Liam followed the Jeep along a regulation route and pulled in next to them in front of the regulation Base Officers' Quarters, which naturally had the largest lawn, the nicest view and was the farthest away from those noisy runways. The M.P.'s got out, straightened their regulation uniforms and trod the regulation steps. The second waited for him, regulation door held open.
Liam interrupted his snide inner commentary with a pithy warning to pull up his regulation socks. Okay, he'd affronted his father, a career man, by refusing a similar life in the military, and he'd further annoyed Charles by being afraid to fly, thus condemning himself to a lifetime of not necessarily silent disapproval. That said, Colonel Charles Bradley Campbell was not the entire United States Air Force. Chinook Air Force Base was a pretty little base, neat and tidy, in a beautiful setting, and seemed prepared for action. The men and women stationed here were serving their country for a paltry remuneration and at considerable personal sacrifice, most of them far from homes and families. He brushed futilely at the dirt on his pants, squared his hat, thanked the men in the Jeep with grave courtesy and climbed the stairs, trying not to feel that he had descended from the tumbrel only to ascend to the guillotine.
There was a comfortably furnished sitting room, with chairs and couches and tables and lamps scattered here and there. A writing desk sat in one corner, furnished with notepaper, envelopes and pens. A small refrigerator hummed in another corner. A baseball game played on television, courtesy of the satellite dish on the roof outside. An open window looked toward the river and the opposite bank, a mile away. At night you could probably see the lights of Port of Call, the tiny little village perched at the eastern edge of the river mouth. Every five or six years a winter storm took out more of that sandy bank, and every year those who refused to give up and move into Newenham moved their houses back another ten feet.
The room held only one occupant. Charles Bradley Campbell flicked off the television and rose to his feet. The M.P.'s stiffened into braces and snapped off salutes. “Colonel Campbell? This is Alaska State Trooper Liam Campbell. He says he's looking for you.”
Liam's father gave Liam's uniform the once-over and his brows drew together. “I'm not sure I should claim him, boys.”
The boys didn't risk a smile.
“Dismissed,” Charles told them, and they fell back a step, pivoted and marched out.
“Dad,” Liam said.
“Son,” Charles said. He held out a hand. Liam took it. His father's grip was warm and strong and didn't linger. “How have you been?”
“Swell,” Liam said.
One dark eyebrow went up, but all his father said was, “I was sorry I couldn't make it back in time for the funeral.”
“Either of them,” Liam heard himself say.
The eyebrow came down. “I called you.”
“Yes.” Both times.
“I was on duty when Charlie was buried, Liam,” Charles said in a level voice. “In the Gulf.”
Translation: I was under arms, serving my country in the front lines. Personal considerations must be sacrificed when the fate of the nation hangs in the balance. “I know,” Liam said.
“And as for Jenny, it happened so fast. I couldn't have made it back in time.”
You fly jets at twice the speed of sound, Liam thought. You couldn't have signed one out for a cross-country check ride, two days there and back again? “I know,” he said again. “I'm sorry.”
His apology was less than sincere and they both knew it, but it gave them room to move on. “What happened to you?” Charles said, indicating Liam's uniform.
“I fell into a lake.”
Charles sat down and waved a hand. Liam brushed at the seat of his pants and sat down opposite him. “How did you do that?”
“I was in pursuit of a suspect.”
Charles smiled. “Did you catch him?” Liam nodded. “Good. That's all that matters, then.”
Not quite all, Liam thought. “What are you doing in Newenham?”
Charles shrugged and sat back. “The 611th Engineer Squadron is doing a risk assessment study of Chinook Air Force Base, prior to an evaluation as to its continued viability.”
Liam fast-forwarded the words through a mental decoder, militaryese to English. “They thinking of closing the base?”
“It's a possibility.”
Chinook Air Force Base funneled a lot of cash into the Newenham economy. Combined with the last disastrous fishing season and the one currently in the making, the closing of Chinook might provide the third strike, you're out. It would severely impact Liam's job as well; an economic downturn invariably coincided with an upturn in alcoholic intake, and alcohol already fueled eighty percent of the offenses on his arrest reports. Child abuse, spousal abuse, assault, rape, murder-he could look for increases across the board. “Sometimes I think the fall of the Berlin Wall wasn't entirely a good thing.”
“It's not a done deal,” Charles said, “or even a sure thing. But with long-range jets and midair refuelings, we can police the North Pacific very efficiently from fewer and more centrally located bases.” He shrugged again. “And, as you say, the fall of the Wall hasn't provided an incentive for Congress to continue to pour funds into national defense. The Cold War is over, we won, and it's time to stand down.” A lift of his lip told Liam what Charles thought of Congress's take on the situation.
“What will happen to the base?”
“That's what we're working on now. The Air Force is committed to a safe community reuse of its former facilities.” Charles sounded as if he were reading from a press release. “The base has a lot of potential. We're reaching out to the local Native association. The state Department of Transportation is interested. It could even be turned into an extension of the University of Alaska, bunkhouses for dormitories, plenty of classroom space in the admin buildings. You could put an aviation school here; you've got runways and hangars and fairly consistent weather. Maybe set up an AirSea Rescue training facility. Or perhaps a fish-processing operation. But like I said, it's not a done deal. I'm here to talk to the base commander and his staff, and to evaluate their operation, see how necessary it is to the Alaska Defense Command.”
“They pick you because of your time at Elmendorf?”
“My familiarity with the Alaskan Air Command didn't hurt.”
“How long will you be here?”
“I don't know. A week, ten days, maybe.” Charles changed the subject. “I met a friend of yours this morning.”
In spite of everything he did to prevent it, Liam's shoulders tensed, and Charles's twenty-twenty pilot's vision spotted it right off. “Who was that?” Liam said.
“A local pilot, name of Schwenard.”
“Chouinard,” Liam said automatically, and cursed himself. Hell. Might as well go the whole route. “Wy Chouinard.”
“Ah. What kind of name is Wy?”
“Lakota Sioux. Short for Wyanet. Means beautiful.”
“Um.” Charles was good at those noncommittal noises that said nothing and meant everything. It was part of Liam's patrimony, and a useful adjunct to his interrogation technique, but he wasn't in the mood to be grateful today. “She mistook me for you at first.”
Liam refused to be drawn. “Well, you know how men in uniform all look alike.”
Charles laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. “I don't think that was it.” He raised his brows, a clear invitation for Liam to confide in him.
Liam thought about what his father would say if he knew that Liam and Wy had had an affair before Jenny's death, and decided to keep his own counsel, although exactly why was beyond him. Why should it matter what Charles thought of him? It wasn't like the older man was around all that much, it wasn't like they had anything in common to begin with, it wasn't as if anything in Liam's life was predicated on the fact of their kinship.
And it wasn't like Liam knew exactly what his relationship with Wy was at present, anyway. He remained silent.
Charles's expectant smile faded,
and he said in a flat voice, “I also met the other trooper for the area. An Officer Prince?”
Liam relaxed, just a little. “Yes. She's new. Just arrived today, in fact.”
“She's also a pilot, she tells me.”
Liam nodded. “The troopers are looking for pilots nowadays.”
Yet another conversational pit yawned in front of them. Charles Campbell had done his best to cure Liam, stuffing his ten-year-old son into the cockpit of a Piper Tri-Pacer and talking him through endless takeoffs and landings, but Liam's fear was real, visceral and debilitating to the point of making him physically ill. Charles had persisted with recreational flying trips to Talkeetna and Seldovia and Iliamna, up until Liam was sixteen and reached his full height, six feet three inches, and could look Charles straight in the eye and say, “No.”
Liam supposed he should be thankful for Charles's attempts, as they had taught him just how tightly he could hold his sphincter muscles, a habit which proved invaluable when he became a trooper and flying into remote communities became part of the job.
But he wasn't.
Unwisely, Charles said, “Ever thought of trying to learn again yourself?”
“No.”
Subject closed. “She's a looker,” Charles said. “Your new trooper,” he added when he saw Liam's moment of confusion.
With an effort, Liam recalled Prince to mind. “I guess so,” he said.
“You guess so?” Charles chuckled. “I know so.”
Liam's gaze sharpened. “You're here for a week, ten days tops. Don't.”
If anything Charles's smile widened. “She's a grown woman.”
What could Liam say? It was true. He got to his feet. “I'd better head back into town.”
“What's the rush?” Charles said, rising in turn. “I thought you caught the guy.”
“I caught one. I'm working two cases at the moment.”
“What's the other?”
“A mass murder in Kulukak.”
“A mass murder? How many?”
“Seven.”
Charles grimaced. “Ouch. Sounds like a battlefield.”
Liam shrugged, the movement an unconsciously perfect copy of his father's, a smooth integration of muscle and bone that made both men look like big, lazy tigers just before they attacked. “Dead is dead,” he said, not quite lying and not quite telling the truth, either. “Can I hitch a ride into town?”
Charles's brows went up. “How did you get here?”
“Prince flew the perp I caught back to Newenham. There wasn't room in the plane for all three of us, so I drove his four-wheeler here. It was a shorter drive to the base than it was to town.”
“What do you want to do with the four-wheeler?”
“Somebody else can pick it up. I'm not driving it another inch, let alone forty miles.”
Another officer passed them as they came out of the building. He saluted Charles and did a double-take at Liam. “Hey, you the guy who jumped out of the plane? Man, are you crazy?”
Charles's head whipped around. The other officer said to him, “You should have seen it, sir. We saw this Cub buzzing around about ten miles west of here, and we started monitoring things through the scope. And then this guy bails out, just bails out and splashes down into a lake.” He shook his head, half in admiration.
Liam said shortly, “I don't know what you're talking about,” and followed his father to a row of trucks lined up in front of a bull rail; Detroit-issue steeds with government plates and Air Force brands on the doors. Charles climbed into one, Liam took the shotgun seat and as they rolled through the base gates Charles said, “Just how did you apprehend your suspect, Liam?”
“Have you talked to Callahan lately?” Liam said. “Last time I saw him, must have been fifteen years ago. Has the old bastard taken retirement yet?”
And they spent the forty miles of gravel road between Chinook Air Force Base and Newenham talking of old acquaintances from Anchorage and Elmendorf. One thing about Campbell Senior, he could take a hint. If he wanted to.
He dropped Liam in front of the trooper post, came inside ostensibly to check out Liam's office, really to see if Prince was there, which she wasn't, and made a date with Liam for dinner the following evening at Bill's. Liam stood on the porch, watching the truck go around a corner and out of sight. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “You're a pilot, not an engineer.”
He went back inside and called his father's office in Florida. It was six o'clock Alaska time, which made it ten o'clock Florida time, so there was no answer. Tomorrow, he thought, hanging up the phone.
He tried the number David Malone had had on file for Max Bayless, and got the not-in-service message that began with those three loud and infinitely irritating tones that jarred the phlegm loose in his sinuses. He called Directory Assistance. The phone on the other end rang thirteen times-he counted-and then was answered by a breathless voice that had to rise over the noises of squabbling children in the background to inform him that she had no listing for a Bayless, Max, a Bayless, Maxim, a Bayless, Maximilien, or a Bayless of any kind, for that matter. A dead loss to the state of Alaska of sixty cents.
Prince walked in. “You been to the hospital?” he said.
She nodded. The gesture didn't look as painful as it had a couple of hours before. “I'm okay. They gave me some pain pills if I need them.”
“You need them?”
“No,” she said firmly, and made her report. She had managed to get Don Nelson's body on the last plane out to Anchorage. Frank Petla was locked up in one of the six cells located behind the local police department's dispatch office, waiting on arraignment. If Liam couldn't talk Frank around his request for a lawyer, he would have to delay further interrogation for either an early return of silvers, which would precipitate an equally early return to town by local public defender Cecilie Lundren from her fish camp up the river, or request a public defender from Anchorage. The way the fishing season wasn't going, it looked like requesting a P.D. from Anchorage would be preferable, although with state cutbacks it would probably be a week before one showed.
There was no longer any pretense in the American judicial system of a swift and speedy trial, Liam thought. So much for the Sixth Amendment.
But the sooner Liam informed Bill Billington of Don Nelson's death and Frank Petla's apprehension, the sooner she could swear out a felony warrant and the better for his chances of a conviction. Liam dearly loved convictions, and he didn't want this one screwed up because he'd violated the doctrine of habeas corpus. Too bad Frank Petla couldn't be tried before Bill. The letter of the law did not worry Bill a great deal, and her trials, conducted at Bill's Bar and Grill with Bill presiding over the bar and before a Greek chorus of bar patrons, most of whom were a little worse for the wear, frequently achieved the level of performance art.
He thought of Teddy Engebretsen, defendant in the first of Bill's trials Liam had witnessed, and grinned involuntarily. “Sorry, Prince. No, go ahead. What else?”
The phone rang as Prince was finishing her report. Liam picked up the receiver and said, “One moment, please,” and covered the receiver with his hand. “Have you looked for a place to stay?”
Prince shook her head. “Well, go look. I'd recommend the local hotel. It's expensive but it's clean, and it has hot and cold running water.” She started to speak, and he overrode her. “You're off duty, Trooper, as of now. There's a truck in the lockup out back.” He fished for the keys in the desk drawer. “Eat, grab some sleep and be back here in the morning ready to fly.”
She looked eager. “We'll be going back to Kulukak?” He nodded, and she said, “I'll be here at eight.”
“Fine,” he said. “I'll be here at ten.” He waited until the door closed behind her before saying into receiver, “Alaska State Troopers, Newenham post, Campbell speaking.”
The blast from the other end of the line nearly knocked him out of his chair. “What the hell you mean, wait a minute! What the hell kind of way is that for
an Alaska state trooper to answer the phone! Supposing somebody was shooting me; was I just supposed to take a number while you got around to talking to me?”
Liam sat back up, crossed his feet on the desk and said, “Well, hey, John. How've you been?”
TEN
“Who the hell cares where I been! What's this I hear about you jumping out of airplanes!”
“News travels fast.”
There was a short, electric silence. “Jesus!” Barton spluttered finally. “You mean it's true?”
“Yup,” Liam said, and waited.
The explosion was not long in coming. Barton erupted into the phone, called Liam ten kinds of fool, questioned the legitimacy of his ancestors to the fourth generation, libeled his education, condemned his training and subjected his intelligence to a scathing review. He paused for breath, and Liam said sweetly, savoring the moment, “Just doing my duty, John. You know we troopers always get our man.”
Another eruption followed, and Liam waited it out, checking the level of paper in the printer tray, rearranging the inbox, the outbox and the to-be-filed box. By the time John ran down the second time, he'd closed two files, one for drunken driving and reckless endangerment on the road between Newenham and the Air Force base, one for sexual assault in the third degree, and had started on a third, embezzlement of funds from the local Native corporation. This last was being closed because there was no point in a prosecution, as no one could be found to testify for or against anyone else, no matter how much money was missing, and the person who had reported it gone had been fired and the person accused of stealing it named to the board of directors.
“Liam!”
The bellow broke his concentration. “John? You still there?”
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