Whisper to the Blood (12 page)

"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."

M
ac 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."