“Oof!” With a look of astonishment, Liam backed up a step and sat down hard on the four-wheeler seat he had just vacated.
“Hey,” Prince said, eyes blinking open. She was sitting on a deck chair retrieved from inside the tent, one hand holding her head up. McLynn, his arm bound, appeared to be dozing in his chair.
“You suicidal son of a bitch!” Wy said, eyes blazing. “That is the last time you go up in a plane with me, I don't care how much the frigging state is paying! You could have been hurt! You could have beenkilled!” She wound up and hit him again, this time her clenched fist hitting him flush on the nose, and he was so befuddled he went backward ass over teakettle to fall heavily on the opposite side of the four-wheeler.
“Hey,” the man cuffed to the back of the four-wheeler said, “fight!” He peered around himself with shortsighted eyes.
Prince rose to her feet, shaky but determined. “All right, that's enough.” She managed to grab hold of one of Wy's arms.
Wy, unheeding, continued to shout, the volume steadily increasing. “You've got a death wish, fine, throw yourself off the deck of that derelict you're sleeping on! Jump in front of a truck! Get yourself shot by some drunk in a bar, I don't care!”
Liam raised himself to his knees. He gulped in a welcome breath of air and felt his belly. It was sore but it was still there. He tried hard to keep the grin from spreading across his face, and failed. “And to think I wasn't sure you cared.”
It only fanned the flames. “You miserable prick!” She actually came around the four-wheeler and pulled back her foot to kick him, and was thwarted only when Prince caught both her arms this time.
“All right,” Prince said, probably as sternly as she could with her head beating like a tomtom. “That's enough.”
Wy wrestled free and would have clocked her, too, if Liam hadn't managed to get up and catch her fist in one hand. She tried to kick him in the shins then, which he thwarted by catching her foot and holding it in the air. He shook his head at Prince when she made as if to grab Wy from behind. “Stop it, Wy,” he said, his firm tone belied by the grin, which had managed to spread all over his face and whose beam could probably be seen from orbit. “You hit her and you're assaulting a police officer.” The grin widened impossibly further. “Hit me again, and it's a lover's quarrel.”
She was visibly trembling with rage, a thing Liam had read about but never actually seen. “Fine,” she said. He had her by her right hand and her left foot, and she had to give a little hop to maintain her balance. Tight-lipped, she said, “Will you please let go of me?”
“Certainly.” All the same, he took a cautious step backward before he did. She turned and marched off to the borrowed Cub, parked precariously near the edge of the bluff and bearing all the signs of a hasty exit. She unfastened the cowling and became preoccupied with the engine, which Liam had reason to know was already in perfect shape. Her own Cub was parked more decorously at the opposite end of the makeshift airstrip.
He managed to get his grin under control before he returned to the tent area, and humor vanished as soon as he stepped inside the far tent and saw Don Nelson's body. He crouched next to it, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Rigor had gone off; the joints were loose. Lividity was fully established. A rough guess would put Nelson's death somewhere in the past two days, sometime over the weekend, probably. Judging from the amount of blood at the scene, he'd been killed where he'd been found. The sooner they got the body to the M.E. to narrow it down, the better. It was hot, probably seventy-five, eighty degrees inside the tent, and even now the corpse was deteriorating. The smell wasn't as bad as it had been on board theMarybethia,but it was bad enough, and it would grow if the body was left there much longer, the decay that caused the smell taking precious evidence along with it.
Nelson's mouth was partly open. Liam leaned forward and pulled down gently on the jaw. There appeared to be a hole at the back of Nelson's throat, which would confirm what Wy had told him about Nelson's wound. It was too dark to make out details. He never carried his flashlight in the summertime, damn it.
“Here,” Prince said from the tent flap, handing him hers. Of course she would be wearing a full belt.
He thanked her and clicked it on. The light revealed a horizontal and surprisingly neat wound at the back of the throat. He peered beneath the skull and saw the exit wound, partially hidden by lividity and the hair at the base of the skull. It looked as if the weapon had been wider at the entry point and narrower at the exit. Rough marks not unlike that of an open hand planted palm down smudged the skin of Nelson's forehead and eyes.
“Looks like a knife wound, all right,” Liam said, getting to his feet. “And then somebody pulled it out.”
EIGHT
The owner of the four-wheeler had fallen asleep, his head sunk to his chest at an awkward angle. “You know this man?” Liam asked McLynn.
“No,” said McLynn, who looked pale and strained but alert. “Looks like he's from the village.”
“A village,” Liam said, agreeing, “but which?” He walked over to the four-wheeler and put his hand on the man's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.
The man woke up with a phlegmy snort. “Whuh? Whazzat?” He blinked at Liam. “Who you?”
“I think that's my question,” Liam said. The man looked confused. “Who are you, sir? What is your name?” Start with the easy stuff first, the information they had no reason to lie about.
“Frank,” the young man said, willingly enough. He seemed less out of it that he had been when apprehended, although the smell of alcohol that emanated from his breath and clothes was still strong. His voice was low, and, like the Kulukak elders, he had the accent of someone who had grown up speaking Yupik at home and English at school.
“Frank what?” Liam said patiently.
“Frank Petla.”
“Where are you from, Frank?”
Frank took time out to remember. “Koliganek.”
Koliganek was a Yupik village halfway up the Nushagak River. “What are you doing so far away from home, Frank?” Liam said, perching on the four-wheeler seat, folding his arms and assuming the mien of someone who had all the time in the world to shoot a little breeze. It was after four o'clock, the afternoon sun was warm on their faces and a light wind was keeping the bugs off. His uniform was damp and uncomfortable, but he ignored it. He heard Prince shift restlessly behind him and turned his head to give her a warning look. Her eyes widened, and she subsided. Wy had moved from the borrowed Cub to her own, cowling up, head down in the engine, back turned to the others, the set of her spine a clear indication that he was still being ignored.
“Fishing,” Frank said. He could have added, What else? but he didn't. Liam's uniform, damp or not, had finally registered. “You a trooper?”
“Uh-huh,” Liam said peaceably.
Frank gave his wrists a futile tug. “You the one got me tied up here?”
“Yeah.”
Frank frowned a little, thinking. “You jumped out of a plane.”
“Sure did.” Although it was something he'd rather not think about.
Frank was impressed. “Jesus, man, you coulda killed yourself.”
From the corner of his eye Liam saw Wy's back stiffen. “I had to talk to you, Frank.”
“Jesus,” Frank said again. “You're worse'n the Mounties.”
Liam smiled. “Why, thank you, Frank. I don't think anyone's ever made me a nicer compliment.”
Frank's expression indicated that a compliment was not exactly what he'd had in mind. Awareness, and with it truculence, settled over him like fog down a mountain.
Liam did not depart from geniality. “What were you doing up here on the bluff, Frank?”
Frank tried bluster. “I don't know what you're talking about. I wasn't up here, I was minding my own business, riding my four-wheeler around, when you come flying out of the sky. You threatened to shoot my ass off,” he remembered suddenly. He became indignant, or pretended to. “Waving that gun
around like nobody's business.”
“Speaking of waving a gun around-” Prince said hotly.
“Trooper,” Liam said. He didn't raise his voice, but she shut up, jaw closing with an audible snap. He smiled at Frank. “I've got this problem, Frank. Maybe you can help me.”
Frank eyed him suspiciously but didn't say he wouldn't.
“I've got a couple of people assaulted on this bluff, right here, less than two hours ago, by someone we think drove in on a four-wheeler.” He clicked his tongue. “I'm sorry to have to say it, but yours was the only four-wheeler around.”
Frank tried bravado. “That don't mean nothing. Hell, everybody's got a four-wheeler in this country.” He jerked his head in the direction of the air base. “The goddamn military's got a dozen, they're all over the place looking for stuff that falls off their planes. Not to mention shooting moose they got no right to,” he added bitterly.
“You're probably right, Frank,” Liam said, nodding. “Still, I have to say we did a pretty thorough search from the air, and yours was the only vehicle we saw anywhere near here.”
Frank hunched a shoulder. “Not my problem.”
“Probably not,” Liam said. He waited.
Frank grew uneasy in the silence. He tugged at the cuffs, and tried whining. “Man, can't you loosen these up? My hands are hurting.”
“I'm sorry, Frank,” Liam said, shaking his head sadly. “I can't do that.”
Frank tried belligerence. “Why not? You got no right to hold me, man, I'm a Native. You got to turn me over to my elders.”
“Your elders are about eighty miles northeast of here,” Liam said dryly, “and I don't think they're going to want to have anything to do with you anyway. Village elders don't hold with murder any more than the state does, Frank.”
Frank tried bluster again. “I don't know what you're talking about, man.”
Liam became serious. “I think you do, Frank. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.” He saw the panic in Frank's eyes, and dropped his voice to a confidential level. “Look, Frank, I know how it is, you get a few drinks in you, you get in a fight with your girl, you climb on the four-wheeler and light out. You drive out over the tundra, you wind up here, you don't really know how, and you find a couple ofgussuksmessing with the bones of your ancestors.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, eyes locked to Liam's. “Messing with my ancestors, man.”
“So you lose it. You coldcock one, you let off a couple of rounds at the other, winging him-nice shooting, Frank, by the way.”
“Thanks, man,” Frank said involuntarily.
“So you did shoot him,” Liam said softly.
Frank tried panic. “No! I didn't shoot nobody! I don't even have a gun!”
Liam looked surprised. “You don't? Well, gee, Frank, who does this rifle belong to, then?” He picked up the.30-06 he'd leaned against the left front tire. “You had it when I caught up with you.”
“I found it,” Frank said. “It was laying on the ground.” Inspired, he added, “I almost ran over the top of it with my four-wheeler, man. Somebody must have dropped it.”
“Maybe a hunter,” Liam suggested. “Sure,” Frank said eagerly. “A hunter.” Liam scratched his chin. “Well, maybe that's so, Frank.” He paused, and looked skyward for revelation. “It's a pretty nice rifle, guy what owns it must take pretty good care of it. Doesn't look like it's been laying out too long.”
Frank hunched a shoulder.
“What do you think he was hunting?” Liam said.
“What?” Frank said. “Who?”
“The man who lost the rifle,” Liam said patiently. “What do you think he was hunting?”
“I dunno,” Frank said, bewildered. “Ducks, I guess. Geese? Plenty of those around, this time of year.”
“Well, sure,” Liam said, warmly congratulatory. “Ducks and geese.” He paused, and added reluctantly, “Of course, they aren't in season at the moment. Another month or so to go before you can even buy a duck stamp.”
Frank forced a smile. “That don't mean nothing out here.”
“No,” Liam agreed. “You're surely right about that, Frank.” Frank brightened, until Liam added, “Of course, I don't believe a lot of hunters go after ducks and geese with a thirty-ought-six, now, do they? You'd have to be a mighty fine shot to do that, wouldn't you?”
“I dunno.”
“A shotgun would be more likely for someone looking to bring home some birds for the stew pot, now, wouldn't it?”
“I dunno,” said poor Frank.
“And I think any hunter worthy of the name takes better care of his firepower than to leave it lie in a swamp somewhere.” Liam shook his head disapprovingly. “Lousy thing to do to a fine piece of equipment like this here Winchester.”
“It's a Remington,” Frank said. “A two-eighty. Oh.” He looked wildly around for support and found none.
“It's your rifle, isn't it, Frank?” Liam said sorrowfully.
“I guess so,” Frank said, looking ready to burst into tears.
“And you shot this man and hit this trooper with it, didn't you?”
Too late Frank realized what he'd admitted to and tried desperately to backtrack. “I never shot nobody!”
“I can see how it would happen,” Liam said, ignoring Frank's outburst to paint a revised scenario. “You're fishing out of Newenham, you're between periods, you borrow a four-wheeler and you come here to visit the village. Maybe your folks come from here, and you've come to pay your respects.” Liam folded his hands and did his best to look pious. “But maybe you had a few before you came, and when you got here you found two people poking their noses in where they didn't belong.”
“Now, wait just a minute!” McLynn exploded. He was on his feet, and feeling much healthier, if the look of outrage on his face was any indication. “This man was grave-robbing! I got here and he was stuffing all the artifacts that I had excavated over the summer into a bag!” He pointed, triumphant. “That bag right there, tied to the handlebars!”
Liam looked thunderstruck, and slid the drawstring of the dark blue nylon stuff sack from the right handlebar to hold it aloft. Its contents pressed against the sides to cause interesting bulges in the thin fabric. “This bag?”
“That exact bag!” McLynn stood where he was, glaring. “I was going to stop him and he shot me!”
“Frank,” Liam said, his heart broken. “This can't be true.”
“I didn't shoot anybody,” Frank said obstinately.
Liam emptied the contents of the sack on the ground.
McLynn pounced. “There, there's the carvings we found in two-E, probably amulets. This is the needle we found in five-F, and this is the awl we found in six-C.”
“And this?” Liam held up what looked very much like a knife carved from a translucent length of bone. It had a short hilt, carved with figures long since worn to little more than faint ridges, and a short, wide, slightly curved blade that came to a sharp point. There was blood on it, dried brown and flaking, but it was something Liam had seen too often to mistake now.
Frank looked frightened. He said nothing.
McLynn hesitated.
“That's a storyknife,” Wy said from behind Liam.
He'd known she was there and didn't jump, but Prince and McLynn did. “What's a storyknife?”
Too interested in the artifact to maintain her attitude of frozen fury, she took the knife and held it up. “I've got one of these. Mine's made of ivory. It's much smaller, though. This is beautiful. Look at the carving on the hilt. And it's old, too.” She lowered the knife and looked at Prince. “It's a toy used by young Yupik girls. They take their younger siblings down to the riverbank and carve stories into the sand. Teaching stories, mostly, about kids who disobey their parents and are subsequently killed and eaten by monsters.”
Prince chuckled. “That'll teach 'em, all right.” She winced and put a hand to her head.
“I'm surprised to see one here, though,” Wy said. “I th
ought storyknifing was a custom practiced only on the Delta. North of the Kuskokwim Mountains, anyway.”
McLynn came forward and nipped the storyknife out of her hands. “Yes, well, that's all very well, but it is an important part of my research and my paper-”
“That's the knife we saw sticking out of Nelson's mouth when we found the body,” Prince said.
“I thought it might be,” Liam said, and took the knife from McLynn. He looked at Frank.
“I didn't do it!” Frank said frantically. “I found the sack! It was laying on the ground!”
“Right next to the rifle, I bet,” Liam said.
Frank didn't even hear him. “I didn't take nothing! I didn't shoot anybody! I didn't kill nobody! I didn't do anything! I want a lawyer!”
There were six people, one of them dead, and two 2-seater planes, not to mention a pilot with a bump on her head. “Can you fly?” Liam asked Prince.
She managed a nod, although it looked painful.
“No shit, now, Prince,” he said sternly. “Are you fit to fly?”
“Yeah, no shit,” Wy said, the owner of the plane Prince was about to strap on.
“I can fly,” Prince said shortly.
Wy surveyed her with a narrow stare. Prince met it without flinching. “All right,” Wy said at last. She really had no other option, not if she wanted the Cub back at its tiedown that evening, and she knew it. She had an early flight the next morning, too, into a strip like this one that the Cessna was too heavy for, and she wasn't sure how many times the dentist from Anchorage was going to let her borrow the other Cub. “What about you?” she said, staring fixedly at a point somewhere above Liam's right shoulder. “We're flying full. How do you get back?”
The afternoon sun glinted off the rooftops of the Air Force base, ten miles to the east, and Liam, unwillingly, was put forcibly in mind of Moses' announcement of Colonel Charles Bradley Campbell's arrival in Newenham, and his request to see his only son and heir. It was a reunion Liam would just as soon take place in private. “You take McLynn back. Prince will take the suspect and the body.” To Prince he said, “Take Frank here to the local lockup. Get Wy to show you where. Take the body to Alaska Airlines. Get it out to Anchorage on the next jet. I'll call the M.E.” Which crusty old bastard would have a few pithy things to say on the subject of filling up his morgue. “I'll take the four-wheeler over to the base and hitch a ride in from there.”
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