Whisper to the Blood

SEVEN

The next day, five minutes after Jim sat down at his desk, the phone rang. It was Cindy Bingley. "Jim," she said without preamble, "you've got to do something about Willard."

Jim felt the hair prick up at the back of his neck. "What about Willard?" he said.

"He keeps stealing stuff out of the store. Yesterday he walked out with a gallon jug of white vinegar."

Jim couldn't help it. He laughed.

"It's not funny, Jim," Cindy said. She paused, hearing her voice rise. "Well, okay, maybe it is a little. When I caught him on the steps I asked him what in the world he was going to do with that much vinegar and he said he brushed his teeth a lot."

Jim closed his eyes in momentary supplication of some heavenly entity to intercede on behalf of all fools and children, of which Willard was both.

Willard Shugak, a cousin a couple of times removed from Kate, and Auntie Balasha's grandson, was in his early forties. It was a blessing that he was even still around, if a mixed one. Most people with fetal alcohol syndrome died young.

"And then," Cindy said in despair, "he started to cry. You know how he does."

"Yes," Jim said, sober now, "I know. Do you want to press charges, Cindy?"

"No! Of course I don't! Aside from the fact that Auntie Balasha would probably boycott the store, along with the other three aunties and shortly thereafter most of the rest of the Park, Willard's just a baby. A kleptomaniac baby. Sometimes I wish I could just turn him over my knee. Could you just, I don't know, put the fear of god into him or something? Lock him up overnight?"

Jim sighed. "I can probably do that." It wouldn't be the first time.

"He's in here every day right after we open," Cindy said promptly.

It was a gray day not expected to get out of the teens, with the winds sweeping down out of the Quilaks at fifteen miles an hour and bringing a fine, white snow with them that immediately frosted anything stationary, including Jim's windshield. The forecast called for three to six inches more. Combined with the layer of black ice beneath it made for hazardous movement, either by foot or by vehicle. Not that that would stop anyone from climbing into their Ford Explorer or their Subaru Forester and barreling up and down the roads, such as they were. Jim resigned himself to a day spent responding to ditch-diving daredevils. He just hoped none of them involved fatalities. The sooner the Park was snowed in and everyone switched to all snow machines all the time, the better.

He also hoped nothing happened anywhere else in the Park that required him to get in the air. The troopers gave first preference to any applicant with a private pilot's license, and Jim was licensed for both fixed wing and helicopters. The state of Alaska had kindly provided him with a Cessna 206, parked on the Niniltna airstrip in a rented space in George Perry's hangar.

The helicopter had been pulled when they opened the Niniltna post, the reasoning behind that decision being he was closer to the action and didn't need two methods of transportation, plus the Cessna could carry more weight. Jim had disapproved of the decision, as the Bell Jet Ranger could get into a lot more places than the Cessna could, but he understood the economics behind the decision and held his peace. Most outposts in the Park had their own airstrips, and those that didn't would simply go longer unserved by the law. That was life off the road in Alaska.

"The first response on the last frontier," so ran the state troopers' latest recruiting slogan, but the state was 586,412 square miles large, and those miles contained some of the most challenging terrain the planet had on offer, with some of the worst weather the atmosphere could manufacture. The Alaska State Troopers, a mere 240 officers strong, hadn't a hope in hell of responding to every outrage perpetrated by or against Alaskan citizens, or even most of them, no matter how many airplanes they spotted their officers.

There was, nevertheless, the expectation that they would try to do so. Jim, like every other Alaska Bush pilot, was well acquainted with the aviation axiom: There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. If the weather was going to be bad, he wanted it awful, as in below minimums.

For the moment, all that was required was the Blazer. Bingley Mercantile was a solid, square building about twenty-five feet on a side, six hundred and twenty-five feet of retail space crammed with shelves, a wall of refers, and a small row of bins for produce. Their stock-in-trade was Lay's Potato Chips, Cherry Coke, and EPT tests, but they made a praiseworthy attempt to bring in small amounts of oddball-for the Park-items like jasmine rice and tamari almonds, these last, after the freight was factored in, worth about the same amount per ounce as the gold Global Harvest would be taking out of Suulutaq. It was clean, well lit, and when the apples got spotty they threw them out. Park rats really couldn't ask for more than that.

Cindy and Ben Bingley had started the little store eighteen months ago with money from the Niniltna Native Association's nascent small business loan program. They'd spent most of it on the building and the rest on stock and Jim understood and appreciated Cindy's concern over some of that stock walking out the door under Willard's arm. A grocery store had at best a marginal profit line.

He could also appreciate Cindy's reluctance to lodge a formal complaint over Willard's pilferage.

He himself was reluctant to arrest Willard Shugak for murder.

Willard's rusty old International pickup was already in the store's parking lot, the engine running, the cab empty. Jim swore a round oath and got out, killing his own engine and taking the keys. He didn't care if the Blazer froze up while he was in the store in the subzero temperatures. Rather that than a drunk Martin Shugak driving off in it, siren blaring and Christmas tree flashing. It had happened before in the Bush, though not to him, and he was going to make sure it never did.

The top of the door hit the little silver bell and it tinkled softly as he entered, a pleasant sound. What wasn't pleasant was the expression on Cindy Bingley's face when he spotted her standing at the end of one of the aisles.

What was distinctly unpleasant was the gun Cindy was waving around. Crap. Jim craned his head.

Willard was crouched down in front of the candy shelves, a half-empty box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups clutched to his chest and a lot of empty wrappings scattered on the floor around him. He had chocolate smeared around his mouth, although the flood of tears down his face was making inroads into it. His eyes were squinched shut and snot bubbled out of his nose with every sob.

Cindy, meanwhile, had lost it. "You lousy little weasel, I ought to shoot you right now! Look at this mess! How many of those candy bars have you had? How many did you steal this time?" She hauled back a foot and kicked him, not gently, in the leg.

Willard gave a high, thin, pitiful shriek. Even Cindy seemed momentarily paralyzed by it.

Into that brief silence, Jim said quietly, "Cindy?"

She whipped around, a dumpy, doughty little woman of faded prettiness, pouchy eyes, blond hair graying fast, a triple chin threatening the line of her neck. Her blue eyes were large and slightly protuberant and veined with red. She looked ever so slightly insane, especially when she fixed Jim with a hard look and said, "Yes? Something you wanted? Something you couldn't get here in time to take care of yourself? Goddamn fucking trooper?" There was special emphasis on the last word.

"Cindy," he said, dropping his voice even further, letting it fall to a soothing murmur she had to lean toward him and away from Willard to hear clearly, "you know you're not going to shoot Willard over a candy bar."

"It wasn't just a candy bar!" she shouted.

Behind her Willard whimpered. Jim was grateful when Cindy didn't round on him. "What was it?" he said, still in that calming, sympathetic murmur.

"Look at this!" She stormed toward the checkout counter and rifled around on the top. The gun got in her way and she tossed it to one side. It slid off the edge of the counter and fell behind the cash register. Jim flinched, but it didn't go off, and he relaxed again.

"Here!" she said, waving a piece of paper. "Right here! Look at this!" The paper was shoved beneath his nose. He tried to pull back far enough to bring it into focus but she shoved it up at him again. "I knew he was stealing, and then after I called you I started making a list. Look at it! It's almost a thousand dollars' worth of goods! And I had to beg you to come down here and do something about it?"

She looked as if she was going to spit in his face. For a moment he was afraid she was going to kick him, too. Fortunately, the moment passed. She marched back to Willard, hands on her hips, and glared down at him. "You don't ever come back in this store, Willard, you understand me?"

Willard, still crouched beneath the candy shelf, cowered. "Nuh no," he said. "No, no, no, Cindy, I won't, I promise."

She grabbed hold of his ear and he gave another of those pitiful little shrieks. She ignored it and hauled him to his feet. Since she was a foot shorter than he was he had to bend over to let it happen, and bend over he did. "Get out of my way," she said to Jim.

He got out of the way, using the opportunity to step behind the counter and filch the gun, a 9mm automatic. He checked. Loaded, with a round in the chamber. He wanted to fall on his knees and give thanks.

The building shook as Willard stumbled down the steps. Jim made sure the safety was on and tucked the gun into the back of his pants beneath his jacket, just in time to return to his previous position and assume an innocent expression when Cindy slammed back inside.

"There," she said, not at all appeased.

"There, indeed," Jim said. "I took your gun, Cindy. I think it's best."

For a moment she looked ready to erupt again, and he braced himself, but she settled back on her heels. "Fine," she said. "Did you want to buy something?"

"No," he said.

"Then get your ass out of here."

She didn't add, "You useless piece of crap," but he could hear the words hovering on the tip of her tongue. He got.

Outside, Willard was standing at the bottom of the steps, shivering.

Willard Shugak was a tall man and big with it, handsome until you looked close and saw the vacant look in the wide-set eyes beneath the fey brows, the slackness in his mouth. His clothes looked better than normal today, clean and neat and whole, which was a pleasant surprise. Howie Katelnikof, his roommate, must have taken over the wardrobe that morning. Jim only wished he'd do it every morning. At the same time he was suspicious, because it was unlike Howie to do anything that didn't provide an immediate return. Maybe Howie had a yen for some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups?

Willard, not content with neat and clean, had gilded the lily. Draped around his waist and over his shoulder, kind of like a toga, was a large and most colorful quilt, made for him by the aunties. It was a departure for them in two respects, in that until then quilts had been made only for new mothers, and that this one didn't feature a traditional pattern. Instead, it was made up of squares featuring embroidered portraits of Star Wars characters. In the center was one of Anakin Skywalker, which likeness bore an uncanny resemblance to Willard.

This, from four women who prided themselves on following the traditions set down by colonial American women slowly going blind in ill-lit pre-Revolutionary War log cabins on lonely and dangerous frontiers as they pieced together intricate patterns from leftover scraps of fabric. It was an action akin to Nathan Jackson carving a totem pole out of Disney characters. It just wasn't done. Nevertheless, the aunties had. It was a nine-day wonder all over the Park.

Willard hadn't been seen in a coat since the aunties had given him the quilt. Jim didn't know what the aunties were going to say when they saw the chocolate smeared down the front of it.

"Hey, Willard," Jim said.

Willard spun around as if he'd been shot. His face was red and liberally adorned with chocolate, tears, and snot. "Uh, hi, Jim." He sniffed and gulped and wiped his face on his sleeve, which didn't improve matters. "I didn't see you there. How are you? Anakin, say hi to Jim." He pulled the quilt down.

"Hey, Anakin," Jim said to the Star Wars action figure peeping out of Willard's shirt pocket. "Willard, you going to share that candy bar in your pocket with Anakin?"

Willard's eyes darted to left and right, and he ducked his head. "What candy bar? I ain't got no candy bar."

"Sure you do." He reached into Willard's pocket and pulled it out. Sure enough, one last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Willard made a frantic and belated grab at stopping him, but came up only with a handful of air. He looked indescribably guilty.

"Willard, we've talked about this," Jim said. "You can't just take things from the store without paying for them."

Willard hung his head. "I know, Jim. I'm sorry, Jim."

"I know you know, and I know you're sorry." He held up the candy bar. "You got the money to buy this?"

Willard shook his head without looking up.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," a voice said behind Jim. "I'll buy him the damn candy bar."

Jim turned and beheld a vision.

Well, perhaps not quite a vision, but certainly one of the more attractive women he'd ever met. Blond, blue-eyed, a lean figure with enough curve to offset the muscle, a rosy complexion, a smile that was as charming as it was inviting.

He knew instantly who she was, of course. "Talia Macleod," he said involuntarily.

She looked delighted, her face framed by a white fur ruff on her parka hood, her breath making little clouds in the cold air of the parking lot. "How did you know?"

"I've heard."

"Of course," she said. "You would have. Chopper Jim."

"How did you know?" he said. She dimpled. "I've heard."

He laughed, and then caught Willard's arm as he tried to sidle away. "Excuse me," he said to Macleod, and walked Willard to his truck. He opened the door and helped him inside.

"Thanks, Jim," Willard said, sniffling. With a hungry glance fixed on the candy bar in Jim's hand, he said, "You going to eat that, Jim?"

"Willard," Jim said, holding the door open, "a store is where people buy things. They pay for them with money they bring with them." He spoke slowly and carefully. "I know we've never had a store in the Park before, but it works just like all the other stores you've ever been in."

Willard was following this carefully. "Like Costco?" he said, his brow knit in labored thought. "Just like Costco."

"Do I need a card before I take things out?"

Jim repressed a sigh. "No. Willard, unless you have money to buy stuff, stay away from Cindy's store, okay?"

"Okay, Jim," Willard said, happy enough to promise anything if it'd keep him out of jail this time.

Jim closed the door, and Willard started the engine and backed carefully out into the road and drove off.

Jim stood there, watching Willard's truck move down the road.

There wasn't a Park rat breathing who didn't think that Louis Deem had robbed Bernie Koslowski's home last spring, and that in his panicked rush to escape had shot and killed Bernie's wife, Enid, and Bernie's son, Fitz.

The celebration that followed Louis's own murder had quite drowned out Jim's subsequent inability to bring anyone to justice for it, investigate he never so thoroughly. Park rats were unanimous in feeling that Louis, a career criminal who had preyed on them for years with impunity, beating every charge brought against him including the murder of all three of his wives, with a record that was a veritable monument to his lawyer's genius in the courtroom, had finally got what had long been coming to him. Nobody cared who killed him, only that he was dead and in the ground and they never had to worry about him around their sisters, daughters, and wives ever again.

In the meantime, only Jim knew who was really guilty of the Koslowski murders, and he was watching him drive away. He couldn't prove it. Other than his own personal understanding of Louis's and Willard's respective characters and a photograph of the crime scene, he had no evidence. Willard himself, his brain destroyed in the womb, didn't remember it. No one else knew, only Jim.

For that matter, no one else cared. And no day passed without him thinking about it, worrying at it, the knowledge gnawing away at him until he felt like he was bleeding internally. Louis Deem's legacy. Sometimes he thought he could hear Louis laughing.

"Is he simple?" Macleod's voice said from next to him.

Recalled to the present, he said, "FAS. His mom was a drunk."

"I'm surprised he's allowed to drive a car."

"He manages to pass his driving test," Jim said. "Every time. And I have to say he's one of the better drivers in the Park. And certainly the best mechanic. But, yes, it surprises me, too."

She held out her free hand. "It's nice to meet you. I was meaning to drop by the trooper post and introduce myself." She grinned, and it was a great grin, with a wattage that could have powered a small city. "My company is going to be responsible for bringing a packet of trouble your way."

"I've heard," he said dryly, and she laughed, a husky, intimate sound. She had moved in kind of close, and she was tall enough that he could feel the exhale of her breath warm on his cheek. It smelled of cinnamon. "How about a cup of coffee at the Riverside Cafe? My treat."

"Why, Ms. Macleod," he said, drawling out the words. "Are you attempting to bribe me?"

"If coffee at the Riverside Cafe will get the job done, you bet," she said promptly. "Global Harvest would probably give me a bonus for getting it done so cheap."

This time he laughed. "Sure, I've got time for coffee."

She fluttered her eyelashes. "I might even have time for lunch."

Mac Devlin was at the Riverside Cafe when they walked in the door, sitting at the counter nursing a cup of coffee and a grudge. The way Jim could tell was that Mac was mouthing off against the proposed Suulutaq Mine, with an occasional slap at the proposed deepwater dock in Katalla. An equal opportunity trasher, that was Mac Devlin these days.

He had an attentive audience, which Jim found interesting. Mac was generally regarded as a blowhard, and as such not necessarily anyone to be taken seriously. Of course, it could be a case of hearing what you want to hear that kept most of them in their seats. They were mostly fishermen-including Eknaty Kvasnikof, who had recently inherited his father's drift permit for Alaganik Bay, Mary Bal-ashoff, who had a set net site there, and assorted Shugaks (including Martin, who gave Jim a wary glance)-and various other Park rats and ratettes.

There was a brief pause when he and Macleod came in. Mac gave Jim a belligerent look. "What, the cops in bed with the mine now?"

Macleod fluttered her eyelashes again. "Not yet," she said, drawling out the words. Everyone laughed.

Mac reddened to the point where it looked like the skin on his face might ignite.

Mac Devlin was a mining engineer, born in Butte, Montana, of another mining engineer who had booted him out of the house when he was eighteen years of age and told him to go find his own mine. He put himself through school digging copper out of the Kennecott Copper Mine in Utah, the world's largest open-pit mine. Upon graduation he'd gone to work for British Petroleum and had literally seen the world on their dime, or at least that portion of it that was a good prospect for oil. He transferred to Prudhoe Bay on the northern Alaska coast just in time for the discovery well to come in on the super-giant Sadlerochit oil field.

When construction of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline was complete and all the good jobs were moving on to the next big oil field, he sank his savings into the Nabesna Mine in the Park, a small gold dredging concern on Miqlluni Creek that included a bunkhouse, offices, and a selection of heavy equipment, and settled into a marginal existence, producing just enough gold to pay for his attempts to increase and extend his lease. Anybody he hired was called a MacMiner. Rowdy, raunchy roughnecks to a man, they were the inspiration for the baseball bat behind the bar at the Roadhouse.

Mac, in fact, had never been popular in the Park. He wouldn't hire Park rats, he brought his supplies in from Seattle, and he was such an unattractive little shit to boot, a short, heavyset man with the same general build as a culvert, with a red, thinning brush cut, small, mean blue eyes, and a wet mouth that was always flapping. Jim didn't think he'd gotten laid once since he'd moved to the Park, which could account for his cantankerous attitude.

Mac turned pointedly back to his audience. "We're talking three miles wide, five miles long, and two thousand feet deep. That's bigger than the Kennecott Mine in Utah, and that sucker's big enough to be seen from space."

"How big is the Park, Mr. Devlin?" Macleod said.

Mac affected not to hear.

"It's about twenty million acres, isn't it?" Macleod said, raising her voice. "Twenty million?" She emphasized the last word. "Global harvest's leases are on less than sixty thousand." She distributed her charming smile with perceptible effect and predictably the crowd warmed to her. She was a lot prettier than Mac. "I've always been lousy at numbers. What is that as a percentage of the total acreage of the Park? Three percent? Four percent? You'll barely know we're there." She smiled again. "Until you start cashing our paychecks."

She took all the honors, and Jim followed in her triumphant wake to a booth in the corner as a muted buzz of conversation rose behind them. "Nicely done," he said as they seated themselves.

She gave a slight shrug, looking over the rudimentary menu with a meditative frown. "Mr. Devlin is unhappy at the price Global Harvest paid for his mine holdings, especially after we announced our find. He is determined to make a nuisance of himself until we buy him off."

"And will you?"

"The longer we ignore him, the lower his price will go." She put down her menu and smiled at Laurel Meganack, a very pretty thirty-something who arrived pen and pad in hand to take their order.

"Whose call is that?" Jim said.

She turned the smile on him, but this time he could see just how sharp all those beautiful teeth were, and he wasn't surprised at her answer. "Mine."