Restless in the Grave (23 page)

“There’s only one. I called him and he wasn’t on another call, so he said he’d be right out. Probably five, ten minutes behind me.”

“I wasn’t here,” Kate said, looking hard at Campbell.

“What?” McGuire said.

Campbell looked hard right back, and then they both turned to look hard at McGuire. “Gabe, I don’t expect you to understand this,” the trooper said, “but as a personal favor to me, I’m asking you to keep Kate’s presence here quiet. For now, anyway.”

McGuire started to say something, and stopped. For a man dressed only in sweatpants, his knees and hands now liberally stained with blood, he looked remarkably composed. “I found the body?” he said.

Campbell nodded. “You heard the shot, you came down and found the body, you called me.”

Amazingly, McGuire gave a wry smile. “Do I need to call a lawyer?”

Campbell looked at Kate, and Kate shook her head. “Kate says no,” Campbell said.

“And what Kate says, goes?” McGuire shook his head. “Okay. But as payback I get the full story, and before very long.” He stared at Kate. “Including who you are and what you’re really doing here in Newenham. You’re no barmaid.”

“How did you know I was working at Bill’s?” Kate said.

“Just exactly like a cop,” McGuire said. “Wy told me on the flight over. Yes, I asked. What, did you think I had special powers?” His eyes narrowed. “Or just guilty knowledge?”

Kate let go of the very loose grip she had on subtlety to begin with and said bluntly, “You’re a partner in Eagle Air.”

McGuire looked surprised, as well he might by this new attack on a different front, but his turn to rally. “Yeah. So?”

“How did that happen?”

“I fail to see what that has—”

“Gabe.” Campbell’s voice was dark and deep, and in spite of herself, Kate gave an internal shiver. It would have taken a stronger woman than she was for every feminine instinct not to moan in response to the double dose of masculine beauty and full-on testosterone filling up this room. Mutt was not unaffected, either, head swiveling between the two of them, with what Kate could only describe as a pretty lascivious pant going on.

McGuire’s mouth shut in a taut line. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Finn wanted a big name for his start-up. I wanted Outouchiwanet. He wouldn’t sell it to me outright, but he would if I’d let him use my name. If I bought in, others would. So I did, and he deeded it over. End of story.”

“That’s it?” Kate said.

“What else is there?” McGuire said. Kate watched the realization dawn slowly in his eyes, and he looked around the office again, more slowly this time, without ever letting up on Evelyn’s wound. “What else is there?” he said again, with more pointed emphasis.

“Not your concern,” she said.

“Like hell it isn’t,” he growled. “If the jackals in the press get hold of this story, whatever is going on here will be splashed across the front page of the
National Enquirer,
starring me. I’m not Mel or Arnold, but believe me when I tell you it’ll draw a lot of attention I doubt any of us wants.”

“Tell them the truth,” Kate said. “You were sleeping upstairs, you heard a shot, you came down and found her bleeding on the floor. You applied pressure and called 911. You saved her life. You’re a hero.” She smiled, and it wasn’t a very nice smile. “Have to be used to that.”

He grimaced, but all he said was, “I left my cell upstairs.”

“And brought a yardstick instead to beat off the bad guys with,” Kate said, and shook her head. “I’ll get it.”

She washed the blood from her hands first. His cell was in his jacket pocket, the very nice bomber jacket he had been wearing when she met him, made from very soft brown leather, worn enough to be supple and creased. There was a wallet in his other pocket, containing his driver’s license—she wondered if a movie star had to stand in line at the DMV with the rest of the Great Unwashed—amazingly in the name of Gabriel McGuire. It was Kate’s understanding that movie stars were invariably burdened at birth with names like Gedaliah Shuttlecock or Aloysius Entbuch, which names were then changed the instant they hit Hollywood. His pilot’s license was in the same name.

McGuire had two credit cards—both of which bore the complacent air of being able to accommodate the price of a Boeing 747—and a thousand in cash in hundred-dollar bills. Walking-around money for the movie star. She put the wallet back in his pocket, took the cell and went back downstairs. “Does 911 ring directly to your phone?” she said to Campbell.

He shook his head. “We’ve still got dispatchers.”

“Is anyone going to check his phone to see if he dialed 911?”

“That would be me.” He took McGuire’s phone, turned it on, and dialed 911. Someone answered and he responded briefly and hung up.

Kate smiled for the first time in what felt like forever. “My kinda cop. Mutt, let’s go.”

Campbell walked her out. “Where’s your transportation?”

“Yeah, don’t mind me,” McGuire said behind them, “I’m just the guy trying to keep someone from bleeding to death.”

“Parked out back.”

Outside the door, Mutt’s ears went up and Campbell cocked his head. “I can hear someone coming. Talk fast.”

She talked fast, telling him about everything except the thumb drive, which was burning a hole in her pocket. She also told him about the argument she had seen between Oren and Evelyn at Bill’s the night before. When she was done, he said, very thoughtfully, “Shit.”

“Yeah. If I’m right, this is a much bigger can of worms than you thought. You still want me on this job? Because I’m thinking, and I can’t even believe I’m saying this, you might do well to call in the feds.”

He looked at her, his eyes hard. “If something has been going down on my patch, I need to know about it. If I call in the feds too soon, I never will. Damn straight you stay.” The sound of the approaching ATV got louder. “You better get out of here.”

“All right. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

Campbell went back inside and Kate started around the building, before she remembered something and trotted back in to stick her head inside the door of the office. “Be best if you don’t print the shotgun. The Remington.”

Campbell followed her pointing finger, swore out loud when he realized what she meant, and looked as if he’d have said a lot more, barring present company.

McGuire actually laughed.

“Sorry,” she said, a little shame-faced. “What can I say, I’ve got an older one just like it at home.”

“Get out of here before I put the cuffs on you myself,” Campbell said.

She got, and she and Mutt were sliding down the ice-covered edge of the gravel berm when the oncoming ATV approached the hangar on the other side. She timed the starter for the moment he killed his engine, waited until she heard the door open, and then left it in low gear at a very slow speed until they were well away.

The air was still and cold, and as they headed north to town Kate saw a swirl of aurora on the northern horizon, a pale, neon green in a single graceful, dancing arc. The parties were winding down and Kate took it sedately through town with no near misses, approached the garage in stealth mode, and parked beneath the stairs. When she unlocked the door, she stood back and let Mutt go in first.

The apartment was as empty as they’d left it. She went to the window facing Grant’s house and peeped through the blind.

Grant’s house had light blazing from three windows. As she watched, she saw Tina and Oren come down the front stairs and climb into the pickup parked in front. The engine started, the headlights came on, and they drove off.

She let the blind fall back and waited long enough for them to be out of sight before she turned on the lights in the apartment. She showered and changed into sweats and T-shirt. She was tired but still revved from the evening’s events, so she made herself a cup of the ghastly chamomile tea, dosed it liberally with the Sweet’N Low she found in a drawer (right next to the Coffee-mate, gah), and curled up in the recliner. Mutt had flopped down on the rag rug and was snoring. She must have given the guy a run for his money, but Kate was now regretting sending her after him. Mutt was a pretty distinctive individual. If she’d been seen in pursuit, she would be easy to identify later, which would blow Kate’s own cover sky high. If she hadn’t already.

Kate put the tea down and looked for a phone book. She found it in one of the kitchenette drawers, a slim volume that included all the communities between Naknek and Port Molar and Platinum and Pilot Point. There was even a page for “Our Yup’ik Friends.” Kate stuck to English.

She put back the phone book, poured the rest of the tea in the sink, and stood looking out the window. Streetlights shone near and stars shone far, and in front of her the leaden expanse of the Nushugak River moved steadily southward.

Somewhere out there, Evelyn Grant fought for her life, while Tina Grant prayed for the survival of her one remaining daughter, and Oren Grant, one hoped, for the survival of his one remaining sister.

Kate thought about calling Jim, but she really didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing up at this hour of the morning the second night in a row. She went to bed, and was almost instantly asleep.

Sixteen

JANUARY 19

The Park

Jim worried at the problem of Erland Bannister all the next day, with a small side preoccupation with Axenia Shugak Mathisen, just to cover all four major food groups.

Not that Bannister was his problem yet, per se, but he would be when Kate got back from Newenham. She was not going to take kindly to a partnership between a sworn enemy of the State of Shugak and the association of which she was a prominent shareholder and immediate past chair.

Axenia was another matter entirely. Axenia was Kate’s cousin, she was family, she was a tribal member and a shareholder of the Niniltna Native Association and a member of its board. She wasn’t even a Park rat anymore, and so not anyone he was responsible for. On every front she was untouchable by his white, state, sleeping-with-Kate hands. Which would in no way alleviate the shitstorm he saw coming his way when Kate found out he had not told her immediately of Axenia’s presence on the same jet as Erland Bannister.

He avoided thinking about it by flying out to the Kruzensterns’ homestead to arrest that notorious ladies’ man Lars Kruzenstern for sexual assault of a minor, although Holly Kvasnikof most emphatically did not look like a minor, and hadn’t appeared all that interested in filing charges. There seemed to be a lot of that going around this January. Her mother had been very interested, to the point of hitting Jim with flying spit from where she was seated on the other side of her kitchen table. Lars, on the other hand, seemed philosophical about the whole deal. “I figured she was lying about her age when she told me she was eighteen, but I figured her for twenty-five, not sixteen.” His smile was blissful. “Whatever happens, it was worth it.”

Jim filed his report and flew Lars to Ahtna, where he abandoned him to the tender mercies of the Alaska judicial system. It was not Lars’s first encounter with the law, and it was not Judge Roberta Singh’s first encounter with Lars. He flew back to Niniltna in the expectation of seeing Lars ROR in the Park within the day, if he could hitch a ride home in that time, and drove to the scene of an accident between a four-wheeler driven by Davy John and a Dodge pickup driven by Howie Katelnikof. There was disagreement as to who had caused the accident, which had been called in—naturally—by a Park rat on his cell phone. Davy had taken a tumble but amazingly he’d been wearing a helmet and was unhurt. Howie had no registration for the Dodge, and no proof of insurance. Jim smiled at Howie and pulled out his ticket book, the day having become suddenly brighter all around.

Afterwards he continued out to the Roadhouse to check in with Bernie, the ponytailed, draft-dodging ex-hippie owner of the only bar between Niniltna and Cordova. Emigrating back into the United States after Carter’s pardon, Bernie drifted up to Alaska, where he bought the remains of an old roadhouse on an old mining road from an old-timer whose daughter he married to grease the wheels of the deal. He’d remodeled it, added a house to live in and some one-room cabins to rent, and settled in to become the bartender of choice for the Park. Also the only bartender in the Park, or the only professional one, but he did live up to the higher standards of his profession, and for that Jim was profoundly thankful. Bernie wouldn’t serve drunks or pregnant mothers, he’d removed car keys at the point of the baseball bat he kept behind the bar from the grasp of anyone he deemed too drunk to drive, and his establishment had become the drinking hole for any thirsty Park rat or Suulutaq miner with a bend toward sociability.

He was also the repository of more Park gossip than all four aunties put together, and a useful source of information, when he was of a mind to share.

It was a little after noon when Jim pulled into the parking lot, and he was lucky enough to catch Bernie alone. The tall, thin man, growing steadily more solemn and cadaverous with each passing year, looked up from behind the bar when the door opened. “Hey, Jim.”

“Bernie.” Jim hooked his ball cap and jacket on the coatrack beside the door and took a stool. “Where is everybody?”

Bernie paused in the act of polishing a glass. “You know, I’ve never been able to figure out what the deal is with Tuesday mornings. Nobody’s ever here on Tuesdays until after noon.” He put the glass down. “What can I get you?”

“I’m on duty.”

Bernie shook his head sadly. “Poor bastard.” He got a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator beneath the bar and poured it over a glass of ice. Jim stood up on the rungs of the stool and kyped a couple of lime wedges from the container behind the counter and squeezed them in. He sipped, thinking longingly of an Alaskan Amber, but sticking manfully to his duty.

“You really are pitiful,” Bernie said, watching him.

Jim set his glass down and sighed. “I know.”

“Why do I have the honor? Not that it’s not nice to see you without your sidearm drawn, but…”

Jim looked up, affronted. “When have I ever drawn my weapon in the Roadhouse?”