Whisper to the Blood (25 page)

"Really?" Bobby said. "How much?"

"Hear tell it's five figures."

Bobby gave an appreciative whistle, but he frowned a little. He disliked
Howie as cordially as the next person but he didn't necessarily want to get the
guy killed on Park Air. "Wow, he must have really pissed someone off this
time."

"Well, as you know, a couple days ago somebody got shot out at the
Suulutaq when Howie was supposed to be working there," Jim said. Talia
frowned this time. "So I wanted to get the word out to folks. If they see
Howie, tell him to come on in, okay? I'll keep him safe."

"Okaaaaay," Bobby said, drawing the word out, "you heard it
here first, that's Park Air, today at nearly ninety-five on your FM dial, but
we won't be here tomorrow! Thanks to the lovely and talented and babealicious
Talia Macleod for being on our show today That would be the same Talia Macleod
who sold her soul to the devil, oh, I'm sorry, of course I meant to say Global
Harvest Resources Inc., aka GHRIn, to convince us all that a
fifteen-square-mile open pit mine in the Park is a goo-oood thing."

Talia, unoffended, laughed out loud, and Bobby grinned. "Hey, I'm
convinced. Th-th-that's all, folks!"

He flicked a switch. On the console a green light went red and a red light
went green and the sound of the Temptations singing "My Girl" soared
out of the Bose speakers mounted in the four corners of the room. He turned his
chair to Jim. "Okay, boyo, what the fuck was that all about? You think I'm
rerunning episodes from
Wanted: Dead or Alive
on Park Air now?"

"I need to talk to Howie, ASAP," Jim said, "and either
someone is going to bring him in for the reward, or what I'm hoping is he'll
beat them in scared they're going to catch him."

A warm hand settled on his arm and he looked down to see Talia standing very
close next to him. "Do you think Howie Katelnikof killed Mac Devlin?"

"I don't know," he said, and didn't mention what he'd seen at the
head of the valley the previous morning. "But he was supposed to be there,
and he's my best shot at a witness. So to speak."

She laughed, low down in her throat, and leaned in toward him a little more.
He smiled back at her-she was pretty irresistible-and then felt a cold draft on
his back as the door opened.

He looked up and beheld Kate, standing in the doorway with a face wiped
clean of all expression.

I
t took less than twenty-four hours
for Howie to present himself at the post. "In a place the size of the
Park," Annie said appreciatively, "that's making pretty good
time."

"Being scared shitless increases ground speed," Old Sam said.
"Fact."

Demetri stared pensively out the window of the front office of the Niniltna
Native Association, where many people had gathered to watch the fugitive give
himself up. "I heard that even Martin was looking for him."

"Five zeros," Annie said. "That'd be enough to get any Park
rat through the winter."

Old Sam snorted. "Always supposing that reward story was true, I'd a
done it for ten bucks."

Howie arrived alone, on his cherry little Ski-Doo, the engine purring as
seductively as Talia Macleod, but that, Jim figured, was only because Willard
would have been assigned responsibility for tune-ups, repairs, and maintenance.
Howie wasn't careful of machinery, because he knew he could always steal
something else when whatever he was driving broke down.

He stumped up the steps of the post and walked into Jim's office, receding
chin thrust out as far as it would go. "What's this I hear about some damn
reward out on me? I ain't done nothing wrong, Jim, and I expect you to take
care of me same as you would anybody else in the Park."

"Hey, Howie," Jim said, carelessly. In fact he'd spent the night
at the post on the off chance that Howie would show up earlier and spook when
he didn't find anyone there. He'd watched Howie arrive through his office
window with quiet joy. There was nothing better than when a plan worked. It
made up for all the ones that didn't. "Where you been?"

Howie's eyes slid away. "Around."

"Okay. So why weren't you at work?"

"Work?" Howie said the word like it was a concept foreign to his
tongue, which it pretty much was.

"Yeah, Talia Macleod told me she hired you as one of two caretakers for
the trailer Global Harvest's got up to the Suulutaq Mine."

"Oh yeah," Howie said. "Right. That work."

"You were supposed to be there all last week, Monday to Monday, until
your relief came."

"I was there," Howie said. "I was there, you know, work.
Working." Again, he stumbled over the word. He didn't even know the right
verb to use with it.

"Well, I'm really glad to hear that, Howie," Jim said, smiling.

Wary now, Howie said, "Oh? Why would that be?"

Jim let his smile fade. "Because Mac Devlin's body was found at the
Suulutaq trailer, and I was hoping you could tell us something about how it got
there."

Howie's jaw dropped. "Huh?"

"Mac Devlin," Jim said, adding, since Howie seemed to need to hear
it, "you know, the ex-owner of the Nabesna Mine. Someone killed him on the
doorstep of the trailer and then went away, leaving him to rot where he fell.
If you were there, you must have seen something that could help me find this someone."
He raised polite eyebrows.

"Mac's dead?" Howie said.

"Murdered," Jim said.

"I didn't do it," Howie said.

"Really," Jim said.

"I wasn't there," Howie said.

"Really?" Jim said. "But you just said you were, Howie."

Howie's voice, naturally a nasal whine, started to rise. "I wasn't
there! I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! Let me go, right now, I'm not doing
any more time in one of your lousy cells!"

"If you weren't there," Jim said, "where were you?"

His eyes bored into Howie's. Howie stared back like a frightened rabbit.
"If you weren't at the mine, where were you, Howie?"

Howie stared back, blinking, agonized, and for the moment blessedly mute.

Jim sighed. "Maggie!"

A head poked in. "Boss?"

"Get Howie's rifle off of his snow machine and bring it in, would
you?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"No!" Howie said, making an abortive attempt to stop her, but the
door shut smartly in his face. "Have a seat, Howie," Jim said.

When Maggie got back with Howie's rifle, Howie was rigid in a chair in front
of Jim's desk, tugging at the handcuff holding him to the left arm of the
chair. It was still cold outside, although those clouds he'd seen over the Gulf
earlier in the week had paid off in a thickening overcast. This morning smelled
like snow. Nothing worse than chasing down a perp in a snowstorm. Actually,
nothing worse than chasing down a perp, period. They never watched where they
were going, for one thing, and for another, it was just plain exhausting. Jim
much preferred to dispense with the possibility altogether.

"Thanks, Mags," Jim said, reaching for the rifle. "Close the
door on your way out, please."

Jim sat on the edge of his desk and examined the rifle. A .30-30 Winchester
Trapper, well used and not well cared for. Jim looked up and allowed himself a
personal comment. "You really are a worthless piece of shit, Howie."

"I didn't do it! I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! I want a lawyer!
Get me whathisname, Louis's lawyer! He'll fix it so I don't have to stay here,
so I can go home!"

"Rickard?" Jim said.

"Yeah! Him! Get me Rickard! On the phone, right now!"

"Well, I could do that, Howie," Jim said. "Or you could just
tell me what happened. If you weren't there, you don't have anything to worry
about."

Something about the deep, inexorable tone in Jim's voice unlocked Howie's
spine, and he slumped in his chair. "I wasn't at the trailer over half an
hour that Monday. I just stopped to take a crap and grab some grub."

"Where'd you go?"

Howie mumbled something.

"Where'd you go, Howie?" Jim went around his desk and sat down.

"I was up the head of the valley," Howie said, studiously
addressing the floor.

"What were you doing up there?" Jim said. "That's a ways to
go just to sightsee, and it's been a damn cold stretch of weather lately."

"Might have been doing some hunting," Howie said defensively.

"Caribou?" Jim said.

"Maybe," Howie said.

"Out of season?" Jim said. "Howie, you astonish me. Anybody
with you?"

Howie rolled his shoulders.

"Be a lot better if someone can corroborate your testimony, Howie. It
can't do you any good if all you did was go on a joyride with nobody
looking."

"Fuck," Howie said in a kind of furious mutter. "Martin was
with me."

"Thought I recognized that old Yamaha," Jim said. "Anybody
else?"

"We was just taking those caribou because we was hungry," Howie
said, and then added, "we was taking the meat to the elders." He
looked up, inspired. "Ask the aunties. They'll tell you."

There was a gloating kind of certainty in Howie's eyes that Jim didn't like.
"Okay, I'll ask them. Where's Martin, Howie?"

"I don't know," Howie said. "We split up after we come down
off the mountain."

"I see," Jim said. "Tell me, Howie, who have you pissed off
lately?"

Howie stared at Jim, wounded. "Nobody," he said. "I didn't
hurt nobody."

"Yeah," Jim said. "You need to think about this some, Howie.
Somebody shot Mac Devlin in the back. I actually think you're telling me the
truth, mostly because I saw you up there butchering out half the
Gruening
River
caribou herd, so I don't think you
did shoot him. I shudder to think what's going to happen to you when Ruthe
Bauman finds out about your off-season slaughter, incidentally."

Howie looked aggrieved. Before he could say anything, Jim said, "But
Mac wasn't supposed to be at Suulutaq. So far as I know, he didn't tell anyone
he was going there, either. Which means that maybe whoever shot Mac didn't know
they were shooting at Mac. Maybe whoever shot at Mac was thinking he was
somebody else. Maybe whoever shot Mac was thinking he was shooting at somebody
who was supposed to be there, whose job should have kept them there twenty-four
seven, Monday to Monday."

Howie's head came up and he stared at Jim, his face sallow and starting to
sweat.

Jim smiled at him. "Yeah, Howie," he said happily, "I'm
thinking somebody tried to kill you and shot Mac Devlin by mistake." He
shook his head sorrowfully. "Poor Mac."

"Poor Mac," Howie said mechanically, and seemed to revive.
"What do you mean, poor Mac! What about me?"

"What about you? Lucky you, I'd say." Jim knotted his hands behind
his head and leaned back in his chair to look at the ceiling. "Well.
Unless they try again, of course."

"Unless they try again?" Howie said.

"Yeah, you know," Jim said, adding helpfully, "to kill
you." He shook his head. "Seemed like a pretty serious effort to me.
In my experience, anybody who's that determined is likely to give it another
shot. So to speak." He stood and came around the desk. "Here, let me
get that off you so you can get out of here."

"Wait," Howie said. "Wait, Jim, wait!" He hopped the
chair backward, trying to get out of range of the handcuff key.

"Howie, come on now. You've got to sit still or I'll never get that
cuff off you."

"I got something to tell you! Something you don't know about
Louis!"

"Louis's dead, Howie," Jim said, grabbing him before he could hop
any farther. He jammed the key in the cuff and twisted. The cuff came free but
before he could stop him Howie slammed the cuff back around the arm of the
chair and locked it, holding his hand over it so Jim couldn't get at it again.

"Howie," Jim said, starting to get a little irritated, "I've
had a long couple of days. Knock it off."

"The aunties hired his killing, Jim! They hired it done!"

SIXTEEN

J
im bagged the rifle and took it out
to the Niniltna airstrip, where he was lucky enough to catch George Perry on a
flight to
Anchorage
.
He gave him the rifle for delivery to the crime lab.

Howie he locked up, and told Maggie no one was to talk to Howie except him.
"Okay, boss," she said.

Maggie Montgomery's chief qualification for the job of dispatcher/ telephone
answerer/clerk was her determined incuriosity. "My plan is to leave the
job at the office when I go home every day," she'd told him during the
interview, and he'd hired her on the spot. She might try to tell him what to do
on occasion-as in attempting to discourage him from finding Louis Deem's killer
last year-but that he could live with. Discretion in a cop shop was a rare and
precious commodity, especially in a small town, and Jim was willing to put up
with any amount of backtalk in private so long as he got a smiling,
uncomplaining, and stolidly uncommunicative face in public. So far, Maggie, an
Outsider who had married a Moonin she met on a fish processor in the
Bering Sea
, was holding up very well, both as his chief
cook and bottle washer and as a Park rat. She might just stick.

He went down to the Riverside Cafe and got a hamburger and french fries to
go and delivered it back to Howie. Howie actually thanked him. Jim wanted to
open the door of the cell and beat him to death, and something in Jim's eyes
must have indicated this because Howie dropped his eyes and became very, very
still.

Jim went back to his office and closed the door, and then, for several
minutes, he just stood there in the middle of the room, hands dangling
uselessly at his sides. For the life of him he couldn't figure out what to do
next.

He'd always figured Howie was the most likely suspect, but all this time he
had thought Bernie had hired it done directly.