“It doesn’t have to be another pilot who did it, either,” he said inexorably. “Could be a fisherman, and in that case he might not know about your other plane, he may only have seen you up in the Cub. He may only have her tail number. Did you spot last year from the 180? The last opener?”
She was shaking her head back and forth. “No, Liam. No way.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. He thought about it, and added, “Well then, who else have you pissed off lately?” She said nothing, staring at the Cub with a dumb misery that struck to his heart. “Wy, dammit!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once, roughly. “Don’t you get it? Maybe it was only bad timing that that prop caught Bob DeCreft upside the head. Maybe it was meant to catch you.”
She shivered beneath his hands, and with a slight shock he knew he had not been the first to realize this. “Wy, dammit! What have you been up to? I can’t help you if you lie to me, or hold back! Tell me what’s going on!”
She opened her mouth to reply, maybe even with the truth, which was why it was especially annoying when the mayor’s orange Suburban raced around a corner and swooped to a screeching halt. Jim Earl stuck his head out the window. “Get in the truck, trooper—somebody’s been shooting up the post office!”
“This is getting to be a habit, Jim Earl,” Liam said, letting Wy go reluctantly. “The post office inside the city limits?”
“Of course! What of it?”
“So you should call the local police.”
“I did, goddammit! They ain’t none of them available. Roger Raymo’s tracking down Bernie Brayton, who some damn fool in Eagle River let loose of before his sentence was up, and Cliff Berg’s wife flat won’t wake him up! Come on!”
Liam, in what he considered to be the voice of sweet reason, said, “So why don’t you wake him up?”
“Because the last time I tried she met me at the door with a loaded twelve-gauge is why. Now will you goddammit get a move on!”
Liam paused, one hand on the door of the Blazer, and looked at Wy. “Can you grab a ride back to your truck?”
She nodded.
“Okay.” Still, he hesitated, while Jim Earl rolled his eyes and muttered beneath his breath. “I’ll see you later.”
She was silent for a moment, thinking over the implied question in his words. At last she said, “All right.”
“I’ll call. We have phones here, don’t we?”
She recovered enough to make a face. “Of course we have phones here, Liam. We’ve even got cable.”
“Just like downtown,” he said. He let go of the door and walked back to her, ignoring Jim Earl’s impatient snort. “I’ll catch the bastard who did this, Wy. I promise.” He put a hand beneath her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “If you’ll help me.”
“You’re still outta uniform, trooper,” the mayor said disapprovingly through his open window.
“You’re right, Mr. Mayor, I am,” Liam agreed cheerfully. He climbed into the Blazer. “Lead the way,” he called out the window, and waved to Wy as he drove off. In the rearview mirror, he watched Wy’s figure grow smaller and smaller, standing forlornly next to the tattered remnants of her Super Cub.
The post office was a one-story building out of the same mold as every other post office in the Alaskan Bush: a shallow, corrugated metal roof, a sloping ramp leading up to the front door, the Alaska and American flags flying out front (the Alaska flag flying a little higher than the American), banks and alcoves of keyed boxes with metal doors, and a small room at one end with a counter dividing it. There were six or seven people inside. One of them greeted the mayor with relief. “Jim Earl! Dammit, when do I get to mail my package!”
It was the grandmotherly type from yesterday’s flight. Today her eye shadow was forest green and her lipstick cranberry red. Her brassy blond hair was piled into a beehive and she was tapping very long, very pink fingernails against a fearsomely taped cardboard box sitting on a high table opposite the counter.
“Now, Ruby, you just hold your horses,” the mayor ordered. “We’ve had a shooting, and we need to clear that up before we open the post office for business again.”
Ruby grumbled. “I thought neither snow nor sleet nor dark of night stayed the mailman from his appointed rounds.”
“That oath doesn’t say anything about bullets, now, does it?” Jim Earl demanded. Ruby subsided, but not graciously.
Jim Earl led Liam through a door behind the counter. The room was an office, containing a desk, two chairs for visitors, and a row of filing cabinets. There were two people already in the room. The one window looked out on the work space of the post office, and Liam peered through it with interest.
The innards of the post office consisted of one large, continuous room full of conveyor belts and gray plastic carts overflowing with piles of white envelopes. A man in a post office uniform shirt loaded a pile of green duffel bags into one of the carts. At one counter a woman sat, running envelopes from another cart through a machine that looked like it was canceling their stamps. A second woman stood at another counter behind the side of the post office boxes the public never sees, throwing mail into the boxes so rapidly that her hands were a blur. Ruby would have felt reassured if she’d seen that it indeed appeared to be business as usual, come rain, snow, sleet, or bullets.
The rear wall had garage doors, and one of them was open to reveal the maw of a freight igloo sitting on a trailer hitched to a semi, into which the man in the post office uniform shirt, now operating a forklift, hoisted a pallet with packages strapped to it. The sun shone so brightly through the gap formed between the igloo’s end and the garage door that man, forklift, and pallet seemed to vanish into outer darkness once they had rumbled across the knobby steel runners laid from building to vehicle.
The most interesting thing about the window Liam was looking through was the bullet hole in it. Two of them, in fact, neat holes that had left equally neat starbursts behind in the thick glass pane. He bent to look more closely. “Thirty-caliber, I’d guess,” he said, straightening.
“Well now,” Jim Earl said, “you don’t have to sound so awful goddamn cheerful about it, do you?”
Developing a habit where you showed up after all the shooting was done was definitely something to cheer about, in Liam’s opinion, but he kept it to himself.
“This here’s the postmaster,” Jim Earl said, indicating the man behind the desk. “Name’s Richard Gilbert.” He failed to identify the woman standing off to the side.
Richard Gilbert was a thin, short man wearing a white uniform shirt, a pair of dark blue uniform pants, and thick-soled black loafers. There was a not very bloody crease across his upper left arm, and his long, narrow face was contorted with rage.
“Mr. Gilbert,” Liam said. “I’m Sergeant—I’m Trooper Liam Campbell. Do you know who shot you?”
“Of course he knows who shot him, you damn fool,” Jim Earl barked.
Liam looked at Jim Earl, and back at the postmaster. “Might this person have a name?”
“Of course he’s got a name—everybody’s got a name,” Jim Earl said.
Still patient, Liam said, “And this name might be?”
“Oh,” Jim Earl said. “That’d be Kelly McCormick.”
The mayor looked at Liam expectantly. To the postmaster Liam said, “Mr. Gilbert, did you see Mr. McCormick shooting at you?”
“Of course he did!” Jim Earl’s bark was back. “Shot at him right through that loading door there.”
Liam looked at the loading door blocked by the igloo on the trailer backed up to it. The man in postal uniform was piloting another palletful of mail on board. “Was the van there at the time?”
For once, Jim Earl seemed stumped. He looked at the postmaster for reference. The woman behind Gilbert, wearing a white uniform shirt and blue pants identical to Gilbert’s, was now uttering little cries of solace as she tried ineffectually to sponge the wound with a polka dot scarf that looked as if it had recently been tied
around her hair. The postmaster slapped her hands away. “Knock it off, Rebecca, you’re only making it worse.”
“Mr. Gilbert,” Liam said, producing a pad and pencil. For some reason a pad and pencil always helped to focus people’s attention, and this time was no exception. Gilbert fended off Rebecca once more and she retreated obediently back into a corner. He straightened in his chair and looked at Liam through thick-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. “Mr. Gilbert,” Liam repeated, “could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?”
Then an odd thing occurred. Like crumpled cotton under the heat of an iron, the rage smoothed out of the postmaster’s face. Gilbert stiffened his spine and folded his hands on the desk before him, and when he spoke his voice was calm and his words were measured, studied, almost pontifical. The effect was somewhat ruined by the voice itself; it was thin and high-pitched, erring occasionally to a raspy squeak. “How do you do, officer,” he said formally. “This is Rebecca.”
The woman, short, stubby, and dark-haired, made a sort of curtsy in Liam’s direction and offered him a timid smile. “Ma’am,” Liam said, and inclined his head in lieu of touching the brim of his hat, which was back in his bag at the office. He’d responded to three calls in twenty-four hours, and not one of them in uniform. He was liable to be fined for it if his boss ever found out.
“Precisely what is it that you wish to know, officer?” the postmaster said.
Equally formal, in trooper mode at least endlessly patient, Liam repeated, “Could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?”
The postmaster frowned at his folded hands, formed them into a steeple, and looked to the ceiling for guidance. Next to Liam the mayor shifted, and the trooper said quickly, “Jim Earl, do me a favor? Call dispatch and see if there have been any other incidents of shooting this morning? Be a good idea to see if this guy’s been practicing on more than one target.” Jim Earl made a move toward the phone on the desk, and Liam said even more quickly, “Mr. Gilbert, is there a phone in the other office the mayor can use while we talk in here?”
The woman in the corner positively leapt forward to be of assistance, and with reluctance Jim Earl followed her from the room, casting a doubtful look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Liam closed it firmly behind him and turned once again to the postmaster, who had lowered his gaze from the ceiling and was regarding Liam over the tips of his steepled fingers, the thick lenses of his glasses enlarging his eyes to the point that they seemed to be protruding from his head. Exactly like a goldfish in a bowl, Liam thought.
“Now then, Mr. Gilbert, please tell me exactly what happened this morning.”
“Certainly, officer,” Gilbert replied. “I was sitting right here, at my desk. I had—”
“What time was this?”
“Oh. A few minutes after eight—we’d just opened. I was settling down to work on some of the month-end reports when I heard shouting out in the shop.” He gestured behind him. “I turned to look and I saw Greg—that’s Greg on the forklift—running away. I stood up, and I saw Kelly McCormick in the open doorway of the freight bay.”
“The semi with the freight igloos in it wasn’t backed up there at that time?”
“Almost. You see, Greg had been backing it in, in preparation for loading it. The plane leaves—”
“So Greg must have jumped down from the cab when he saw Kelly McCormick.”
Gilbert didn’t look as if he was accustomed to being interrupted. “Yes.”
“And he ran because—?”
The postmaster’s lips thinned. “He ran because he saw that son—because Mr. McCormick was carrying a rifle.”
Liam looked out into the freight bay. It faced directly east. The door of the building was larger than the back of the igloo, and the morning sun poured in through the open space and formed a blinding frame of light. “You say you saw Mr. McCormick.”
“Yes. Standing in the door of the freight bay.”
“And he was holding a rifle.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of a rifle?”
Gilbert smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t know, officer; I’m not all that familiar with firearms.”
I bet you’re the only red-blooded Alaskan male within a thousand miles who can say that, Liam thought. “How was he dressed?”
“Who?”
“The man who shot at you. Did you see what he was wearing? ”
“What does that matter?” Gilbert said, a trace of impatience in his voice. “I know who he is, I know where he lives; it’s not like you have to put out an APB or anything.”
“Indulge me,” Liam said, and smiled his politest smile.
Something in that smile made the postmaster suddenly cautious. “Well, I don’t know exactly, I was kind of busy diving for cover at the time,” he said, and tried a smile of his own. “He was wearing clothes,” he tried again, smiling more widely. Liam waited, the picture of polite attention, pencil poised. The postmaster cast about for inspiration. “Well, I don’t know, I guess a kind of checked shirt and jeans?”
Liam made a noncommittal noise and wrote “checked shirt and jeans” on his notepad. He looked up. “Could we call—what was his name, Greg?—could we call Greg in here, please?”
“Why, I hardly think that’s necessary, I’ve—”
Liam gave him the smile again. “If you don’t mind.” The smile told the postmaster that the trooper didn’t care if he did, and sullenly Gilbert turned in his chair and knocked on the window. He pointed at Greg, backing the forklift out of the trailer, and made a crooking motion with his finger. One of the women trotted over to tap Greg on the shoulder, and a moment later he was in the office.
“Greg Nielsen, this is Officer…Officer…”
“State Trooper Liam Campbell,” Liam said. “Mr. Nielsen, I understand you were a witness to this morning’s shooting.”
Greg Nielsen was a fair-haired, pink-cheeked, amiable young giant who, Liam estimated after a few minutes of conversation, was smart enough to run a forklift and no more. He agreed with the postmaster that the post office had barely begun its business day when Kelly McCormick had arrived. “Kelly and I shoot a little pool down at the Seaside,” he confided, “and I could tell he was already half in the bag.” He shook his head and gave an admiring smile. “That Kelly—when he goes on a tear, he don’t wait for the bars to open.”
“So he was on a tear?”
Greg grinned. “Looked like to me. Waving that big bastard of a gun around, and cussing to beat the band.”
“Rifle or handgun?”
“Oh, handgun,” Greg said without hesitation. “He had it stuffed down the pocket of his Carhartt’s. I remember especially because them overalls, they were just covered in grease, looked like he’d been up all night changing out the impeller on his drifter again. I swear, that Kelly, he has more bad luck with—”
Liam very carefully did not look at Gilbert, who was sitting extremely still behind his desk and, if Liam was any judge, doing his damnedest not to glare through his thick-lensed glasses at his happily oblivious employee. “Mr. Nielsen, do you know why Mr. McCormick was so upset with the post office that he had to come shoot it up?”
Mr. Nielsen became suddenly wary. His eyes slid in what he obviously thought was an inconspicuous manner to his boss, and then away. “Well, I—I don’t—well, heck, officer, Kelly’s just a good old boy who tends to get liquored up and go on a tear once in a while. He don’t make a regular thing of it. Much.” He managed a sickly smile. “And, heck, everybody’s mad at the post office at one time or another. I figure our number just came up on Kelly’s list.”
Not a bad recovery, Liam thought with dispassionate approval. He turned to the postmaster. “Mr. Gilbert, you said you knew where—”
There was a piercing shriek from the next room, loud and anguished enough to cause all three men to start. It was followed by a shrill wailing sound. Beneath it Liam heard the muffled tones of Jim Earl trying to soothe som
eone.
Two pairs of footsteps approached the office door, which opened to reveal the woman who had been fluttering around the postmaster’s wound sobbing into her hands. She was supported by an extremely uncomfortable mayor, who patted at her shoulder ineffectually while repeating, “There, there now, Rebecca. Come on, girl, buck up.” He looked at the postmaster. “I’m sorry as hell about this, Richard. Rebecca and I got to talking about the hooraw at the airport yesterday. I thought everybody already knew.”
He guided the sobbing woman into a chair and, having discharged his duty, stood back with an air of palpable relief. “I didn’t know you folks were that close to poor old Bob. I wouldn’t have said, if I’d known.” He cast an uneasy look at Rebecca, who was bent over, her face buried in her arms. “I’m just sorry as hell,” he repeated.
“That will be all, Greg,” the postmaster said, rising to his feet, and Greg shot out of the room as if he’d been fired out of a cannon. To Jim Earl and Liam the postmaster said, “Would you excuse us, please?”
Jim Earl fell all over himself making for the nearest available exit. Liam hesitated.
“Kindly permit me to deal with my family in my own way, officer.” the postmaster said.
“Family?” Liam said.
His lips a thin line, Richard Gilbert said. “Rebecca is my wife.”
Liam looked at the woman in the chair, who was now rocking back and forth slightly, shrill wail dropped to little moans that came out of her every time she touched the back of the chair. “Of course, Mr. Gilbert,” he said. He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The door closed on the sight on its pneumatic hinge, but before it did, Liam heard Gilbert’s voice. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Rebecca. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
Not as grief-stricken as his wife, and not the most loving and comforting spouse, either, Liam thought.
The door closed softly behind him, cutting Rebecca’s soft keening off as if someone had thrown a switch.
Six
Seen in sunlight, the town of Newenham rambled across twenty-five square miles of rolling hills, all of which looked alike, with one important difference: they were either on the river, or off it. The roads ranged from the two-lane gravel monstrosity that connected the town with the airport to the narrow streets of downtown that were more patch than pavement to half-lane game trails that ended abruptly at plywood and tar-paper cabins built on the bluff of the river, said bluff usually crumbling beneath them.
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