Midnight Come Again

by Dana Stabenow

  Either that or prohibit the manufacture, sale and consumption of alcohol entirely, which hadn’t worked real well the last time the country had tried it. And wasn’t working real well, come to think of it, in those Alaskan Bush communities that had chosen to go damp or dry during the last ten years. Mostly because they wouldn’t stay damp or dry, in spite of an eighty percent drop in alcohol-related crimes such as drunk driving, robbery, sexual assault and murder when they did. He remembered the last bootlegger to inhabit the Park, and his removal, vividly. The Kate Shugak Extraction Method was quick, he’d give it that. As well as effective. And longlasting. There hadn’t been a bootlegger within a hundred miles of Niniltna since.

  “She was in here in March,” Bernie said, and Jim snapped to attention. “I don’t know when she came, I don’t know when she left. We were busy as hell that night—breakup, you know how it gets around then—so by the time I got over to her table she wasn’t there anymore. Weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  Bernie shrugged, brow creased. “She always sits at the bar. This time she was at that table.” He pointed at the small circular table tucked into the corner farthest from the bar. He frowned, and began scrubbing the bar again. “First time she’s ever been in here that she hasn’t even bothered to say hello.”

  Take a number, Jim thought. “She meet anybody?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Who was in that night?”

  “Oh, hell.” Bernie abandoned the rag. “Everybody. Old Sam, Demetri Totemoff—he’s moving around pretty good, now—the Grosdidier brothers drinking down their weekly case of Michelob. Vi and Joy were having their quilting bee, knocking back the Irish coffees like Brazil was running out of beans the next day. The belly dancers were in the back room, the Presbyterian congregation had the big table. Mac Devlin was hustling for mining leases, like usual, making one Oly last all night. Ben and Cindy Bingley.”

  Jim raised an eyebrow. “Cindy come unarmed?”

  Bernie smiled. “They’re behaving themselves nowadays. Couple of beers, couple of dances and they’re outta here. Whatever Kate said to them last spring must have took.”

  “Who else?”

  “Dandy Mike and Dan O’Brian.” Bernie grinned. “Both of them chasing Cheryl Jeppsen, I might add.”

  Jim stared. “Cheryl Jeppsen? Cheryl Jeppsen of the Kanuyaq River Little Chapel? Cheryl Jeppsen the I-been-saved-now-how-about-you? Cheryl Jeppsen, the self-appointed moral arbiter of all things godly in the Park? Dan and Dandy are chasing that Cheryl Jeppsen?”

  Bernie chuckled. “Cheryl’s fallen off the born-again wagon. She walked out on her husband and got a job changing sheets at Vi’s bed and breakfast. In her off time, she’s catching up on what she’d been missing, and from all I hear tell, she’d been missing it a lot.”

  “I’ll just bet she had,” Jim said. A reminiscent smile crossed his face. “I remember her before she ate the apple.”

  “So do I,” Bernie said, and looked around hastily to see if Enid had come in without him noticing. His wife had an unnerving habit of sneaking up behind him when he was in the middle of conversations just like this one, and hearing all the wrong parts out of context, too.

  “So? Who else?”

  “God, Jim, I don’t know, everybody. The Moonins, the Bartletts, the Kvasnikofs. George Perry. Billy Mike. Everybody.”

  Great, Jim thought. Too many people to talk to tonight, even if he could track them down in the middle of fishing season. Well, it had been a forlorn hope at best. He rose. “Thanks, Bernie. I better be going while I’ve still got light to fly.”

  “Why are you looking for her? There isn’t something going wrong with the trial, is there? Nobody trying to beg off on a technicality?” Bernie’s words were light. His tone wasn’t.

  Jim shook his head. “Nope. They’re up for murder times six, attempted murder times four, assault and accessory to attempted rape. If they were found guilty on only one charge, they’d still be going down.”

  “Christ.” The bar rag swiped slowly down the gleaming surface of the bar, and back up again. “I didn’t know about the attempted rape.” The rag stilled, and Bernie looked up, all levity gone. “What the hell happened out there, Jim?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Only what Old Sam and Demetri have said, which isn’t much, because they’re both witnesses and can’t talk about it, or that’s what they say. Myself, I think they’d just rather not, which tells me a whole lot right there.” He paused, hopeful, but Jim said nothing, and he sighed and continued. “The word is that George organized one of his back-to-the-basics big-game hunts for a bunch of rich Euro cowboys, and Kate, Demetri, Old Sam and Jack signed on to guide for him. Next thing we know, Old Sam’s home with his leg broke and his arm shot up, Demetri’s in the hospital with a perforated lung, and Kate’s back on her homestead with the ‘No Visitors’ sign up in neon letters twenty feet high. And then people started bringing newspapers into the bar, and we heard about Jack. And the rest of them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  “What they said. What you read.” Jim drained his glass and dropped a couple of ones on the bar. “Gotta go.”

  “Jim?”

  “I’ll find her, Bernie. You know how she is, she won’t make it easy, but I’m a trained law enforcement professional.” Jim pulled his cap on with unnecessary force and screwed it down over his ears. “I’ll find her.”

  “Good,” Bernie said.

  Jim wasn’t sure if Bernie believed him.

  He wasn’t sure he believed himself.

  Bobby dropped him off at the airstrip just as George Perry was on his last approach of the night into Niniltna. Jim climbed back out of the Jet Ranger and waited for the Super Cub to taxi up to the hangar.

  The pilot saw him as soon as he stepped down from the plane. “Hey, Jim.”

  “Hey, George.”

  “What brings you into the Park on such a fine night?” George tried to smile, but the events of the preceding fall had taken their toll on him, too, and it was a poor effort. Both men couldn’t help but remember the scene that had met their horrified gazes on the airstrip at George’s hunting lodge south of Denali National Park. There had been too many bodies, seven in all, one of which Kate had to be separated from forcibly before they could load it into the plane.

  The dead had outnumbered the living by one. Jim didn’t like to think about it even now, with ten months between him and that terrible day.

  By his expression, neither did George. Jim got right to the point. “Have you seen Kate lately?”

  George, in the act of opening the Cub’s cowling, paused. “No.”

  “When was the last time you did see her?”

  George turned to face Jim, a spark of anger lighting his eyes. “They aren’t going to let them go, are they? You didn’t forget to read them their rights or something stupid like that, did you?”

  “We aren’t letting them go,” Jim said wearily, “and no, I didn’t forget to read them their rights. I’m looking for Kate, is all. When was the last time you saw her?”

  George stared at him long enough to decide Jim was telling the truth. He turned back to the cowling. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

  “Try to remember. It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  George’s shoulders slumped. “Look, she’s been through enough, all right? Leave her alone.”

  Old Sam had said almost those same exact words when they had landed at the strip ten months before. Leave her be.

  “I need to know where she is, George.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” George said. His words had the ring of truth to them, but Jim had been a state trooper for more than fourteen years and he knew when someone was telling him the truth but not all of it. He waited.

  With a muffled curse George slapped an open hand against the Cub’s fuselage, causing the fabric to undulate in little waves. “I saw her in March, at
Bernie’s. She said she was leaving the Park for a while. She asked me for a lift to Anchorage. I took her that night.”

  “Where’d you drop her off?”

  “Spernak, at Merrill. Last I saw, she was heading for a phone to call a cab.”

  “She say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “She say how long she’d be gone?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Jim paused. “When was this, do you remember? What day, I mean?”

  “The fifteenth. The ides of March.” A glimmer of a smile. “Why I remember.”

  There was something else, though. “What?” Jim said. “What else, George?”

  George took a long, deep, steadying break. “Something wrong with her arm. Her right arm, above the elbow. She had it wrapped up, but there was blood seeping through. She wouldn’t let me take a look.”

  “What did she say happened?”

  “I knew she wouldn’t tell me, so I didn’t ask.”

  They stood without speaking, trying not to think back to the last time they’d seen Kate Shugak hurt. “Okay,” Jim said finally. “Thanks, George.”

  George watched the tall trooper walk to his helicopter and climb in. The rotors whined into motion.

  “Bring her home, Jim,” he muttered as the Ranger lifted off and headed high, fast and northeast for Tok.

  “Just bring her home.”

  3

  He don’t talk right, don’t

  Know when to sit down, get up.

  He make too much talk talk.

  —Gisakk Come, He Go

  “We’ll have to go in without her,” Gamble said.

  “What do you mean we, white man?” Jim said. “I’m the one you’re asking to go into a Bush village—”

  “Over five thousand population,” the FBI man protested. “That isn’t exactly a village.”

  “—with no backup, not even the local cops—”

  “Some of the local cops may be in on it. We won’t know which ones. We can’t risk it, not right away, not until we know more.”

  “—undercover—”

  “The uniform does have a way of alerting certain people to the presence of a police officer, now, doesn’t it?” The FBI agent gave Jim a benign smile and folded his hands over his belly, a comfortably plump little shelf at odds with the thin torso, the stick legs and the spindly arms. The toupee was such a mismatch that at first Jim had thought Gamble was wearing a beret.

  Gamble wasn’t much over forty-five, but he worked at projecting the benign air of an elder statesman. Jim decided that if Gamble patted him on the shoulder, he would bite Gamble’s hand off at the wrist. In the meantime, he continued enumerating his objections in a pleasant voice.

  “—all because some informer who once helped you catch a Russian smuggling nesting dolls—big bust, that, by the way, really help the climb up the old promotional ladder—anyway, a Russian smuggling nesting dolls into the country tripped over his own feet in the Anchorage International Airport and says he saw some Russian bad guy getting on a plane for Bering?”

  “And we don’t know how long he’ll be there,” Gamble said, pouncing. “He won’t leave until the money dries up, that’s for sure, and that means he stays until the last dog is up the river. That gives us what, five, six weeks?”

  “More like eight or ten, the run’s later on the Yukon and the Kuskokwim. And you don’t even know what this alleged bad guy is up to, by the way. If anything. For all you know, he might have gone straight.”

  This was the lamest of Jim’s arguments against and they both knew it. The Fibbie was tactful enough not to point it out, but then he wanted something and it behooved him to be diplomatic.

  They were sitting in Jim’s office at the trooper post in Tok, a sleepy little town of twelve hundred hardy souls whose only reason for being was that it sat at the crossroads of the Glenn and AlaskaCanada Highways. It was the last stop out of Alaska, sitting sixty-odd miles from the Canadian border as the crow flies, longer by road. Jim had been stationed there for the last ten years, and he knew his posting better than the back of his own hand; every little town, village and homestead, every mayor and village elder and all the girls most likely to. He was on a first-name basis with every bootlegger, every dope dealer, dope grower and dope peddler. He knew who leaned toward fishing behind the markers or up a closed creek, or toward commercial fishing a subsistence site and selling the catch to an Outside buyer on the side. He knew who took bear in season and out, and who flouted the wanton waste law by harvesting only the gall bladder for sale to Asian smugglers.

  The Park rangers were assured of backup when they called him in to arrest some guide who, after twenty years of holding a license, still couldn’t manage to follow the game laws. Village elders knew he would fly in at the first call when trouble got too big in the villages for the village public safety officer to handle, and that he could and would shoulder the weight when the family and friends of the arrested gathered to boo and hiss, in a way their local police never could. The Pipeline operators knew he would be there when some welder got drunk and hijacked a Cat with intent to bulldoze an entire pump station, or took off in the pump station manager’s Suburban on a trajectory for the Calgary Stampede.

  He was on call, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and they knew that, too. Fixed wing or rotor, whatever it took, First Sergeant Jim Chopin would have it in the air within fifteen minutes, partly because it was his sworn duty, partly because he was paid very well, partly because, deep down, he revered the oath he had taken the day he graduated from the trooper academy, and mostly because, hell, let’s face it, he felt like Zorro every time he responded to a call. Zorro minus the mask.

  It was a far cry from San Jose, where the air was too thick to breathe, the roads were too crowded to drive, and a cop’s chance of being shot by a gangbanger was infinitely higher than was his chance of being stomped by a moose. Jim would take the moose any day.

  The Park was his home, and now they wanted him to leave it, detached duty, temporarily assigned as liaison to the goddamn FBI, which, to Jim’s jaundiced eye, was a less than stellar supplement to the law enforcement community, being as how they spent most of their time in Alaska arresting people cutting down the wrong trees in the Tsongas National Park and killing the wrong walruses off Round Island. Not to mention getting caught doing the lap dance with hookers on Fourth Avenue in Anchorage and shooting caribou out of season on the Glenn Highway.

  He knew the Park, every rill and rivulet, every glacier and game trail, every village and town. But all he knew about Bering could be fit into one of Katya’s shoes. He vaguely remembered a case where a bootlegger, Armenian by birth, got caught shipping one hundred and two cases of cheap whiskey into the still, last time he looked, damp town. When brought to court, the guy claimed it was provisions for his daughter’s wedding. Upon investigation, it was revealed that the wedding was five months off. The jury, three members of which were related to the accused by way of a providential marriage into a local Yupik family, came back with an acquittal in less than ten minutes. The prosecuting attorney later allowed as how he should have petitioned for a change of venue. No shit, Jim had thought at the time.

  Now he said, “If there are only five thousand people in the whole goddamn town, most of whom are each other’s first cousins once removed, how is it I am not going to stick out like a sore thumb?”

  “You’ll be a seasonal worker,” Gamble said. “There are a ton of them around this time of year.”

  “Something to do with fish, no doubt,” Jim observed in a deceptively pleasant tone.

  “It is salmon season,” Gamble pointed out reasonably. “And one of the trawlers contracted to the Bering IFQ is Russian, so it’s reasonable to expect that our boy is somewhere close by.”

  “What the hell do you think he’s getting up to on a goddamn fish trawler? And if he’s as hot as you say, why don’t you just waltz in and arrest the bastard?”

>   Gamble’s smile vanished. He leaned forward and tapped one finger on the desk, like a college professor making the point that would justify his whole seminar and screw you on the exam. “We want to know what he’s up to, Jim. If even half of what his file reads is true, this Ivanov is a very, very bad boy. Drugs, prostitution, weapons smuggling, money laundering, industrial espionage, military weapons thefts, you name it, he’s in it up to his eyebrows. Which is why we don’t want just to catch him, we want to catch him in the act.”

  “In the act of what?”

  “We don’t know. That’s what we want you to find out. He’s too smart and too successful for whatever he’s doing in Bering to be penny-ante. And there is a strong Russian presence in the Bering Sea lately. Lots of trawlers catching lots of fish, and delivering them, and who knows what else, who knows where, who knows to whom? Plenty of opportunity out there for those criminally inclined to take advantage of the slackening of tensions between East and West.”

  “You sound like my poly-sci instructor in college,” Jim muttered. He changed tactics. “Why me? Why don’t you send in some little Fibbie who speaks seven different Russian dialects, and who is probably hardwired in to D.C. through his belly button besides?”

  “Because we don’t have someone like that who knows the Alaskan Bush, too,” Gamble said flatly, “or we would. You were assigned to Dillingham your first year of Bush rotation, you’ve lived around the Yupik, you aren’t going to put your foot in it and offend some tribal law that will get you tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail.”

  “And using a honeybucket won’t throw my sensibilities into an uproar,” Jim observed sardonically. “How long is this assignment?”