Killing Grounds Part 13

Kate stiffened. "What did he do?"

Auntie Joy exchanged a glance with Auntie Vi, who was sitting like a wooden statue, the shadows of the fire flickering over the lines of her face giving an illusion of expression, "He get mad. He say he file for permit for lodge with Parks Service. He say if we don't have t.i.tle, he can build lodge here. That true?"

"I don't know," Kate said slowly.

Jack stirred. "Iqaluk's t.i.tle is still under deliberation, Kate. He probably could have, a temporary one anyway, if he greased the right palms. With all the budget cuts in Was.h.i.+ngton, the Parks Service needs money bad."

The refrain of the nineties, Kate thought.

Jack reflected, and added, "And then once Meany got the lodge up, he could claim grandfather rights to it. The way the Park rats did when the government created the Park around their homesteads."

Kate thought this over. "Greedy just doesn't even come close to describing this son of a b.i.t.c.h," she said finally. "He jumped the Ursins' setnet site, he cut Mary's nets, not once but twice, and then had the gall to offer to buy her out. The setnet sites on both sides of the mouth, and the fish camp, toohe wanted all he could get of Amartuq Creek. Did he come here again, Auntie Joy?"

"No." But the old woman had hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before answering.

"Auntie?" Kate said. "Is there something else?"

Auntie Joy glared. "Nothing else," she said with finality. She got up and stamped off. Auntie Vi followed. Edna and Balasha exchanged glances, gave Kate apologetic looks and left, too.

They left behind a crackling fire, an uneasy niece and a father and son with secrets to share.

It was well after one when the skiff nosed out of the mouth of the creek. The northwestern horizon was lit with a golden glow where the sun had put his head down for a four-hour nap. On the right, the windows of Mary Balashoff's cabin were dark. On the left, the soft glow of one kerosene lamp turned low outlined the door of the Meany cabin. Kate fancied she could see Marian Meany sitting next to the open door, gazing out into the night, perhaps listening to the sound of her children breathing deeply, peacefully in sleep behind her. Neil Meany and Evan McCafferty would be sacked out in the hammocks out back. Offsh.o.r.e, the no-name drifter rode at anchor, one of the few boats left in the bay. Most of the fleet had headed for port.

Good, Kate thought. Chopper Jim could nail them one at a time as they hit the small boat harbor. She wondered if he'd stopped at the Meanys' on the way back to Cordova, to be exposed to the full glory of the Meanys' oldest daughter. The thought made her smile, and forget for the moment that she was alone.

This circ.u.mstance was brought about by Mutt's understandable inclination to remain on sh.o.r.e, where she could roughhouse with Johnny and terrorize the local wildlife with equal abandon, and also by Jack Morgan's inexplicable decision not to accompany her out to the Freya, where, she had made sure he was aware, they would have spent what remained of the night all by themselves. She had to return to spend the night on board because Old Sam was busy adding another chapter to the thick volume of carnal commerce with Mary Balashoff, and it was a standing order that the tender be manned every night it spent out of the harbor. It was Kate's turn on watch. Jack was regretful but firm. Kate pouted, and even that didn't work, but she couldn't do much more because Jack had Johnny on a short leash, trailing along behind him like a lamb on a tether. She came as close as she ever had to wis.h.i.+ng Jack's marriage had been childless.

She putted across the bay alone, torn between feeling frustrated and feeling rejected. It was in this schizophrenic mood that she nosed up against the Freya and climbed on board, bow line in hand. Preoccupied, maybe even still pouting, she bent over to loop the line around a cleat, and totally missed the hiss of the boat hook through the air as it came down on the back of her head.

The night exploded in a sunburst of red, swallowed up by a great, engulfing wave of black into which she sank without a whimper.

It took a long time, it took what seemed like forever, before the black faded to gray, a drizzly kind of gray. A drizzle, in fact. She was wet clear through, and s.h.i.+vering, and she couldn't understand why. This was July; one did not s.h.i.+ver in July, not with the temperature consistently above fifty degrees, the big five-oh that signaled the beginning of summer each May. h.e.l.l, sometimes it got up to a scalding eighty degrees in Prince William Sound, a temperature hot enough to drain the enthusiasm out of the most compet.i.tive Alaska fisherman.

Wet again. After her adventures in dunking the previous day, by rights she shouldn't have to get wet all over again outside of the Freyas head or the galvanized stainless-steel tub on her own homestead. What the h.e.l.l was going on here? Her brow furrowed with temper, and she struggled to open her eyes. It wasn't easy, as they seemed stuck together, but eventually she pried them apart.

The first thing that met her gaze was a black-painted wooden surface that, after painful cogitation, she recognized as the deck of the Freya. Her cheek seemed to be pressed against it. Her whole body seemed to be pressed against it, in fact, although plastered might be a better word, because there was a steady drizzle coming down. The deck was wet, her clothes were wet, her hair was wet.

Beneath her wet hair, her head hurt, a deep throb that kept time with her heartbeat. She groaned, which only made it hurt worse. She stopped groaning.

There were two objects on the deck in front of her, two faded blue k.n.o.bs sitting side by side that appeared to be connected to something. With an effort, she raised her eyes, and found Old Sam staring down at her, his wizened face bearing a disapproving frown. The k.n.o.bs must be his knees, she thought hazily.

"What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you, Shugak? You drunk or something?"

She didn't remember much about the next hour or so. Old Sam must have pried her up off the deck and helped her into the galley, where he stripped her and m.u.f.fled her in the scratchy comfort of an army blanket and plied her with mug after mug of steaming coffee. When she'd regained consciousness enough to make herself understood, he examined the back of her head with uncharacteristically gentle fingers.

The probing hurt enough to cause silent tears to roll down her face. This terrified him, and he overcompensated by donning a bluff and hearty demeanor. "Not much harm done," he said in a tone determined to be cheerful. "You've got a lump the size of a baseball but the skin wasn't broken. You must have a skull like a rock. You'll be fine in a day or two." He rolled a towel and put it around her neck so she could relax without leaning her head against the wall. "Don't suppose you saw the a.s.shole that did this?"

"No." She almost shook her head. "I was climbing up over the gunnel when Wait." She paused. "No. I was already on deck, I think." Her eyes closed against the glare of the galley light, and she said, spent, "I don't know."

He grunted. "Well, whoever it was was looking for something."

She struggled to take an interest. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he thoroughly trashed my boat, is what I mean," Old Sam said grimly. "Look at 'er."

Painfully, Kate opened her eyes. It was true. Everything in the lockers was now out on the floordishes, pots and pans, canned goods, fish tickets, tender summaries, pens, pencils, tide books, a mending needle, a sliming knife. A bright orange swath that resolved itself into a survival suit sprawled awkwardly across the table. The color hurt her eyes. She closed them again. "How about above?"

Old Sam's voice hardened. "The same. He yanked the charts out of the shelves, he busted the G.o.ddam compa.s.s, your stuff's scattered from h.e.l.l to breakfast." He paused, and added with menace, "I sure wish you'd caught him in the act, Shugak."

"I think I did," she murmured, slipping into a doze.

She woke up sprawled across Old Sam's bunk, and turned her head to find Chopper Jim standing there, staring down at her, hat for once in hand. "Hey," she said.

"Hey backatcha," he replied.

She ran her tongue around the inside of a mouth that felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. "Water."

He left and returned with a full gla.s.s, putting an arm around her shoulders and holding it to her lips. She gulped gratefully. "Thanks," she said, stretching back out.

The tiny stateroom boasted a single chair. The trooper tipped it forward to let the dirty clothes heaped on it slide to the deck and seated himself next to the bunk, unzipping his jacket and adjusting his holster. "Tell me about it."

"Nothing to tell," she said, wincing when an unwary movement made her head throb. "I came back to the boat after one. Somebody coldc.o.c.ked me coming on board. I never saw him."

"Amateur," he said.

A reluctant smile widened her mouth. "p.r.i.c.k."

They sat in peaceful silence. After a bit she felt well enough to scoot up against the bulkhead. Jim shoved a pillow behind the small of her back. "Thanks." She closed her eyes again. "What did you find out in Cordova?"

He produced a notebook and thumbed through it. "First off, the boy's alibi holds up. The beach gang saw him leave the dock with his father alive and well on the deck of his drifter, and the Wieses say he showed up at their house right after and stayed the night."

Unconsciously, Kate's breast lifted in a long, relieved sigh. "Good. How about the autopsy?"

He flipped a few pages. "Time of death, roughly midnight."

"Roughly?"

He shrugged. "The Gulf of Alaska's mean temperature is forty-two degrees. The body was floating around in it for at least six hours. It tends to foul up all the techies' fancy-dandy tests. And Kate? He drowned."

"What?"

He held up a hand, palm out. "He had help. His trachea was crushed, and there was water in his lungs."

"What kind of water?"

"Salt."

"So. Could have been either the harbor in Cordova or Alaganik Bay. Any way we can find out which?"

He shrugged. "Lab's running more tests. It won't help," he added with the jaded wisdom of long experience. "They'll find trace amounts of oil and gas in the water, but with as many boats as have been fis.h.i.+ng Alaganik there's probably not much difference in composition between this bay and the harbor."

"There's a lot more glacial silt in Alaganik Bay, washed down from the Kanuyaq. They ought to be able to identify the water from that alone."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. In his years as an Alaska state trooper, Chopper Jim had not had much cause to put a whole lot of faith behind forensic evidence, which in his experience led, in court, to a face-off between opposing so-called expert witnesses, each of whom contradicted everything the other said, leaving the jury more confused than enlightened and, consequently, resentful enough to take it out on the prosecution. Like most in law enforcement, he leaned toward catching the perp at the scene, weapon in hand, preferably in the presence of three eyewitnesses, one of whom was a priest.

"So the knife went in after the fact?" Kate said.

"Yup."

"After he was strangled and drowned, somebody stabbed him."

"Uh-huh."

"I hate the weird ones." Kate tried to figure out a scenario to fit the evidence, but the effort made her dizzy and her head started to hurt again. "What else? What about the cuts and bruises on his face and torso?" Something in the quality of the ensuing silence made her eyes snap open. "What, Jim?"

He made a pretense of consulting his notes. "After Meany delivered, he went over to the fuel dock and topped off his tanks. Shortly after which he had a visitor."

Kate made a face. "Female, no doubt."

"You're such a prude, Shugak," he complained. "Anyway, they both left the boat about six-thirty, according to Otis Swopes, the Standard Oil guy. Otis identified the lady as one Myra Sarakovikoff. And, of course, Otis lost no time in telling the tale to the first guy to wander by, in this case one Wendell Kritchen, also known as the Mouth of the Sound."

Kate closed her eyes again. "s.h.i.+t."

"Yeah. You can almost guess what happened next."

"Tim Sarakovikoff came home."

"You win first prize. Not only home, but he tied up to the fuel dock right next to Meany's drifter, and took on the story from Otis and Wendell while he was taking on fuel." Chopper Jim smoothed his already immaculate hair. "Tim took off uptown. According to approximately twenty eyewitnesses, he caught up with them at the Cordova House. Whereupon he proceeded to beat the living s.h.i.+t out of Meany. d.i.c.k Bynum's words, not mine," he added. "d.i.c.k seemed kind of admiring. One might even say jubilant. He got a good-looking wife?"

"Yes."

"Thought so," Jim said, satisfied, and making a mental note to check out d.i.c.k Bynum's good-looking wife at his earliest opportunity.

"What happened next?"

"Near as I can figure, everybody went into the bar and celebrated, leaving Meany bleeding on the sidewalk. This was the Fourth of July, Kate, and the celebrating started early on."

"No one's memories are all that clear," Kate suggested, and he nodded. "s.h.i.+t," she said again.

"I heard that," he agreed.

"Myra?"

"Myra was on the first plane out of Mudhole Smith this morning, on her way to Anchorage."

"Did you talk to her first?"

"No," he said regretfully. "But I phoned APD, talked to Sayles. He said he'd track her down, get her statement."

She had to ask, even if she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. "What does Tim say?"

"I haven't talked to him yet. He wasn't home, he wasn't at his mother's house, and his boat's gone from the harbor."

She sat where she was for a few moments, and then swung her legs over the side of the bunk.

"Whoa there," he said, stretching out a hand.

"Help me up." She grabbed his arm and pulled herself upright. With this sudden ascent to the vertical her head felt as if there were no more than three jackhammers working on it at the same time. "Come on."

"Sure, Shugak," he said, the drawl back. "You might want to put on some pants first, though."

She looked down and saw that Old Sam had stripped her to T-s.h.i.+rt and panties. She swore halfheartedly and went to lean up against the wall. "In the chart room."

She waited. There was an eruption of male voices, followed by the angry thud of feet. The door crashed back on its hinges. Old Sam glowered at her. "Get your a.s.s back in bed, Shugak."

She managed a grin. "Not even if you crawl in there with me, Old Sam."

He swore and snorted and in the end stamped off, outrage evident in the set of his shoulders. Chopper Jim returned with a pair of Kate's jeans in one hand and socks and Nikes in the other. He held the jeans for her to step into, and waited until she was working on the second leg before observing, "I've always dreamed of doing this. It's just that in my dreams I'm helping you out of your pants, not into them." She had no comeback and he was mildly alarmed.

Leaning heavily on his arm, Kate shuffled out on deck and up into the bow, trying not to throw up along the way. What with the strike, most of the boats were back in the harbor. There couldn't have been more than ten left, and it was easy to pick out the neat lines of the Esther. She pointed it out.

"Think Old Sam'11 loan me his skiff?" Jim said.

"If I go along," she said, lying in her teeth.

He turned his head and looked at her. The cost of remaining upright was reflected clearly in the pale, taut lines of her face. "You know, Shugak, you give the word 'stubborn' a whole new meaning."

Tim saw them aboard with an impa.s.sive expression belied by the s.h.i.+ner he was sporting, and returned to his work. He was mending a hole in his net, and the green plastic needle with the Gothic arch to its tip looked tiny and fragile as he wove it deftly back and forth. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, which could have been from launching and hauling a hundred feet of gear every six hours, with or without salmon in it. Picking fish was as hard on the hands as it was on the back.

He didn't seem surprised when Jim told him why they were there. He even admitted to the fight.

Of course even the weather knew better than to rain on Chopper Jim, and the overcast had turned into a high, broken layer of c.u.mulus clouds with enough blue sky between to allow shafts of golden sunlight to ripple across the water, illuminate the peaks of the Ragged Mountains and the erect figure of the trooper, dwarfing the deck of the bowpicker. The Alaska state trooper uniform was very distinctive, and even if it hadn't been, there was no mistaking that hat. Every boat left in the bay had its whole crew on deck, and Kate wondered how far their voices were carrying.

As if she'd spoken aloud, Tim's voice was low. "I wanted to kill him."

"But you didn't," Chopper Jim said, "is that what you're telling us?"

Tim's smile was lopsided and rueful. Not much was left of the joyous high boat of the season opener. "Didn't get the chance."

"Why not?" Kate said.

"Auntie Joy made us quit," he said.

Kate's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"That would be Joyce Shugak?" Jim said.

Tim nodded, contemplating his hands, the bruises already fading to yellow, the sc.r.a.pes drying to black crusts.