Fire And Ice

FOURTEEN

The scream was followed by the slamming of a hatch and a woman's voice yelling, "Help! Somebody, help, help, HELP!"

Liam knew that voice. His heart in his mouth, he ran toward it, pounding down the slip, past boat after boat after boat, the vessels increasing in size as he came to the end of the floats and the mouth of the harbor. It was barely nine o'clock, and there was still enough light to reveal an occasional lone fisherman climbing out here and there to the deck of his gillnetter or drifter or seiner to gape at Liam as he pounded past.

She was standing on the deck of the Sea Wolfe, and Liam put one hand on the gunnel and vaulted on board. "Wy! Wy! It's all right, I'm here. I'm here now. What's wrong?"

Her face was white. Mutely, she pointed, a piece of paper crumpled in her pointing hand.

Liam followed her gesture to the door of the Sea Wolfe's cabin and looked in.

This was no little gillnetter with a one-room cabin that served as living room, bedroom, and bathroom combined. This seiner had a separate head with a flush toilet, staterooms with two bunks each, and a galley that resembled the kitchen of a luxury hotel.

The galley, reached through a passageway that ran down the center of the cabin, took up the forward part of the cabin, with side-by-side rectangular windows set into the bulkhead that took in a 180-degree view.

It was the interior view that held Liam's fascinated and appalled attention. Cecil Wolfe was sprawled backward on the deck, arms outstretched, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Blood was everywhere-smeared on one of the two doors into the galley, on the table, all over the floor-as if Cecil Wolfe in his dying convulsions had waged an unceasing struggle to retain his grip on the life pouring so rapidly out of him.

Because he was most definitely dead. Liam stooped and put two fingers against Wolfe's throat. The carotid artery was silent and still, and Wolfe's flesh was already cooling.

Liam stood up again. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

A gasp made him swing his head around. The harbormaster stood in the passageway, turning an interesting shade of green.

"Jimmy?" It took a minute for the harbormaster's eyes to tear themselves away from Wolfe's body and refocus on Liam. "I need you to phone for the ambulance. And then I need you to go to the trooper vehicle. It's the white Blazer parked on the dock. Here's the keys." Liam dug them out of his pocket. "There's a briefcase in the backseat, and a big roll of yellow plastic tape. I need you to bring them both back down here. Okay?"

Jimmy didn't answer at once, and Liam repeated with more emphasis, "Okay?"

Jimmy Barnes swallowed and said in a weak voice, "Okay." He took the keys from Liam's outstretched hand and tottered back down the passageway, nearly blundering into a palefaced Wy.

"What happened here, Wy?" Liam said.

"I don't know," she said numbly. "I found him like this."

"What was he doing down here? What were you doing down here?" Liam could hear his voice rising, and he didn't even try to keep it down. "Last I saw of you, you were settled in at Bill's for the duration. What the hell are you doing down here!"

"I was getting tired of waiting around the bar to get paid," she said, still in that numb voice. Either she didn't notice his anger or didn't care. "So I asked Cecil for my check, and he said he'd left them on the boat. He suggested we come down here to get the checks and bring them back to Bill's for the crew."

Liam was unable to contain himself. "And you said you would? After I warned you how dangerous this asshole was? Jesus, Wy, I thought you were smarter than that!"

Her eyes fell. "I didn't take what you said seriously. I thought you were jealous."

"Oh yeah, right," he said, throwing up a hand in disgust, "like you've been encouraging this jerk all along." He pulled off his cap and rubbed a hand over his hair.

"I'm not a complete idiot," she said, her strained manner robbing her words of indignation. "I didn't come down to the boat with him, I waited for him in the truck."

Liam took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. "All right, you're waiting for him in the truck-what happened next?"

"I got tired of waiting."

"How long did you sit there?" he demanded.

"I don't know. Twenty minutes or so, I guess."

"And then you came down to the boat?" She nodded.

"What happened?"

She gestured at Wolfe. "I found him like this."

"When?"

"What? When I came on board. He was-" She gestured. "He was lying right there."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"And you screamed right away?"

She nodded.

"Bullshit," Liam said.

"What?"

"First of all, you're not a screamer. Secondly." He leaned forward and snatched the piece of paper still crumpled in her fist. "Secondly, you looked for this before you screamed."

A faint flush warmed her pale cheeks. "It was in his hand."

"There's no blood on it, Wy," Liam said tightly. "There's blood on pretty much every other goddamn thing in this room, including all over Cecil Wolfe, including both of his hands, but there's no blood on this check."

She said nothing.

"Let's see," he said, "if I were a check, where would I be? In a desk, maybe? Let's look for one, shall we?" He stepped into the passageway and opened a door. "A couple of bunks, a porthole, no desk." He opened another door. "Shower, toilet-this must be the head. No desks in the head-first law of the sea, I'm sure." He opened a third door, and paused. "Aha. Two bunks, one of them not made up-tsk, bad housekeeping-and one desk. Let's just see what's in it, shall we?" He stepped to the desk and scanned the surface. There was a laptop computer, turned off and folded down. A wire basket suction-cupped to the top of the desk held a small stack of envelopes. Liam took a pen from his pocket and lifted the envelopes up one at a time to read the names scrawled on the outside of each. "Kirk Mulder, Ralph Gianetti, Elmer Ollestad, Angel Fejes, Ben Savo, Joe English, Mike Lenaghan, Tom Howes." He looked back at Wy, framed in the doorway. "Nope, no envelope for Wyanet Chouinard, and she was instrumental in all these guys' getting their paychecks today." He let the envelopes fall back in the basket and stood up. "I ought to know, I was there."

"All right," she flared, "so I looked for the check before I screamed. So what? What's it matter anyway-I didn't kill him!"

"I never said you did," he yelled, "but you're not making it any easier for me to find out who did by screwing with the crime scene! How the hell am I supposed to find who did do it if you're in here stumbling around destroying evidence!"

They glared at each other.

From the passageway behind Wy there was an apologetic clearing of throat. "I'm sorry," Jimmy Barnes said, head down in a conscious effort not to meet anyone's eyes and thereby precipitate an inclusion into the ongoing debate. "Here's the tape and your briefcase, Liam. The ambulance is on its way."

Liam pulled himself together. "Thanks, Jimmy."

"Think nothing of it."

"Mind if I ask you for another favor?"

The harbormaster looked wary. "What?"

"I imagine there are a few people standing around on the slip outside."

"A few," Jimmy agreed cautiously.

"Could you kind of stand guard, keep them off the boat, while I gather evidence?"

Jimmy looked relieved. "Sure. I can do that."

"Thanks. And flag down the ambulance driver when he gets here."

"Sure."

Liam ordered-there was no other word-he ordered Wy to wait for him on deck. When she had gone, he found the crumpled envelope with her name on it in the wastebasket next to the desk, and smoothed it flat. Before returning the check to the envelope, he paused to read it. It had been drawn on Wolfe's business account, imprinted with the business name, Sea Wolfe Enterprises, Inc., with an address in Seattle. Today's date, "Pay to the order of Wyanet Chouinard, twenty thousand dollars," and then the big black scrawl of a signature that took up most of the bottom right of the check.

His heart jarred with a thickening thud, and he read the check again.

He stood in the middle of Wolfe's stateroom for a long moment, thinking hard. In the end, he heard the sound of wheels on wood and read it rightly as an approaching gurney.

With a decisive movement that was nevertheless a little furtive, he stuffed the check back inside the envelope and the envelope inside his shirt and went out to meet Joe Gould, who surveyed the carnage with the same detached expression Liam had noticed at the airport on Friday, his Lucifer-before-the-fall face tonight looking more sinned against than sinning. He squatted beside the body. "Stabbed, huh?"

"What was your first clue?" Liam said.

"No need to be sarcastic, trooper," Joe said tranquilly, "just a passing comment. Help me with the bag?"

Liam helped unroll the body bag and slide Wolfe into it. The blood had dried enough to be sticky, and for the first time since landing in Newenham Liam was glad he wasn't wearing his uniform.

They carried the body out through the crowd clustered on the slip next to the boat, causing a ripple of shocked comment, as well as a few smothered mutters of satisfaction-Cecil Wolfe had not been running a popularity contest from the bridge of the Sea Wolfe-and set it on the stretcher. Together, they rolled the stretcher to the ramp and up into the ambulance.

Joe Gould closed the doors and said, "We've only got so much room down at the morgue, trooper."

"Thanks for the information," Liam said. "I wouldn't want to cause overcrowding. Next time I stumble over a body I'll just toss it in the Nushagak."

"Works for me," Joe Gould said without expression, and climbed into the cab and drove away with the remains of a man no one was going to mourn for very long, if at all.

Liam's headache was back. Standard operating procedure in any murder investigation where the murderer is not obvious is to inquire as to the existence of any enemies of the deceased. Given Cecil Wolfe's personality and professional conduct, Liam figured he could put all of Newenham and most of Bristol Bay at the head of the line.

But none of them came before Wyanet Chouinard.

Liam pulled up at the post and, escorting Wy, was just going in the door when Bill Billington pulled into the parking lot in a bright '57 Chevy convertible. Liam felt like knuckling his eyes, but it was a bona fide '57 Chevy all right, painted a bright shiny yellow and complete with fins.

"Hey, Liam," she called, getting out of the car.

"Bill," he said, still staring.

She gave the fender a fond pat. "Nice, isn't she? I bought her new. Only reason I bought a house, so I could park her in the garage over the winter. First time I've had her out this spring."

"Right." Newenham wasn't the Twilight Zone after all. It wasn't even a three-ring circus. It was a doorway into the Fourth Dimension. Where was Mr. Myxlpltz? He said, trying to be civil, "I'm kind of busy, Bill, I-"

"I know you're busy," she interrupted him, "but this won't wait."

"What won't wait?"

She waved a thick manila envelope at him. "Th."

He took it, noticing it had been opened and closed again by tucking the flap inside. "What is it?"

"It's the last will and testament of Bob DeCreft," she said.

"How did you come by it?"

"I'm the magistrate, and the district judge only comes around once every three, four months," she said. "Most people file their wills with me. Hell, I help most people write 'em. I hadn't had a chance to read Bob's until this evening."

"What's so interesting about this particular will?"

"Read it and see." She folded her arms and waited.

Liam mumbled something ungracious beneath his breath.

"Just read it," Bill ordered in her most magisterial voice. "Or I'll hold you in contempt of court."

"We aren't in court, Bill."

"Court is wherever I say it is, buddy. Read the goddamn will."

Liam opened the envelope and pulled out the document. It was short and simple. He read it through twice, to make sure it said what he thought it said the first time.

He let his hand fall, and raised his head to stare at Bill. "What the hell?"

"Yeah," Bill said smugly. "That's what I thought."

"Did you know?"

Bill shook her head. "Didn't have a clue. Neither did anyone else."

A slight smile creased Liam's face. "Even Moses?"

Bill waved a hand as if to say Moses knew everything and so didn't count. She had a point. "Does it help?"

"I don't know," Liam said curtly, the thoughts in his head writhing around like a nest of snakes. No sooner did he have hold of the tail end of one than another raised its head and hissed at him. "Maybe."

Wy was unable to contain herself any longer and demanded, "What's going on?"

Bill looked at her and said, "Bob left everything he owned to Laura Nanalook."

Wy, puzzled, said, "So? She was his roomie."

"She was more than his roomie," Bill said, obviously relishing the prospective effect her news was about to impart. "She was his daughter."

"What?"

Bill pointed at the will. "That's what he calls her in his will: his "natural daughter." Oh yeah, and this was in with the will."

Liam fairly snatched it out of her hand.

It was a copy of a birth certificate, issued twenty years before on September 23 at the Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage, for a girl child, six pounds, eight ounces. The mother was listed as being one Elizabeth Rebecca Ilutsik, unmarried, of the village of Ik'ikika. The father was listed as unknown. The girl child's name was listed as Laura Elizabeth Ilutsik.

Liam sat down on the top step and stared at the birth certificate. Bill folded her arms and leaned against the railing, watching him. Wy, who had been existing in momentary expectation of being arrested for murder, was simply glad to have the attention shifted away from her.

Liam looked at Bill. "Did you show this to Laura?"

Bill shook her head. "Haven't talked to her at all."

"Good. Don't."

"Why, what are you going to do?"

Liam got to his feet. "I don't know yet." He went into the post and closed the door behind him, leaving the two women to stare at each other, puzzled.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Wy said.

"Beats the hell out of me," Bill said. "I've got to head back to the bar. Buy you a beer?"

"Can you drop me off at the harbor first? We left my truck there."

"Sure."

Wy looked again at the door. "Hang on a minute, okay?"

"Sure. I'll wait for you in the car."

Liam was seated at his desk, frowning down at a large piece of paper with a lot of boxes on it drawn in pencil, when Wy stuck her head in. "Bill's going to give me a lift to my truck," she said. "If you didn't need me for anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Charging me with first-degree murder, any little thing like that."

He flapped a hand without looking up. "No, go on home. I'll talk to you later."

She stood there for a moment, mystified at his abstract tone. He'd been in a blind rage just moments before, which she was smart enough to know was due in large part to his fear for her. Now, he seemed oblivious, to her and to the events of the evening.

Behind her, the '57 Chevy's horn gave an impatient honk. Liam didn't look up. Wy stepped back and closed the door gently behind her.

Liam didn't look up at the sound of the door. He knew Wy was leaving, and he knew what John Barton or any other competent law enforcement officer would have said about turning her loose: Wyanet Chouinard had done everything but shove the knife into Cecil Wolfe's back to get herself arrested for murder.

Everything, but not that. Liam knew it for fact, but that was about all he knew, and the only reason he knew that much was because he knew Wy intimately. It wasn't a reason he wanted to have to swear to in court.

She'd had means-anyone involved in the fishing industry, anyone living in the Alaskan Bush for that matter, could lay hands on a knife. The wounds were big ones. Liam would bet that the weapon, when it was found, would prove to be a hunting knife, or perhaps a sliming knife of the kind cannery workers used to head and gut fish, a wide blade fixed into a plastic handle. Processors bought them by the case, and over the years sliming knives had found their way into the lives and homes of most Alaskans who lived on a coast.

Or a river.

And Wy had had all the opportunity in the world -he cursed her, without heat, for not staying at Bill's, for actually accompanying that asshole to the docks against his explicit instructions, and then for having the colossal stupidity to follow him down to his boat. He thought again of coming upon Laura Nanalook too late, of how shaken and forlorn and hopeless she had seemed. He didn't ever want to see that look on Wy's face. If he had his choice he'd never see that look on the face of any woman ever again, but given his profession the choice was not his to make.

At least Cecil Wolfe wouldn't be responsible for putting that look on a woman's face ever again. He knew a sudden, visceral pleasure at the thought.

As for motive-he pulled the envelope from inside his shirt. He didn't need to take the check out and look at it-it was burned into his memory. Pay to the order of Wyanet Chouinard, twenty thousand dollars and no cents.

If it looked like a motive, and walked like a motive, and sounded like a motive, it probably was a motive. Wy had had motive, all right-twenty thousand motives.

He swore once, tiredly, and put the envelope in a drawer, then stared at the paper with the boxes on it. He pushed it aside and began to draw a new one.

Bob DeCreft, with a dotted line down to Laura Nanalook. Probably born Laura Elizabeth Ilutsik-why the change of name? He made a note on a pad.

Bob DeCreft, who flew observer with Wyanet Chouinard, both of them working for Cecil Wolfe.

Cecil Wolfe, whose first act upon hearing of the death of Laura Nanalook's roommate-and so far as anyone knew, her lover-had been to stake a physical claim.

Who wanted both Bob DeCreft and Cecil Wolfe dead?

At the side of the page he began a time line.

In 1977, Laura (ilutsik) Nanalook was born in Icky.

In 1992, Bob DeCreft moved to Newenham, and he and his daughter moved in together.

He remembered the two bedrooms in the DeCreft house, the feminine clutter of the first, the spartan maleness of the second. "I must be slowing down or something," he said out loud. "Of course they were sleeping in separate bedrooms. How the hell could I have missed it?"

Bob DeCreft and Laura Nanalook, father and daughter.

"Wait a minute," he said. I've known him since I was a kid, Wy had said. Wy had been a kid in Newenham, when her adopted parents had been teachers for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, back before the state had started building rural schools. Bob DeCreft had been flying in and out of Newenham about the time Laura was conceived. He looked back at the time line he'd drawn. Laura's mother could have been from Newenham. Laura's mother could still live here.

He thought about the cars he had seen in Bill's parking lot that evening, and what was that story Charlene Taylor had told him-six years ago on the river, Bob with some woman? He stared hard at the unrevealing countenance of a fire extinguisher mounted on the opposite wall.

He reached for a phone book and looked up a number. A sleepy voice answered, and belatedly he realized it was almost midnight. "It's Liam Campbell," he said. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize it was so late."

There was a yawn. "It's all right, Liam, we just hit the sack." There was a murmur in the background. "It's okay, honey, go back to sleep, it's that new trooper I told you about."

There was another murmur, and the mouthpiece was covered, but not before Liam heard a male voice say, "Oh, the one with the wife?" He set his teeth and waited.

The voice came back. "Okay, Liam, what did you need?"

"Charlene, you told me you'd seen Bob DeCreft up the river with a woman."

The Fish and Wildlife Protection officer was amused. "What is this, Cherchez la Femme Day? God, Liam, that was five years ago. Six."

"I know, and I know you said you didn't recognize her. But you did say she was dark."

There was a pause. Taylor said finally, "Yeah, I remember that much."

"Was she Yupik?"

"Yes," Charlene said immediately.

Liam was taken aback by her immediate certainty; he'd thought he'd have to coax it from her. "How can you be sure?"

He could hear Taylor's shrug over the phone. "She was short and very dark and kind of thick through the middle. She looked the same general shape as most every Yupik woman I've ever met. Some of them are skinnier, some of them are taller, but the skin and the hair and the eyes and the general stockiness pretty much stays the same all up and down the river; you don't need to be an anthropologist to see that. Kind of like most Scandinavians are tall and blond and blueeyed. She was Yupik, Liam. Or at the very least Alaska Native."

"Okay, Charlene, thanks."

"Sure, but what's this all about?"

"I'll tell you later. Thanks again."

He hung up.

He had to talk to Laura Nanalook.

He found her at Bill's. Wolfe's crew had vanished, and for all that it was a Sunday night the place was subdued. People were clustered in small groups, talking in low tones. Gary Gruber wasn't holding down his usual place, either, gazing upon Laura with the hopeless adoration of a pet dog, a pet dog one wanted frequently to kick.

Nobody seemed to be drinking much, because Laura Nanalook was taking a break at the bar.

Moses looked at Liam from his usual stool and said, "All history is personal."

"What?" Liam said.

"One American congressman kept the war going in Afghanistan because he was still pissed over Vietnam. Hitler killed twelve million people, not counting soldiers, trying to prove he wasn't the Austrian version of poor white trash. Closer to home, Red Calhoun spearheaded the fight for d-2 because it created a national park around his homestead in Prince William Sound. All history is personal." Moses leveled a finger at him. "All of it, and don't you forget it."

"I won't," Liam promised.

"Good," Moses said, satisfied, and turned back to his beer.

"Could I talk to you for a minute?" Liam asked Laura.

She shrugged indifferently. "Sure."

"Let's grab a booth."

"Okay."

She was listless, unalarmed. On the way over Liam had been thinking about the best way to approach this subject, and had at last decided to send out the shock troops. "I wanted to talk to you about your father."

She was startled, at least momentarily, out of her apathy. "My father?" she said warily.

He said gently, "Bob DeCreft was your father, wasn't he, Laura." He nodded at Bill. "The magistrate went through your father's papers and found this." He pulled out the birth certificate.

She studied it for a moment.

"It's yours, isn't it?"

Her mouth trembled. "Yes. I guess so."

"Why the change of name? Ilutsik to Nanalook?"

"I was adopted."

"Oh. I see."

"No you don't," she said wearily. "My mom got knocked up, and had me, and gave me away, like a puppy she was too lazy to raise herself." Her lovely mouth twisted into an ugly line. "To the Nanalooks. She didn't even care what kind of people she gave me to. She didn't care what they did to me, she didn't care if they-"

"Who is she, Laura?" Liam said. "Who is your mother?"

She dropped her head. "I'm not supposed to tell."

"Why not?"

"Because her husband's a preacher, and he can't have his wife acknowledging any bastards she might have had before she met and married him."

"I see." Liam was careful to keep any sense of satisfaction from his voice. "When did you meet her?"

She raised her head, and there was a kind of sick triumph in her eyes. "She came looking for me. She couldn't have any children with her husband, so she came looking for me."

"When?"

"When I was sixteen. I moved out from the Nanalooks' as soon as I was old enough. Bill gave me a job in the kitchen until I was twenty-one and could serve booze."

"What did your mother want?"

Laura snorted. "She wanted to get to know me. Wanted me to get to know her. Wanted me to be her daughter."

"What did you say?"

"I told her it was a little late for her to start playing mother," she spat. "Where was she when Sally treated me like a maid, keeping me home from class to cook and clean and baby-sit her kids so that I couldn't even graduate from high school? Where was she when Harvey started coming down the hall to my room? Where was she when he turned me into his little gussuk whore?" Her voice broke.

After a moment she began speaking again, her voice filled with pain and hatred. "She wouldn't go away though. The only problem was, she said we had to keep it a secret that I was her daughter. Her husband wouldn't like it. His sacred holiness couldn't stand the thought that his congregation would look at his wife and know that she'd had carnal knowledge of another man. No, no, Becky has to be the perfect preacher's wife."

"Becky?"

She stared at him. "Becky Gilbert." She pointed at the birth certificate. "Born to Elizabeth Rebecca Ilutsik, of Ik'ikika."

"You're named for her."

She sneered, an expression that did not sit well on her angel face. "My middle name. Big deal. It's not like she gave me a home now, is it?"

"I suppose not." He leaned back in the booth. "When did you meet your father?"

"When he came here."

"Why did he come here?"

She scratched at the tabletop with one fingernail. "I made her tell me who he was. I found out he was living in Anchorage. I wrote him a letter." She looked up, her eyes full of tears. "He didn't even know about me. She hadn't even told him she was pregnant."

"That was six years ago?" She nodded. "So he moved out here to be with you?"

A tear rolled down her cheek. "He bought a house, and we moved in together. Becky begged us not to say we were father and daughter, she was afraid everybody would find out. So we promised." She wiped away another tear. "I didn't care, and Bob didn't, either." She raised wondering eyes to Liam. "It was so nice, you know? I'd never had a room all to myself before. He would have done everything if I'd let him-the cooking, the cleaning. He wouldn't let me help with the house payments or buy gas for the truck or anything. He wanted me to save my money so I could go back to school, get my GED, maybe go to vocational school or college someday."

Her shoulders began to shake. "He bought me presents. Whenever he went somewhere, he bought me presents. The last time he went to Anchorage, he brought me these." She fingered her earrings, exquisite little drops of green jade and black hematite and ivory. "I told him he was spoiling me, and he said I was beautiful, and that I deserved beautiful things. He was my from-father, and he could spoil me if he will-wanted to."

She began to sob. "Nobody ever called me beautiful before. They just took whatever they wanted, made me do whatever they wanted me to do. Nobody ever called me beautiful before, and nobody ever, ever gave me presents. At least not without expecting me to pay for them."

Bill arrived at the booth with a handful of Kleenex and a glass of water. "You okay, Laura?" she asked, with a hard glance at Liam.

Laura fought back a sob and nodded, used three Kleenexes to mop her eyes and blow her nose, and drank the glass of water down. She looked drained. "I guess I better get back to work."

"Just a couple more questions," Liam said. He hesitated. "Look, Laura, there's no nice way to ask this. That day, the day I came out to your house."

"The day my father died," she said, and fresh tears welled up.

"Yes. Did you call your mother that day?"

"No, she just came over," she said dully. "She'd heard about Bob." She looked up, surprised. "How did you know she was there?"

"She drove up as I was leaving," he said, and hesitated again. This woman had been through enough in her young life, but he had to ask the question, there was no way around it. "Laura, did you tell her about Wolfe?"

Her face shut down. "What about him?"

Liam gave up and went for the jugular. "Did you tell her that he raped you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I have to get back to work now."

He caught her hand as she stood. "Cecil Wolfe is dead, Laura."

She stared down at him. "What?"

"Wolfe is dead. Somebody murdered him on his boat a couple of hours ago."

"Cecil is dead?" she repeated.

"Yes, Cecil is dead."

Liam hadn't exactly expected a cartwheel, which was good because he didn't get one. She stood in front of him, staring blankly into space, mute, uncomprehending. He squeezed her hand for emphasis. "He'll never bother you again."

She looked at him then, and he was saddened by the dead expression he saw in her eyes. "It doesn't matter. There's always another one just like him a little farther down the road."

He watched her walk back to the bar, saw her dismiss Bill's concern with a shrug. She picked up her tray and walked over to bus a table and take an order for refills with the bright, flashing smile he had seen her use before, the smile that was so full of warmth, and meant less than nothing.