Stabenow, Dana - Shugak 02 - A Fatal Thaw

by A Fatal Thaw(lit)

  At that moment a hovering Bernie swooped down and rescued Eknaty from

  Kate's fell clutch, offering a blanket curse on her offspring if

  Eknaty's performance the following day was less than perfect. "Always

  supposing

  some misguided fool feels inclined to beget

  upon you," he added acidly, herding Eknaty before him. "Right, thanks,

  Bernie," she replied in an abstracted

  voice. He paused for a moment and watched her walk away, his forehead

  puckered, before shaking himself and trotting off after Eknaty. There

  was a postgame analysis to be held, weaknesses in offense and defense to

  be identified, a dozen teenagers flushed with success to be tucked

  safely into bed, and two more days of games to plan for. Bernie had no

  time to waste on mere murder.

  THE next morning George Perry roared up to Bobby's house on a Skidoo

  and off-loaded a grim-faced Jack. He entered without knocking, stamping

  the snow off his feet, and demanded, "Why didn't you wait for me up on

  the Step?"

  Kate looked over at him coolly. "I had to talk to someone."

  Jack counted to ten. "Okay," he said. "They shipped the body out to

  Anchorage last night. Forensics promised to have the bullet out and run

  a ballistics test on it by this morning, and Chopper Jim'11 get the news

  to us as soon as they do."

  "Thirty-ought-six?" Bobby asked.

  "Looks like. Won't know for sure until ballistics gets the slug."

  "It won't be the same rifle," Kate said. Jack's head whipped around.

  "What?"

  "The bullet didn't come from the same rifle that killed Lisa Getty."

  "How do you know that?" he demanded.

  "There were too many people in the area. After shooting Lisa, the killer

  had to ditch the rifle in the woods, or be caught with it. Chaney was

  shot with a different rifle."

  "If the killer dumped the rifle that shot Lisa Getty in those woods,

  where is it? I've had twenty officers and investigators beat feet over

  every inch of those goddam

  woods at least five times apiece. Where the hell is it?" "It's there."

  Forestalling, she knew for the moment only, further questions on the

  subject, she treated him to an abridged version of her last two days'

  activities. "You have been a busy girl," he said at last, frowning. "So

  what'd you do with the bear bladders and the tusks?" He looked at her

  blank face. "Don't tell me you left them on the boat?"

  "How dumb do you think I am?"

  "Don't tempt me. So what did you do with them?" "I sold them."

  Jack's jaw dropped. "What!"

  Kate shrugged. "I found a buyer who wanted them. He had cash."

  "Jesus, Kate!"

  "How much did you get?" Bobby said. "Sixty-six hundred."

  "Jesus Christ, Kate!"

  Bobby gave a long, low, respectful whistle. "For half a dozen bladders,

  that's eleven hundred apiece. Not bad, Kate. Not bad at all."

  "I thought so, too," she said with a trace of pride. "Sweet Jesus!" Jack

  said, varying his reaction. "Bear's private parts come high these days,"

  Bobby observed.

  "I know," she said, her smile fading. "Dan's already worried about the

  poaching going on in the Park. If the price goes up any more, the Park

  Service is going to have to hire a bodyguard for every black bear in

  it."

  "Sweet Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!"

  "What's your problem?" Kate asked Jack, annoyed and a little hurt. "You

  think I shouldn't have sold them? Why? The bears were dead, Lisa's dead,

  and I needed the cash. You know how far sixty-six hundred dollars can

  take me? I'll be able to fish for myself this year, instead of guiding

  some jackass Outsider who can't figure out why

  his ten-pound test keeps breaking every time he

  snags a Kanuyaq king."

  Bobby eyed the fists gripping the arms of Jack's chair and hoped the

  chair would hold up under the strain. "Kate," Jack said with great calm,

  "by selling those bladders you have violated the Endangered Species Act,

  on top of which you can be charged with smuggling, shooting out of

  season, shooting over your limit, and God knows what else."

  She smiled at him. "Prove it. And I didn't shoot them. Lisa did."

  "Jesus!" Jack said, his momentary calm deserting him. "If Dan O'Brian

  ever finds out!" His face changed color, and he said in a hollow voice,

  "Jesus! Those bladders were evidence in an ongoing murder investigation.

  If Chopper Jim ever finds out, he'll throw us all in jail!"

  "You plan on telling them?" Kate inquired. "Either one of them?"

  Jack's voice deserted him, and he stared at her, speechless. "I suppose

  you sold him the walrus tusks, too?" he asked finally, if his expression

  was any indication, without much hope.

  Kate was shocked and more than a little indignant. "Certainly not! What

  the hell kind of person do you think I am ?"

  "I'd answer that truthfully, but I like living," Jack told Bobby.

  "What's the difference between taking the bear bladders and taking the

  tusks?"

  Still indignant, Kate snapped, "The difference is you can't give the

  bladders back to the bears."

  "Oh? And you can give the tusks back to the walrus?"

  "No, I can't give the tusks back to the walrus," Kate said, aping Jack's

  heavily sarcastic tone, "but I can and will pass them on to Chick

  Noyukpuk, and he can carve them into cribbage boards or sea otters or

  anua for spirit masks and sell them to an Anchorage gift shop and maybe

  make a few bucks. That way, the tusks stay where they're supposed to, in

  the Park, or at least whatever Chick earns from them will. The bladders

  would just get tossed in the trash."

  "Chick Noyukpuk? The Billiken Bullet? The drunk musher who wrecks every

  snow machine he sets his eye on?" Jack threw up his hands and addressed

  the ceiling. "Oh well, then how could I possibly object?"

  "When he's sober he is a fine artist," Kate snapped. "Time!" Bobby

  roared. "Much as I approve of comic relief, you two are worse than a

  couple of kids. Food's on, shut up, sit down, and eat. Now!" he roared,

  when Jack opened his mouth.

  Kate and Jack sat. The food, an omelet seasoned with caribou sausage and

  sharp cheddar, was delicious, which was a good thing, since conversation

  lagged.

  Kate was clearing the table when a distant whapwhapwhap heralded the

  arrival of the trooper. The engine grew louder, settled and died. Heavy

  footsteps crunched the ice created by the overnight drop in temperature,

  followed by a perfunctory thump on the door before it opened. Chopper

  Jim stepped inside.

  "Hey, Jim," Bobby said.

  "Bobby," the Trooper replied. "Jack. Kate." "Had your breakfast?"

  "Yeah. I wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee, though." "Coming right up."

  They arranged themselves around the fireplace and waited until Bobby had

  handed out steaming mugs. "Well?" Jack said.

  "It's a match," Jim said.

  Kate's head jerked up and Jack smirked at her.

  Jim fished something small out of a breast pocket and tossed it to Kate.

  She caught it automatically, a misshapen slug of lead. She looked from

  it to Jack in sudden su
spicion, and he nodded. "When I left the Step I

  went down to the boat. I dug it out of the forward

  bulkhead of the cabin." He smiled thinly. "It looks

  worse than your head."

  Kate turned to Jim. "This match the bullet that killed Max Chaney?"

  He nodded.

  "But not the bullet that killed Lisa Getty." He voice was certain and

  Jack looked annoyed.

  Chopper Jim shook his head. "Nope."

  The single, laconic syllable irritated her. "Lisa Getty was growing

  commercial quantities of marijuana in her backyard, Jim," she said. "Why

  didn't you mention that when you talked to Jack?"

  "I didn't know."

  "Come on!" Kate glared at him. "Lisa had enough pot in that greenhouse

  to put the entire Park into orbit without benefit of rocket. I found

  drying frames and a case of baggies in the barns. No one knows his beat

  better than a small town cop, and in people this Park is just one

  gigantic small town. If anybody knew that Lisa was growing dope, you

  would."

  He looked at her, at her angry face, a meditative expression on his own.

  "We didn't talk much."

  "You didn't have to, talk to her, anyway," she retorted. "You knew,

  didn't you? Probably about the dealings in walrus ivory and bear

  bladders and sealskins and sea otter hides-hell, Lisa probably shot sea

  gulls, just for the hell of it! Why didn't you tell Jack?"

  "Kate," Bobby said.

  "I'll tell you why," Kate said, ignoring Bobby. "Because you wanted me

  to do your dirty work for you. Because you didn't want to piss off

  everyone in the Park following up leads that led, for one reason or

  another, into just about every house and cabin and cache in a million

  square acres! Not to mention which half the men in the Park went into

  mourning when she died. That's no secret, in fact, for my purpose it's

  probably better to assume she's slept with everyone I've talked

  to so far. Including you," she said pointedly. She looked at the

  trooper, raised an eyebrow and added, "And just where were you the

  morning Lisa Getty got shot?" She brightened a little. "Where were you

  when Max Chaney got shot?"

  Bobby turned a sharp laugh into a choking fit, and even Jack had to

  smile. "What about you?" Chopper Jim asked, affable and unperturbed.

  "Where was I when somebody took a shot at you, Kate?"

  "Kate," Bobby said again, and something in his firm, inexorable tone

  halted her in mid-tirade. "All this is beside the point and you know it.

  Get to it, woman."

  He was right, and Kate stopped dancing around and got to it. "I know

  where the rifle that killed Lisa Getty is."

  "What?" The three men spoke with one voice.

  "You didn't tell me that yesterday," Bobby snapped. "I didn't realize

  where it was until last night, and we couldn't have found it in the dark."

  "And you can today? This morning?" "I think so."

  "Need any help?" Chopper Jim asked with a guileless expression.

  "You've been such a big help so far, working so hard, doing so much

  legwork, sharing information on this case, I think we can allow you a

  little time off now," Kate cooed.

  She was incensed when he didn't bother to look offended. He drained his

  mug and rose to his feet. "Then I'll be off." He put on his hat and

  touched a finger to its brim. "Anything I can do."

  Kate thought of several things he could do, none of them productive of

  results in a murder investigation but

  all of them deeply satisfying to contemplate. He knew it, and from the

  hint of the smile on his face she knew

  he knew it. She waited until the door closed behind him,

  but not long enough for him to be out of earshot. "Prick," she said,

  with heartfelt loathing.

  The sound from the porch might have been a cough or a laugh, and Kate

  sat, stewing, until the sound of the chopper died away, and then said to

  Jack, "Suit up. Mutt, up and at'em. Let's move like we got a purpose,

  people."

  She sounded just like the drill instructor Bobby had had at San Diego.

  He removed himself from the line of fire, stayed there until the door

  closed behind them and gave a loud, vociferous sigh of relief that he

  was staying home.

  "We've been over this ground, the troopers have been over this ground,

  everybody in Niniltna has been over this ground a hundred times. The

  troopers bagged enough crap to top off the Anchorage landfill. Why are

  we back here?" Jack's voice was plaintive.

  "I still can't believe it took me so long to figure out," she said, and

  followed the yellow crime-scene tape, tattered now but still showing a

  ragged path through the trees, walking in the reconstructed path of the

  killer. When she came to where Lisa's body had lain, Kate halted for a

  moment, the memory of yesterday's witches' coven shivering through her.

  Determinedly, she shook it off and reached for the nearest birch and,

  hand over hand, pulled it down to the ground until it bowed into a

  U-shape. She examined its top carefully and let it spring back. She

  reached for the birch beside it.

  Jack watched her, mystified. "What in the hell are you doing?"

  Kate nodded at the next clump of birches. "Start pulling those down."

  "What!" "Pull down the goddam trees and look at their tops," Kate half

  shouted, her ruined voice a rough scrape across exposed nerves.

  "All right, all right, anything for a quiet life." Jack waded through

  the snow to the nearest tree and yanked its trunk into a taut, straining

  bow.

  "Careful," Kate snapped, "don't break them, just bend them so you can

  see their tops."

  "What, there aren't enough of them around, you're afraid I'll injure one

  beyond all hope of recovery and eternally upset the ecological balance

  of the Park?"

  Stepping back, she released the hold she had on her birch and let it

  spring upright. Its top whipped past his face and vaulted erect to some

  twenty-five feet above their heads. Kate watched it weave back and forth

  in a steadily slackening swing, among a thickly clustered group of

  birches huddling together in insular fraternity, keeping all their cards

  close to their white, birch-bark chests, all secrets secluded within the

  tops of their rustling branches.

  "Wait a minute," she said. She smacked her forehead in irritation.

  "Where is my head at? She'd have tied it off to a spruce, or a birch

  next to a spruce, in a clump of them probably. Yeah, for better

  concealment until the leaves came out."

  Her grin was tight. "It's the same problem I've been having all along,

  not seeing the trees for the forest." Stepping back, she surveyed the

  scene through narrowed eyes. "Here. I'll try this one. You start on that

  clump over there."

  He shook his head, wrestling with his scrub spruce. "Kate, you have had

  me doing some pretty dumb things in my life, but this-" His voice died

  away, as he stared at the top of the tree he had pulled down.

  The 30.06 was tied lengthwise to the topmost part of the trunk of a

  tall, slender spruce. The butt rested in the crotch where a branch met

  the trunk; lengths of g
reen fishing twine, the kind used for net

  mending, bound the stock and barrel tightly to the bark. The stock was

  sticky with pine sap.

  Kate slogged through the wet, shifting snow to reach

  around him. The twine was damp and crusted with sap as well, and after a