried to keep me away from him, I had Dad for most all of that time. We were good friends. Best buds.”
“That’s more than a lot of sons can say about their fathers,” she said cautiously.
“More than Fitz could say.” He looked at her, but she couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light. “Bernie’s not a very good father, Kate. I think maybe he uses it all up on the kids on his basketball teams, and he just doesn’t have enough left over for his own kids.”
She couldn’t deny it, so she started the truck instead. The rest of the journey was accomplished in silence. As she swung wide to pull into the narrow entrance to her access road, headlights flashed in the rearview. In spite of herself, her heart, that usually reliable organ, skipped a beat. She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.
She stopped smiling when the lights, approaching swiftly, pulled even with her rear bumper and then pulled left to pass without waiting for her to get clear of the road.
She heard a loud crack, and for a split second thought the other vehicle had clipped her bumper, except that there was no corresponding lurch of her pickup. In that same moment, the driver’s-side window disintegrated. Mutt was on her feet, barking wildly.
“Kate!”
“Get down!” She fought to hold on to the wheel with one hand as she reached around Mutt and caught the back of Johnny’s neck with the other, catapulting him down in front of the bench seat. At the same time, she double-clutched into second gear and hit the gas. The rear wheels spun.
Another crack sounded, and the rear window splintered. Mutt barked, once, and then yipped, and then gave a soft whine, and then she slid off the edge of the seat and fell on top of Johnny.
Kate screamed something, she didn’t know what, and forgot everything she knew about driving on winter roads. She slammed on the brakes with both feet. The engine jumped and bucked and died, and the pickup went into a skid that brought the end of the pickup bed around to the left. They slid off the road, bumped into the ditch, and nearly rolled, tipping up on the right wheels for a long, dangerous moment before the weight of the truck brought them back down with a hell of a bang.
And there they came to a rest, buried in snow in the ditch, headlights pointing at the sky.
EIGHT
Afterward, Jim could remember the night only as a series of stop-motion flashbacks, as if he’d lived through it through the lens of a camera, one shot at a time.
Looking up from his computer to see Kate standing in the doorway, face drained of color, her eyes fixed on him in a painful plea, blood smearing the front of her shirt and jeans, enough on the bottom of her right shoe to leave tracks.
Johnny, white-faced and mute, a retreat into the shocked little boy on the front stairs of Bernie’s house.
The rubber track of her snow machine in shreds from traveling at full throttle over the twenty-five miles of near gravel between her place and town.
Helping her lift Mutt’s inert body from the trailer hitched to her snow machine to the back of his Cessna.
Kate sitting next to him in the Cessna, leaning forward against the seat belt as if she could tow the plane through the air faster.
Kenny meeting them at the Ahtna airport, a comforting bulwark against the unreality of the moment.
The expression on Jennie Pappas’s face when she saw who it was coming through the front door of her clinic like a freight train.
Kate’s dark head bent over the gray one in the harsh lights of the examining room, crooning something wordless into Mutt’s ear.
Kate fighting him when at the vet’s insistence he picked her up and carried her into the waiting room.
Johnny sitting across from them, hands dangling uselessly between his knees, staring vacantly into space.
The tick of the minute hand on the round plastic clock on the wall.
The scratched plastic of the bucket chairs.
For her part, Kate’s world had narrowed to the square of linoleum between the tiny waiting room and the marginally larger recovery room, where Mutt lay on a stainless steel table, her left shoulder shaved and bandaged.
“I don’t know,” Jennie Pappas had said. “She’s strong and healthy, but that bullet tore her up plenty inside. I’ve repaired the damage, but shock is a funny thing. It helped that you got her here as soon as you did.” Jennie, a pudgy fifty-something with a short bob of dark hair streaked with gray, gave a tired shrug. “We’ll have to wait and see. First twenty-four hours are critical.”
“I’ll wait.”
Jennie nodded as if she hadn’t expected anything else. “I’m going back home now, try to get a little sleep before I have to get back for regular hours.”
Kate surfaced enough to say, “Thanks for coming in, Jennie.”
Jennie gave a dismissive wave. “There’s a coffeepot and some snacks in the back. Help yourself.” Yawning again, she shuffled out the door.
Four o’clock became five o’clock, and five o’clock became six. Sometimes Kate paced. Sometimes she sat in the waiting room, hunched over her knees, hands clasped together, staring at the floor. Mostly she stayed with Mutt, finally levering herself up on the table and fitting herself against Mutt’s spine. There wasn’t any room for her. She did it anyway.
She didn’t think about who had done this, or why. She didn’t think about what she was going to do about it. She didn’t think about what happened next. She merely endured, a careful but proprietary arm around her dog, willing her to keep breathing in and out, willing the torn muscles to repair themselves, willing death to keep its distance.
After a while she fell into an uneasy doze.
“Kate?”
A voice came at her from far away.
“Kate?”
She blinked and after a moment her eyes focused on Johnny’s face. He was crying. It took a second to register. When it did, her heart simply stopped beating.
“No,” he said, and now she saw that he was laughing, too. “It’s okay. Look.”
She pushed herself into a sitting position, muscles creaking in protest, and looked down at her dog.
Who was looking back, great yellow eyes blinking at her owlishly. One ear twitched and Mutt whined, a clear question.
Kate felt the tears she had as yet been unable to shed well up and spill down her cheeks in a warm, blinding flood. “Hey, girl,” she said shakily.
She buried her face in Mutt’s neck and let herself sob out her relief.
How long?”
Jennie compared Mutt’s chart with the sound of the protest coming from the back of the building. Mutt had started howling the instant Kate left the room, and the other animals housed in the veterinary clinic started howling, meowing, clucking, snarling, grunting, and chirping in sympathy. The noise was deafening and there was a solid, substantial door between it and them. “I haven’t got a cage big enough for her. Is she going to behave?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, she can’t leave yet. She’s got to have a couple of days. I’m not going to sedate her, that’ll play hell with her recovery.”
“She won’t howl if I’m with her.”
“Then you stay,” Jennie said firmly.
So Kate sent Johnny back to the Park with Jim, and she spent the next five days in Ahtna. It was impossible to keep Mutt on the table after the first day, so Kate checked into a room at the Ahtna Lodge, where Tony and Stanislav hovered around like anxious uncles, proffering bowls of fresh beef chopped with raw eggs every five minutes. At first Mutt displayed little appetite, terrifying al
l three of them, but on the third morning she deigned to nibble, and by the fifth day she was licking the bowls clean. They walked back and forth to the clinic every day, half a mile one way. At first Mutt was stiff and careful, thinking out each step before she took it. It hurt Kate to see this usually swift and graceful beast reduced to the plodding shuffle of a breakdown, but Mutt was moving better the next day, and better enough by the third day that Kate felt able to detour by way of the Bad Ass Coffee espresso stand in the Eagle parking lot on their way to the clinic. Jennie was appropriately grateful for the vente quadruple latte, three sugars.
The sixth morning they went for their daily checkup; Jennie shook her head at the end of it. “What?” Kate said, alarmed.
“Nothing to worry about,” Jennie said, “I’m just amazed. And good,” she added, handing Kate a staggering bill, “very, very good.”
“Yes, you are,” Kate said, and went to the bank and got cash for the full amount in a plain white envelope and had it at the clinic inside an hour. “Can I take her home?”
“Can I stop you?”
Kate held out a hand. “Thanks, Jennie.”
Jennie took it in a warm clasp. “Glad to help. And you, you monster,” she told Mutt, standing next to Kate’s hip at her usual duty station, “stay the hell out of trouble, okay? Takes days for my regular patients, not to mention their owners, to get back to normal after you’ve been here.”
Mutt flattened her ears and wagged a placating tail.
“Uh-huh,” Jennie said, and gave her a rough scratch between her ears. “Get out of here, the both of you.”
There was a parade waiting for them in Niniltna, or so it seemed. George circled the village at fifty feet three times, running up and back on the prop pitch to make a wah-wah sound that shook the fillings in everyone’s teeth, and by the time they landed, a stream of villagers was on the way at quick march. Mutt was greeted like a conquering hero, everyone wanted a chance to pat her head and to congratulate Kate on Mutt’s recovery, as if Kate had had anything to do with it. Billy Mike came down the hill, a smile lightening the care on his moon face. Bonnie Jeppsen closed the window in the post office and came out, followed by everyone who was checking their mail. Heather brought all the old farts up from the Riverside Cafe(accute)—Heather Meganack, that was. Laurel had brought her cousin in to run things while Laurel helped out at the Roadhouse. Old Sam toasted Kate and Mutt with a raised mug and winked. “Good to see you girls,” he said, and there was a chorus of agreement. That day Kate and Mutt could do no wrong, and Kate understood why, but it was nevertheless very pleasant to be welcomed back so warmly.
The four aunties pushed forward last. Mutt ducked her head modestly—a four-auntie salute was not to be sneezed at—and was subjected to a minute inspection, ear to tail, which she endured patiently, after which the four aunties stood back and declared the work to be good and the dog to be well.
Auntie Joy underlined this benediction with a sharp nod. “I remember that puppy we give you, Katya, when you come home from town that time.”
“Alakah,” Auntie Balasha said with a sigh. “We don’t know then if you going to make it.”
“Either of you,” Auntie Edna said.
Auntie Joy shook her head sadly. “Skinny little runt, abandoned, alone, sick, starving.”
“And you not much better,” Auntie Vi said, shaking her finger in Kate’s face.
“You heal each other,” Auntie Balasha said.
“Do it again,” Auntie Joy said.
At which time Bobby mercifully pulled up and they were able to make a break for it. Auntie Vi shut the door behind them and then made a motion for Kate to roll down the window. Her face hadn’t smoothed out from the strain Kate had noticed the week before at Enid’s potlatch. “I be out soon.”
Kate knew a sinking feeling in the region of her heart, which had already been given something of a workout over the past week, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything but say meekly, “Okay, Auntie.”
Auntie Vi gave a regal wave of her hand that came perilously close to the sign of the cross. Bobby took that as permission to put the truck in gear, which he did.
Bobby dropped them in the clearing. She saw the bed of her pickup poking out of the garage. “Thanks for rescuing the truck, Bobby.”
“Jim did it. I just helped.” He surveyed her. “Tough week.”
Her laugh was a little shaky. “Yeah.”
“You sure you don’t need anything else, Shugak? Dinah told me to bring you home with me. She’s ready to take you both on as permanent residents.”
“I need to be home,” she said. “So does Mutt.” She opened the door and got out, followed by Mutt, who descended in stately fashion, a distinct and to Kate painful contrast to her usual gravity-defying bound. Kate closed the door and smiled through the window. “Thanks for salvaging the wrecks, Bobby.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t forget my finder’s fee.” He put the truck in gear.
“Tell Dinah and Katya hi.”
“Tell ‘em yourself!”
The tricked-out Ford Ranger roared off into the trees. The engine noise faded away, and Kate looked down at Mutt, who contrary to usual practice had remained at her side. “Aren’t you hungry, girl?”
Mutt walked over to the stairs and limped up them to the deck, where she paused to look over her shoulder. “Okay,” Kate said, and let them in. Mutt padded over to the rag rug in front of the fireplace, turned around three times, and curled up, burying her nose beneath her tail. Welcome homes were wearing on the invalid. Kate started a fire in the fireplace, let her hand rest on Mutt’s head for a moment as Mutt slumbered on, oblivious, and went into the kitchen and got out the flour.
Baking bread was the only viable alternative to taking her .30-06 down to the trooper post and using it on Louis Deem.
She felt anger licking around the edges, threatening her composure. She recognized it, acknowledged it, and tamped it down with deliberation. For one thing, Mutt knew when she was upset, and she didn’t want Mutt upset until Mutt was completely back on her game. For another, she wouldn’t allow her personal inclination, no matter how strong it was, to in any way mess up the case against Louis Deem.
Howie Katelnikof had taken the shots at them, most likely at Louis Deem’s instigation. She didn’t need any evidence to prove it, she knew it in her bones, she’d known it almost from the moment she heard the first shot. Six years of an uneasy truce shattered with Mutt’s shoulder.
She wondered if Howie’d been aiming for Mutt, or for Johnny. The rage began to rise up again, as it had every time she’d begun thinking about the attack over the past week.
But Howie was only a pawn in this war, a foot soldier, a red shirt. She could reach out and touch him any time she wanted to, and she would make it clear to him that she could at her first opportunity. Intimidating jurors at Louis Deem’s behest was one thing. Pissing off Kate Shugak was something else altogether.
The grand jury went into session next week, and Judge Singh had promised to move the trial to the top of her docket. If all went well, Louis Deem would be a resident for life in the Spring Creek Correctional Center in Seward before the month was out. Rotting in jail was better than rotting in the ground.
She chanted it like a mantra, willing herself to believe it, while occupying her hands in measuring out flour, salt, yeast, and warm water. She stirred them together and turned the resulting dough out on a floured board to rest while she washed out the bowl. Ten minutes later, she began kneading flour into it, a handful at a time, until the dough was smooth and elastic and barely sticky. It was a strong dough and it took a full twenty-five minutes to do the job. She could feel it in her shoulders when she was done. She was still a little sore from the bruises she’d gotten when her truck was shot out from under her, when Mutt—
The gray lump on the hearth hadn’t moved. Kate walked over and rested a hand on the warm flank, just to be sure, and was comforted by the steady rise and fall.
The baguette recipe didn’t call for it, but she oiled the bowl anyway and turned the dough so that it was lightly coated, having learned from her first attempts that, left unboiled, the dough would grow a skin that would inhibit rising. She covered the bowl with a damp cloth and left it to rise while she puttered around the house, cleaning her bathroom, shuddering at Johnny’s, pitching out those leftovers in the refrigerator that had been allowed to play host to foreign invaders, washing clothes. It kept her hands busy and her mind blank.
When the dough had doubled in size, she had a decision to make, and she gave it the attention Dwight Eisenhower might have given logistics for the D-day invasion. The recipe called for three risings. So far, the first two had been successful, whereas the third had failed every time, the yeast just wearing out before the loaves had reached baking size. She’d tried everything to effect a comprehensible translation from French boulangerie to Alaskan kitchen, adding more yeast, reducing the amount of flour, doubling the rising time. Nothing had worked. This time she decided to do away with the third rising altogether, to shape the loaves for baking after the first rising, the way she would ordinary white bread. She quartered the dough and shaped each piece into a tubular loaf. Air squeaked out of the dough in protest. She rolled the loaves from the center out until they were the length of her longest baking sheet, brushed on the lightest possible coat of oil, and left them to rise again beneath a loose layer of Saran Wrap.
She checked to see that Mutt was still breathing. She was. Kate filled a pan with water and set it next to Mutt in the event the dog ever woke again, put another log on the fire, and sat at the kitchen table to go through the pile of mail Johnny must have stacked there over the past week.
Johnny. She looked at the clock. Two in the afternoon. Allowing for Ms. Doogan’s lab project, he’d be home in two hours. Good. The house was too quiet.
She pushed the mail away and went upstairs to get the book she’d been reading. Julian Barnes’s essays on the art of cooking at home, including one where he proposed the assigning of hangmen’s nooses, one to five, to each meal depending on how well it was going and how hungry the guests were getting while they waited. She curled up on the couch.
A Deeper Sleep Page 13