by Fire
It hadn't occurred to her that she might have been of more use to Laura out of jail, and so held her hand, but she was so filled with righteous triumph that he knew pointing this out to her now would mean nothing.
Wife, mother, murderer. She was positively glowing with righteous wrath. If Patrick Fox could put that same glow on display to a jury, Becky Gilbert had a fighting chance at a reduced sentence, possibly even an acquittal. He had to admit, the prospect did not fill him with dismay.
He nodded at the scrap of paper. "You call him, and you tell him I gave you his number. You tell him every single thing you told me, and you let him decide what's best for you to do."
She fingered the paper uncertainly. "I don't have any money to pay a lawyer."
"Let him worry about that, too," he advised her. When she still looked hesitant he said, "Look, Becky, the judge will appoint you a lawyer anyway. This guy is going to be better than anyone you'll draw from the pro bono pool or the public defender's office, believe me."
Her face softened. "Don't look so worried," she chided him. "I'll call him. And I'll be fine."
She was comforting him, this woman who, not four hours before, had willfully, deliberately, and with malice aforethought taken a knife to a man in one of the most calculated and brutal murders Liam had ever seen. "I know you will," he said. "Let's head on over to the jail, shall we?" He opened the door for her and paused. "Becky?"
"What?"
"I suppose you don't know who killed Bob?"
Her face creased with remembered sadness. "No. No, I don't. I wish I did." She looked up at Liam. "He came here for me and Laura, and he stayed for Laura. It was all for Laura."
All for Laura, Liam thought as he helped Becky into the Blazer. So many Newenham lives had been bound up in Laura's, one way or another. Bob DeCreft had wanted to provide for her, Becky Gilbert had wanted to protect her, Cecil Wolfe had wanted to lay her. Richard Gilbert had wanted to ignore her. Bill Billington wanted to give her a hand up out of her adopted gutter.
Liam Campbell, now, what did he want for Laura?
He just wanted to find her father's murderer.
* * *
SIXTEEN
Early the next morning, a Monday, the phone rang. Liam sat up from his sleeping bag nest on the post floor and groped for the receiver. "Hello? I mean, Alaska State Troopers, Newenham post, Trooper Campbell speaking."
A vaguely familiar voice, raspy and irascible, said, "You got a pencil I got those buyers for you."
Liam blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"This Campbell or what?"
"This is Campbell, who's this?"
"Sparky, and I've got those buyers for you." The voice began reciting names, spelling out the last names as if it didn't trust Liam to get them right.
"Whoa, hold it, slow down, let me find a paper and pencil."
"Hurry it up, I haven't got all day."
Liam got to his knees and scrabbled around his desktop, shivering in the early morning chill. "Okay, go."
Again, the voice read out the names. "That's Wolfe with an e on the end of it."
"Got it." Two six-hundred-dollar Icom handheld radios had been purchased by Cecil Wolfe, along with four Kings, in February of this year. "Because we only had two Icoms in stock," Sparky growled in answer to Liam's question. "Wolfe didn't care about the brand, he just wanted 'em tuned to the same frequency, so that's how I sent 'em to him. I got the notes on the order form right here."
Six handhelds all together. That fit: one each for two planes and three boats, plus a spare for the plane. If a radio on one of the boats went out, they could signal to each other from deck to deck. Hell, Liam thought, as close as they were traveling the day before, they could shout from deck to deck.
But the spotter was on his, or her, own. Hence the set bolted to the dash, plus the handheld backup, plus the backup for the backup. Wolfe wasn't a guy willing to miss out on an opener due to problems with electronics. And a man who paid a million bucks for a boat wasn't going to boggle at an extra six hundred for another radio. "What about the two Sonys?"
"The cheapies? Got them, too, but it was three of them. They were one order, sold over the phone to a Larry Jacobson, that's Just-a-can--"
"Jacobson; I've got it," Liam said. Three radios: one for the Mary J., one for the Yukon Jack, one for Wy and Bob.
"His address is--"
"I've got that, too."
"Want his phone number or you got that, too?"
"No, I've got that, too. Uh, sir, what is your name?"
"Sparky--why do you think we call it Sparky's Pilot Shop?"
"Okay, Sparky, thanks a--"
Click.
"--lot," Liam said to the dead line. "You've been a big help. I really appreciate it." He put the receiver down and stared at the opposite wall with a meditative expression. Outwardly calm, he was experiencing a slow, steady interior burn. He picked up the phone and dialed a number he had already memorized. "Hi, it's Liam. Can you come down to the post? Yes, right now. No, it can't wait; find someone else to take them to Manokotak."
Fifteen minutes later she walked in the door, apprehension combined with belligerence in her eyes.
Liam was dressed by then, and sitting at his desk with the contents of the inventory of her Cub spread out neatly in front of him. "Hello, Wy. Have a seat."
She perched on the edge of a chair. "I haven't got much time, Liam, I--"
"You'll make time for this."
Her eyes widened a little as she took in his expression, one she had not seen on his face before today. His gaze was hard, his mouth held in a stern line, and suddenly she saw what had frightened many a perpetrator into surrender and a blurted confession over the years. "What?"
He waved his hand at the inventory before him. "Recognize this stuff? I took it out of your plane the last day you flew it. The day Bob DeCreft died."
She nodded, wary now. "So?"
"So, does anything seem to be missing?"
A slight flush rose into her cheeks. "Not that I can see."
He beckoned her forward. "Take a closer look; be sure." His eyes met hers. "Be very sure."
Slowly, she rose to her feet and stretched out a hand to pick through the items.
The wrappings from the Pop-Tart, the Snickers bar, the MandMore's, the Bazooka bubble gum, the Reese's peanut butter cup. "Regular junk food junkies," she said, trying to smile. He didn't smile back, and her eyes dropped to the desk.
"The new map's mine, the old map was Bob's. You know where and how we got the floats. Same with the walrus tusk. Not a very good one-it's broken off near the root--but it's ivory, so ... Okay, my survival kit: two firestarter logs, Bob's parka, my parka, my Sorels, Bob's Sorels." She pointed at the plastic Pepsi bottle. "Bob's pee. Ick, I can't believe you've still got that. That's my clam gun and bucket; I always carry them with me when I know I'm making a beach landing. You never know when you'll hit the tide just right." She picked up the gloves one at a time. One was a cotton painter's glove, the second a woman's Isotoner, and the third a man's worn leather work glove. None of them fit Wy's hand. "I don't know where these came from. Probably passengers dropped them." She paused. "And those are the two radios."
"The radios you used for backup in case the big radio you have bolted to the dash fails." She nodded. "What about the third handheld?"
She went very still. "What third handheld?"
He shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair shot backward and crashed into the wall. She flinched. "The third handheld I found shoved beneath the backseat. The Sony. The cheapie, as Sparky of Sparky's Pilot Shop refers so affectionately to it. The cheapie Sony bought by Larry Jacobson in March of last year, along with another one exactly like it that I saw sitting on the control panel of the Mary J.! The handheld I found tucked away in your bedroom dresser night before last! Wrapped in a blue silk scarf that I vividly remember being used for something other than concealing material evidence in a murder investigation, by the way!"
He
was shouting by the time he finished. He paused, glaring at her. She stared back at him, stricken.
"You were spotting for the Jacobsons and McCormick on the side, weren't you? I've been up there with you, Wy, I know what it's like now. Bob sat in the backseat and talked to Larry, you sat in the front and talked to Wolfe. Didn't you? Didn't you!"
She was white-faced and trembling, and mute.
"Jacobson bought the radios before last year's herring season, and you said Bob DeCreft observed for you last year, too, so I figure you tried it out last year and worked all the bugs out of it and tried it on again this year. Wolfe figured it out, didn't he? And he didn't waste time getting mad--he got even. First he had your Cub trashed, then he sank the Jacobsons' boat, beating up Kelly McCormick in the process, who I figured caught Wolfe's man in the act and got the shit kicked out of him for it, and then--" Liam reached in the drawer and slammed the envelope containing her check down on the desk. "And then Wolfe stiffed you for over half of what he owed you. Right?"
"He was dead when I got down to the boat," she said steadily.
"And aren't you lucky he was!"
"What?"
"Jesus, Wy, you're a walking, talking motive for murder! You contracted to Wolfe to spot herring for him and his boats, and only for him and his boats, and then your very first year on the job you double-cross him with one of his rivals. He finds out about it and wrecks your plane and takes half this year's paycheck in retaliation. Nice of him not to take it all, but then he probably wanted to keep you on the leash for next year, and what better way to do that than to keep you just broke enough to stay in business but to still need his to get by?"
She said nothing. "And," he said, his voice rising again, "and he hits on you. You had three good reasons to kill the guy, Wy, and those are only three that I know of. How many more are there?"
She still had no answer for him. He could feel his temper bite into him, and battled it back. "Also lucky for you, at two a.m. this morning Becky Gilbert confessed to the murder of Cecil Wolfe."
She looked up then, shocked. "What?"
"Becky Gilbert killed Cecil Wolfe," he repeated.
She was having difficulty taking it in. "Becky Gilbert? The minister's wife? You've got to be kidding!"
"She's Laura Nanalook's mother," Liam said curtly. "Wolfe raped Laura the day her father died. He'd done it before. He would have done it again. Becky found out, and killed him. Tell me why you did it, Wy." Their eyes met. "Tell me why, goddammit!"
"I needed the money," she said simply.
He watched her with angry eyes, arms folded, waiting.
She sighed. Her eyes closed and her head fell back. "The business took every dime I had. You know, I told you back then that I wanted to run my own air taxi someday." She opened her eyes and looked at him.
He gave a curt nod.
She sighed again. "This was it. I knew it as soon as I met Jeff Webster and he showed me around, as soon as I saw the office and the hangar and the house, and the planes. And met the people. And got to know the place." She paused. "And I had to have something. I had to be busy. I had to not think of you."
"Save that," he said shortly.
"All right," she said, submissive. "But it's true." She blinked back what might have been a tear. He'd seen Wy cry only twice, that last day in Anchorage and yesterday when she heard how much she was going to make on her herring check, but the hard knot of anger burning in his gut wouldn't let him acknowledge the emotion he thought he saw now. "And then there was Tim. I found him, I--I guess you could say I rescued him." She tried to smile. "You know that old saying, about how if you save someone's life, you're responsible for it forever after? It's true." She added urgently, "It is true, Liam. Tim is mine now, and I would do anything, I will do anything to keep him safe."
The same way Bob DeCreft would have done anything to provide for Laura. He said, "Anything, including double-crossing your employer."
"Yes," she said simply.
"Anything, including lying to me."
"Liam--"
"You should have trusted me," he said implacably. "After all we had together, you should have trusted me."
She lost her own temper then, shoving her chair back in turn. She leaned forward, hands flat on his desk. "After all we had together? You smug, selfish, self-righteous jerk! I'll tell you what we had together, Liam! We had a thousand dollars in phone bills, most of which I paid because I had to call you so it wouldn't show up on your phone bill, and a four-night stand in Anchorage! That's all we had together!"
He was struck to the heart, and stung into retaliation. "So what are you doing hanging around me now? You figure having a state trooper on a string is going to make you look better to the judge when it comes time for the adoption to go to court? Just a little something to make up for nearly being charged with murder?"
"And afterward you didn't call, you didn't try to come after me, nothing, it was like I didn't exist!"
"I was honoring your decision! You said it was over!"
"And you searched my house! I invite you in for dinner and you search my house! Where the hell do you get off turning a social invitation into an opportunity to invade my privacy!"
"Gee, forgive me for doing what I'm required to do when I'm trying to find a murderer!"
She wasn't listening. "You know what I hate? Not the lies, and the deception, and the sneaking around, although all that was bad enough. What I really hate is that I fell for a coward."
He was outraged. "What!"
"I fell for a coward," she said, as implacable as he'd been. "You came after me like a freight train, there was no stopping you--and if there is any truth in you at all, you'll admit that I tried to, more than once." Her furious brown eyes bored into his blue ones. "You roared into my life and flattened everything in it and roared out again. You're just pure hell at roaring through, Campbell."
"What was I supposed to do, I--"
"You were supposed to leave me alone in the first place!" she shouted. "And if you were too weak to do that much, then the instant you realized what was happening between us you should have marched right home to Jenny and said, I'm sorry, I've met someone else, I want a divorce!"
Liam opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Instead, you arranged that little getaway in Anchorage. "To see if it's real," you said." She curled her lip. "Like we needed proof. You were just hedging your bets. Admit it, you wanted me, but you were afraid of what would happen if you asked for a divorce, afraid of what your friends would say, of what your boss would say." She paused, readying herself for the cruelest cut of all. "You were afraid of what your father would say. You were afraid he would say that you were just like your mother."
He was so angry that he feared he would hit her. "Get out," he said in a rusty voice.
"Don't worry, I'm gone," she said. "You stick with what's safe, Liam. That's what you're good at."
The door closed silently behind her on its hydraulic hinge.
Liam stood there, impotent with rage. It boiled over. "Goddammit!" he bellowed, and swept everything from the top of his desk to the floor.
The cap on the Pepsi bottle came loose and Bob DeCreft's piss spilled all over Wy's sleeping bag.
It turned out that Bill Billington had an industrial-sized washing machine and dryer in the back of her bar. She was pleased to offer Liam their use. When he saw the ironing board and the iron, he went back to the post and fetched his uniform. It took two refills for the iron to generate enough steam to smooth the wrinkles from the dark blue slacks and the blue jacket.
The shirt was easier. When he finished, he held it up, admiring it. After Liam's mother had left, his father, the complete air force officer to whom an unpressed uniform was an act of sacrilege against God and country, had taught himself how to iron a uniform shirt so that the creases down the arms were sharp enough to draw blood. He had passed this skill on to Liam as soon as the boy was tall enough to stand over the ironing board. Jenny, a child of we
alth and privilege, hadn't known an ironing board from a lawn mower, and the knowledge had come in handy before and after his marriage.
The washing machine cycle ended and he loaded the sleeping bag into the dryer.
And then he put on his uniform--light blue shirt, dark blue slacks with a gold stripe down the outside of each leg, dark blue tie-adjusting badge and nameplate, buckling on his belt and holster, shrugging into the shiny dark blue jacket, getting the round crown of the flat-brimmed hat just so.
For the first time since landing in Newenham, he felt dressed.
When he stepped out of the back room into the bar, Bill was arguing politics with a patron. "I don't care what those goddamn Europeans are doing to each other. We've already saved their asses twice--three times if you count the Marshall Plan. Enough! As far as I'm concerned the only thing worth going to war over in recent memory was Jamaica shooting down Jimmy Buffett's plane. We should have invaded the sonsabitches over that."
She gave the bar a swipe with the bar rag for emphasis and caught sight of Liam in all his glory. She paused, subjected him to a comprehensive study from head to toe and back again, and pursed her lips in a long, low whistle that managed to be admiring and salacious at the same time. "Damn, Liam. I don't know whether to salute or just genuflect and get it over with."
"I'm starving, how about making me a burger and fries instead?"
"Anything for Alaska's finest," she said, and bustled into the kitchen. "Is it true what I hear: Becky Gilbert's hired Patrick Fox to defend her?"
"Is that what you hear?"
Her head popped into the pass-through, and bright blue eyes regarded him shrewdly. "That's what she's done. Where'd she get his name, I wonder."
"Beats me," Liam said unhelpfully.