“What are you going to do with it?”
Liam looked at the last of his cheeseburger with regret, and savored it as it went down. “I had the M.E. test a sample of Nelson's tissue. He and McLynn had been getting their drinking water out of the Snake River. They'd been filtering it, of course, for beaver fever. But Nelson had traces of benzene in his body.”
“I repeat,” Charles said, very controlled, “what are you going to do with the journal?”
“I don't know,” Liam said. His brow creased in deep thought. “Wy's a friend of that reporter Nelson wrote to,” he offered. “Do you think she'd be interested?”
Charles's mouth set in a thin line. “Cut the crap, Liam. What do you want?”
“I want you to dig up that dump east of the archaeological dig,” Liam said promptly.
“Do you know how much that would cost?”
“Nope,” Liam said. “Don't care, either. Dig it up and dispose of it properly. And I'll be checking, Dad. Wy and I will be doing fly-bys on a regular basis. Dig it up, move it out, dispose of it, and I don't mean drop it in the Nushagak. I'll find out if you do, and I'll resurrect that journal and the results of that tissue sample. I'm pretty sure this was all your own idea, so I don't imagine the Air Force would be pleased to hear officially about it.” He smiled. “One thing for sure after that: you wouldn't have to sweat out any more promotion reviews.”
“You're blackmailing me,” Charles said.
“Oh, you noticed,” Liam said. “It's my first attempt, I was afraid it wouldn't go over. Yeah, I'm blackmailing you, and it's a damn sorry thing to have to do to your own father.” He wiped his hands and tossed his napkin down. “You raised me better than that, Dad.”
Thinking back on it now, on this lazy evening on the beach, he looked down at the powerful flow of the Nushagak and wondered what an analysis of its waters would produce. Maybe that was one of those things he was better off not knowing.
He wouldn't give Nelson's journal to Jo. He never would have, no matter what he'd said to his father. Jo was going to have to leave without her story. He hadn't even told Wy about what Nelson had written.
For better or worse, Charles was Liam's father, and if you were any kind of a human being, you looked out for your own. He hadn't told Charles that, of course. He wasn't sure he ever would. But he had used Nelson's journal to start the fire which was cooking their dinner.
For now, he had a hot dog so burned it was about ready to drop off the stick onto the fire, just the way he liked them, and a bun prepared with mustard, onions, relish, shredded cheese and jalapeño peppers, just the way he liked them. He was sitting next to the woman of his choice, that goddamn raven was keeping his distance, and… “Wy?”
She was absorbed with putting the finishing touches on her own hot dog. “What?”
“I know you were really young when you left the village and moved to Newenham, but do you remember any Yupik?”
She looked up from the bun upon which she was lavishing mustard. “Some. A few words. Like the word for storyknife.” She said it, and it still sounded like “yawning ruin” to him, just like it had when Frank Petla said it.
“What about ‘tookalook’?”
“What?”
“ ‘Tookalook,’ ” he said. “I heard it for the first time this week, and I was wondering what it meant.”
“Tookaluk. Tookalook. Um, maybetulukaruk?”
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “That's just the name of the dig.”
“Yeah,” she said, heaping chopped onions on the bun. “And raven.”
Overhead, the raven clicked,k-k-k-k-k-krACK.“Tulukaruk means raven?”
“Uh-huh.”
Liam thought about that afternoon on the island beach, with the hundreds of walrus between him and Old Walter. The old man had said two words. “Tulukaruk. Asveq.” Raven. Walrus. Had he seen a raven, there on the beach that afternoon? He said, “How long did you say Tim was going to be gone?”
“You didn't answer my question,” she said severely. “Why did you say, ‘Oh yeah,’ like that when I asked you if your father was gone?”
He fell in love all over again with her reproving frown and abandoned the hot dog to the fire to pull her into his arms. She came willingly and they tumbled down next to the big driftwood log they'd been leaning against. “God, you feel good.” He looked down into her face, at her eyes, her skin, her mouth, her hair. Maybe another man wouldn't see what he saw, maybe another man wouldn't see the beauty and the intelligence and above all the strength, but then maybe that was what made her the only woman for him. “You could live without me, couldn't you?” he said suddenly.
“I have,” she said simply, and smiled. “But I'd much rather not. If I have a choice.”
“You don't,” he said, and kissed her. He had her shirt up and her bra open and then he was cupping her breasts, biting her nipples so that she whimpered and arched her back, instantly ready. “That's what I love most about making love with you,” he murmured. “The way you respond. You go off like a rocket when I barely touch you, don't you?” He laved the nipple he'd bitten with his tongue. She moaned, her breath coming faster, and he felt like the king of the world. He slipped the snap of her jeans and slid a hand between her legs. “You're wet, ready and waiting for me. Only for me, Wy.”
“Please,” she said, “hurry.”
“I don't want to hurry,” he said. “I like you needy.” He rolled her to her back and captured her hands to hold them over her head.
“Liam.”
His free hand wandered, down, up, in. Her breath caught and her hips moved against his hand. He sought out another spot with his thumb and rubbed, oh so gently. Her eyes squeezed shut and she arched and cried out, and he watched with immense pleasure as a deep, dark flush rushed up over her breasts and throat and face. “You are so easy, Chouinard. How many times can I make you come?”
She opened her eyes to meet his. “That was one,” she whispered, and he was on her and in her before the last word was out of her mouth.
It was almost dark, or as dark as it gets in August in Alaska, and the fire had burned down to a steady bed of dark red embers. They lay breast to breast, and Liam could feel the slow thud of her heart next to his, the skin of her back warm against his palm. Jimmy's right, he thought through a haze of contentment. Maybe twenty-four hours, maybe sixty good years, it's not that long a stay. This was what made the sixty years good.
She stirred. “So Walter's home now?”
“Yeah.” He shifted and pulled her closer. “I could have charged him with obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact, but hell, he's just lost his lover, their child and his father. Going home to an empty house that is going to stay empty for the rest of his life is punishment enough.”
“Why did he do it? Old Walter? Why did he kill her, all of them?”
“He had a problem with booze. He used to live in Anchorage but he spent most of his time between Fourth Avenue and Cook Inlet Pre-Trial. The last time, about four years ago, right after Walter's wife ran off with the vipso, Young Walter flew to Anchorage and brought his father home. Kulukak's a dry town, but Newenham's only a plane ride away. I finally got Mike Ekwok to tell me that Old Walter was in the bag more often than not. I'm figuring he was fairly well oiled that Sunday night.”
“But why, Liam?”
“Molly Malone was pregnant.”
Wy raised her head. “I don't see why-”
“It was her husband's baby, or so she told Young Walter. It was David's baby, and she was going to have it and be a good mother and a good wife and that was why they had to break things off. Young Walter didn't believe her. He made the mistake of telling his dad so.”
“Still, why-”
“Wy, never try to understand a drunk. Young Walter says that when he came home that night, Old Walter told him his son's son was free of hisgussukmother, that his spirit had been released to return when Young Walter took another wife, a proper daughter of the walrus this time.�
��
“A ‘daughter of the walrus’?”
Liam thought of the walrus head mounted on the wall of the Larsgaard kitchen, of the lack of remains of Old Walter on that gray sand beach. “Apparently Old Walter had something of a fetish for walruses.”
“Oh.”
“Like I said, don't try to make a drunk make sense. It'll drive you crazier than he already is.”
“Still…” She pressed against him, seeking comfort. “To shoot seven people-”
“Eight, if you count the baby.”
“Eight-I-Liam, I can't imagine ever getting that drunk.”
“Not many people can, and we should be grateful.” He ran his hand down Wy's spine. A boat went by, but it was far enough off-shore and the driftwood log they were lying behind was high enough that they were hidden from view. He noticed Wy hadn't bothered to check, and smiled to himself. “Max Bayless saw Molly Malone and young Walter together last summer. I talked to him on the phone last week. Bayless won't come right out and admit it, but young Walter says he tried to blackmail him. He told Bayless to shove it. I think he was hoping that Bayless would tell David, that it would force a situation so Molly would leave David for him. Well, Bayless told him, all right, but all David did was fire him.”
And start an affair with Tanya Bernard, he thought. The dates were about right, and she was ripe for the picking. Poor little Tanya.
“Luckiest thing that ever happened to Max Bayless,” Wy said. “If he'd still been David Malone's deckhand, he'd be dead today. What about Frank? What's going to happen to him?”
“Frank is another matter. He assaulted a state trooper. Frank's going away for a while.”
“And McLynn?”
“McLynn will never take another free step in his life, not so long as I have breath in my body.” Liam's hand strayed to rub lightly at the bandage on her arm. “I'm sorry for this, Wy.”
She raised her head. “What? Why? You had nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “Yes, I did. I should have taken McLynn's personality into account. Every sentence he started began with ‘I’ or ‘My.’ ‘Artifacts I have excavated over the summer,’ remember? ‘I was going to stop him.’ Nelson didn't help him on the dig, Prince wasn't with him when he tried to stop Frank. A guy who can see only himself in any picture is someone you don't turn your back on. And I should have listened to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You're very observant, Wy. You'd have made a good cop.”
“Thanks, I'll stick to flying.”
“You told me exactly what McLynn did when you landed at the dig. Something about that bothered me, but I was paying more attention to you than I was to the case. As the calypso poet says, I've got to learn to play all of my hunches. McLynn went to the camp tent first, not the dig tent like he usually did, you said.”
She sat up. “I didn't even think-he meant me to find Nelson's body, didn't he?”
“Let's say he didn't want to be the one who did find Nelson's body. And the dig tent flap was tied, wasn't it?”
“From the outside!” She was indignant. “That prick!” She looked down at him. “Did I tell you how I got the shovel away from him?”
His chest shook with a laugh. “About fourteen times.”
“Oh.” Silence. “I was standing facing him, see, and I went into Horse Stance, hands at-”
She squealed when he rolled over on her and started tickling her.
The voice came to them from the top of the bluff. “Wy! Wy?”
“It's Jo, Liam, let me up.”
“Jo and me have got to talk,” he mumbled, disgruntled.
“Jo?” Wy called. “What do you want?”
“There's somebody here who wants to talk to you. He's coming down.”
“Wait a minute!”
“Too late, he's coming down.”
“Shit!” Wy said, scrambling for her clothes. She got one leg into a pair of jeans, realized they were Liam's and threw them at him. “Get dressed!”
Getting naked with Wy Chouinard had been a cherished goal for a very long time and Liam wasn't ready to get dressed. Grumbling, he did so, because he didn't know who this visitor was, and there wasn't anyone besides Wy he wanted to be naked with anyway. “Who is it?”
A log shifted on the fire and the flames blazed up as the man took the last step down in one big jump and landed with a thump in the sand. He was of medium height, with well-defined shoulders, a thick pelt of dark blond curls and a pair laughing green eyes.
“Oh my god,” Wy said.
Liam squinted at the man coming up the beach. “Who's that?”
Wy got to her feet. “Gary? Gary, is that you?”
The man saw her and broke into a grin. “Wy!” He sprinted forward, kicking sand up behind him, and grabbed Wy in his arms to swing her around in a circle. “Wy!” He kissed her, an exuberant and enthusiastic smack you could have heard on the other side of the river.
Liam stood up, at first astonished and then annoyed. He was afraid that anything that came out of his mouth would make him sound like a jealous fool, so he contented himself with brushing the sand off of his jeans, which he was suddenly very glad he had on.
After what seemed an inordinately long time Gary put Wy down and looked at Liam over her shoulder. “Gary Dunaway,” he said, and stuck out a hand.
Liam accepted it with reluctance and a nameless, nagging fear. “Liam Campbell.” Dunaway's handshake was firm and dry. Liam hated it.
“I figured. My sister told me about you.”
“Jo Dunaway? Jo's your sister?”
Gary nodded, grinning. It wasn't a humorous grin, Liam noted that right off, it was hard-edged and challenging and not very friendly at all. “Yeah, my sister the muckraker. Lincoln Steffens lives.”
Wy chuckled. She was flushed and smiling, Liam noted. “I always knew she was possessed by someone.”
“So that's how you know Gary,” Liam said to Wy, determined to relegate this guy into a safe, brotherly role.
Her smile faded. “Sort of. I went home with Jo for Thanksgiving, the first year we were in Anchorage. That's where we met.”
“And I followed her all the way to college,” Gary said, still grinning, still with that edge, still with that challenge.
Wy's laugh was weak and unconvincing.
Liam felt himself bristle, and told himself to knock it off. It wasn't like there weren't any women out there before Jenny.
Gary's grin widened.
In an instinct that went back to the caves, Liam stepped next to Wy and settled his hand at the base of her neck. He could feel the muscles tense beneath his palm, and he waited with a curious kind of fatalism for her to shrug him off.
She didn't. She looked Gary straight in the eye and said, every inch the polite hostess, “It's great to see you again, Gary. How have you been?”
Overhead, the raven stretched out his neck and gave a long, mocking croak.
Dana Stabenow
***
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So Sure Of Death Page 29