"I'm going to take Vanessa home now," Johnny announced, standing a safe distance away from the living room. After six months in the Park he'd had experience of the Clarks' lack of inhibitions, and he'd seen enough to horrify him for one day.

"Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Clark," Vanessa said. "And Mr. Clark."

Dinah disentangled herself from her husband and stood up. "Come back anytime, honey. Johnny? You got everything? Helmets?" She looked out the window. The sun was a long way from going down. "You guys watch for bears, now." She recollected that there appeared to be a madman with a shotgun loose in the Park and said, brows creased, "Maybe you better follow them home, Bobby."

"I'll take 'em," Jim said, standing in the doorway.

He had his cap pulled so low it was hard to see his expression, but there was a harsh line to his mouth.

"You told them," Dinah said.

He gave a sharp nod.

"I'll go over."

He made a negating motion with his hand. "Don't. I sent Auntie Vi up to their house. She's calling their kids. I sent George into town with the body, so the kids in Anchorage can meet the plane and at least some of them can fly back out with him. They don't want to see anyone but family, not yet."

"All right. Have you had anything to eat? There are leftover pork chops, and a little mashed potatoes."

"Anything's fine."

Dinah fixed him a plate. He ate standing up. "Thanks, Dinah."

As if she couldn't restrain herself one moment longer, Dinah turned and went straight for Katya's crib. Bobby followed her.

"Come on," Jim said to Johnny. "Kate at home?"

"She was when I left this morning. I have to take Vanessa home first."

Jim nodded. "I'll follow you."

18.

His teeth were clenched so tightly together he was starting to get a headache. He made a conscious effort to unclamp them but it was like chipping at cement. There had never been any question of what Jim Chopin would do with his life. He couldn't remember a time when he had wanted to be anything else but a cop. The job had never let him down, either; it kept him busy, interested and amused, and the Smoky the Bear hat was an unbelievable babe magnet. There were those times when he had to look at men he had known when they were alive, dead men now, dead men who'd been shot, stabbed, beaten, messed about by animals even, but he could handle that. He could handle the occasional drunken pipe-liner putting a gun to his head at Bernie's Roadhouse; he could handle a twenty-car pileup with jackknifed semis at Glenallen the day of the first snowfall; he could handle abusive fathers and drunken husbands and vengeful wives and embezzling cannery owners and dope-dealing video store rental clerks. And, h.e.l.l, the pay was even good, he was putting away a h.e.l.l of a chunk for retirement, always supposing he ever did retire.

The times he did think about retirement were when he was walking up to the front door of someone's home to deliver the worst possible news to the people inside. He couldn't handle being the G.o.dd.a.m.n grim reaper, was what he couldn't handle. Billy and Annie hadn't believed him at first, a common reaction. He'd had to repeat himself, and then repeat himself again, and then Annie had slid down the side of the wall as if all the bones in her body had dissolved, and Billy had begun to weep.

And then he'd had to ask them when was the last time they'd seen Dandy, and who was his latest girlfriend, and had he told them anything about trying to find Len Dreyer's killer. He hadn't got much sense out of either one, big surprise, but he'd done his duty, by G.o.d. The academy would be proud of him; his probationary officer would have nodded approvingly; Lieutenant Gene Brooks, his boss in Anchorage, would find nothing about which to complain.

He felt his gorge rise, and for a moment thought he was going to have to pull over to puke. He fought it back, winding down the window and inhaling large gulps of cool spring air. He'd slowed down a bit and the four-wheeler ahead of him pulled away. He stepped on the gas and caught up again.

Leon Duffy aka Len Dreyer was no loss to the Park. If Dreyer's death resulted in a open file growing steadily colder over the coming weeks and even years, that was pretty much okay with him. Duffy was a child abuser. Jim would not have connived at his murder, and he would have tried to stop it had he been present at the event, but after the fact his personal opinion was that a quick shotgun blast to the chest was far too short an ending. Something involving large amounts of pain and suffering would have been more appropriate, but at least Duffy had been removed from the general population, to its far greater good.

However. Jim had every reason to believe that the murderer had tried to burn down Kate's cabin and Kate with it, and that was not allowed, whether he was sleeping with the prospective flambe or not.

And now Dandy. Dandy, that charmer of women, that guiltless slacker, that cop wanna-be for who knew what reason, h.e.l.l, maybe he liked the hat, too. Dandy, who was just stubborn enough, just stupid enough not to back off the investigation when told to, little Dandy Mike, stumbling around the Park, poking his nose into what didn't concern him, asking questions of all the wrong people, causing enough talk so that someone would decide to shut him up for good.

"f.u.c.k!" Jim yelled.

He pounded on the ceiling of the cab until his knuckles split.

"f.u.c.k!" he yelled again.

It didn't make him feel any better.

Right now what he wanted most in the world was to talk to Kate Shugak. He was going to sit down with Kate and discuss this case from the beginning of last summer and the attack of Tracy Drussell to the discovery of Duffy's body, the burning of Kate's cabin, and the murder of Dandy Mike. They were going to lay out a timeline, they were going to put names and places next to the dates, and they were "f.u.c.king going to find this a.s.shole with the shotgun and the firestarter!" he bellowed, and pounded on the ceiling again.

His knuckles hurt. He sucked on them, watching the four-wheeler ahead with a fierce gaze. No way was anything going to happen to Johnny Morgan on his watch. And the girl, what was her name? Van, Vanessa something. Right, Vanessa c.o.x. The Norwegian bachelor farmer's daughter, only she wasn't his daughter and he wasn't a bachelor. Jim had met Virgil Hagberg at a town meeting in the high school gym once. He didn't remember a wife, but he remembered someone saying there was one, but she seldom left the homestead.

He never should have let Dandy Mike imagine for one moment that he might have a chance at a job at the Niniltna trooper post. He never for one moment should have allowed Dandy's father, Billy, to believe that he had influenced Jim into giving Dandy a job. There was such a thing as being too G.o.dd.a.m.n diplomatic. Screw diplomacy from now on, diplomacy got the wrong people killed.

He blinked. For one heart-stopping moment the four-wheeler disappeared, and then he drew level with the lane they had turned on and spotted the telltale dust hanging in the air. With a curse, he floored the gas pedal and dove down it after them. Tree limbs caught at the rearview mirrors and deadwood cracked beneath his tires, but he caught up with them as they pulled up to the house.

It was a nice house, trim; somebody had already raked the square patch of lawn free of dead leaves and new gra.s.s was poking its head up. The outbuildings were neat, too, well maintained, a shed for everything and everything in its shed.

Kate's truck was parked in front of the house. Good. He'd by G.o.d hijack the woman and they'd pull an all-nighter and figure out who the murderer was. Almost calm, he pulled up on her rear b.u.mper-just in case she had any ideas about getting away from him -and killed the engine and got out.

Johnny eyed him. "You got a lot of room to park out here, you had to park it right behind Kate's truck?"

"Yes," Jim said, and something in the tone of his voice shut Johnny down cold.

He was Jack Morgan's son, though, so only for a moment. "It's your funeral," he said, and turned to Vanessa. He was too manly to try anything with Jim watching, but she had no such qualms. She kissed his cheek, a swift, shy gesture, and murmured something that Jim didn't catch. Johnny blushed, and with a quick glance over his shoulder murmured something back. With a little wave, Vanessa went up the steps and in the door.

Jim followed her. "Hold on," he said before she vanished. "Find Kate for me, will you? Tell her I need to talk to her."

She nodded. He stood in the doorway and waited.

"Hi, Aunt Telma. I'm home."

"So I see, dear," a pleasant voice said.

"Where's Kate Shugak?"

"Why, I don't know, dear. Kate who?"

"Kate Shugak, Aunt Telma. Her truck is parked out front."

"Oh." A brief silence. "Did I give her cookies?"

"You might have. You give everyone cookies. Was she here?"

"Someone was here."

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know, dear. A while ago." A pause. "Would you like some cookies?"

"No, thank you, Aunt Telma."

Vanessa came back down the hall. "She's not in the kitchen or the living room."

"Your aunt seems - "

"Yes. She is." Vanessa stood very straight and looked him directly in the eye.

"Yes. Well." Jim respected loyalty, deserving or not. "Maybe Kate's with Virgil outside somewhere. I'll go look." He went back outside.

"Where's Kate?" Johnny said.

"I don't know." A faint unease whispered around the edges of his mind. After a moment he identified it. Where was Mutt? Generally speaking, he couldn't set foot within a mile radius of Mutt without being instantly attacked. She never strayed far from Kate's side, except when Kate was tucked in for the night. So where was she?

Maybe Kate had left her at home. But Kate seldom did so, and would Mutt allow that anyway? Unlikely.

Without thinking, he reached down to unsnap his holster.

Johnny's eyes got big. "What's wrong?"

He tried for a rea.s.suring smile. "Nothing. Stay here, okay? In fact, get in my truck and lock the doors. If Kate or Mutt show up, beep the horn."

"Okay." The boy looked up at the house. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair. Ain't love grand. Young love, anyway. Grown-up love was a colossal pain in the a.s.s.

Jim walked around the house, not tiptoeing exactly, but not announcing his presence, either. He walked between the house and the garage, a neat pathway paved with irregular stones with a flat surface, worn by much use and bordered with neat beds of raked soil, ready for planting.

He heard a sound and followed the path to it, around a stand of paper birch and through a tiny grove of what he thought might be apple trees, although he didn't know how fruit trees could survive either the cold or the moose in the Park.

He came out of them onto a large plot of turned earth. Virgil was digging in it with a number two shovel, taking earth from a pile of dirt and tossing it into a hole.

Jim walked forward, his footsteps m.u.f.fled in the gra.s.s. "Hey, Virgil," he said.

As uneasy as he was, he was still unprepared for the other man's reaction.

Virgil dropped the shovel and lunged for a shotgun that Jim only just then noticed propped upright by its b.u.t.t in the dirt. He tried to grab it before Virgil got hold of it, but Virgil was closer and quick for an old man. He swung it around, both barrels pointing at Jim.

There was nothing more mesmerizing in this world than the twin barrels of a .12-gauge shotgun staring down at you. Jim could hardly take his eyes off them. He kept his voice soft. "What seems to be the problem here, Virgil?"

Virgil squinted at him. His thin cheeks were sunken, his eyes hollow. "Jim Chopin?" The shotgun began to lower.

"That's right," Jim said, risking a step forward and halting when the barrel jerked back up again. He grabbed a quick look over Virgil's shoulder and what he thought he saw made his blood run cold. "Virgil," he said urgently, "put the gun down. Now."

Virgil shook his head. "I am very sorry to disobey an officer of the law, but I cannot to do that, Jim Chopin. My Telma, she would not like that."

"Put it down, Virgil." Jim saw Virgil's knuckle tighten on the trigger and felt sweat pop out on his forehead. "At least tell me why," he said. "Why, Virgil?"

Virgil looked behind Jim, and Jim dared a glance backward. Virgil was looking at the house, at the second floor, where the light was on and a woman, Jim guessed Telma, was brushing her hair. "Because, Jim Chopin, love doth make fools of us all." And he fired.

Involuntarily Jim closed his eyes.

There was no blast.

He opened his eyes again.

Virgil fired the other barrel. Jim flinched, but again no shot.

The shotgun was empty.

Virgil sighed. "I guess I forgot to reload."

Jim had the shotgun out of his hands and Virgil on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back in thirty seconds. In the next second he was up and running for the hole in the garden. "Oh G.o.d," he said in an agonized whisper, "no, no, no, no."

He stumbled into the hole and began digging at the dirt with both hands. Flesh and fur both showed. His heart was beating so hard in his ears that he couldn't hear and he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. "No," was all he could say, over and over again, "no, no no no."

He got Kate out first, so covered in dirt and blood he hardly recognized her. He shoved her out of the pit and scrambled up beside her. She was warm to the touch, thank G.o.d she was warm. He put his ear to her mouth and remembered to count to five. Nothing. He beat back panic and tried for a pulse in her neck, forced himself to count off ten seconds. Nothing.

"No," he said. He forced his thumbs into her cheeks, opening her mouth, and sucked out the dirt and spat, once, twice. He pulled her head back to create an airway and started CPR. Fifteen and two, fifteen and two, fifteen and two. Not too hard, don't want to break any ribs. Get air into the lungs, into the brain. Fifteen and two, fifteen and two, fifteen and two. he said. He forced his thumbs into her cheeks, opening her mouth, and sucked out the dirt and spat, once, twice. He pulled her head back to create an airway and started CPR. Fifteen and two, fifteen and two, fifteen and two. Not too hard, don't want to break any ribs. Get air into the lungs, into the brain. Fifteen and two, fifteen and two, fifteen and two.

He looked up once and saw Johnny standing in front of them, a stricken look on his face. "Get Mutt," he said, jerking his head, and went back to breathing for Kate.

He seemed to have been doing CPR forever, he had nearly given up hope, when her breast rose and fell on its own. She choked, and then she coughed, and then she puked, a gory ma.s.s of coffee and cookie chunk with plenty of dirt in it. He turned her to her side and then he puked, too, right next to her, on his hands and knees like a dog.

Like a dog. He turned and saw that Johnny had somehow managed to muscle Mutt out of the pit. She looked as bad as Kate did, but she was breathing on her own. "Stay with them," Jim said, and got to his feet.

The boy, dumb, kneeled between woman and dog, his face wet with tears, as Jim jumped over Virgil and ran for the crew cab.

"Why?" Jim said. He was too tired and too angry for subtlety. If Virgil gave him the slightest excuse, he was going to knock him flat on his back. He didn't care that Virgil was twenty years older than he was. He didn't care that Virgil was seated, with his wrists cuffed. He was tired from being up all night and if Virgil didn't answer all of his questions straight out and straight up, he might kill him and use the hole Virgil had dug for Kate and Mutt to bury the body.

"So f.u.c.k diplomacy, and f.u.c.k technique," he said out loud, earning a curious glance from Bobby.

They were in the conference room at the Niniltna Native a.s.sociation. Bobby had gotten the keys from Auntie Vi, who had gotten them from Billy Mike, and Jim was in mortal fear that Billy and Annie were going to show up at any moment, another of the reasons he wanted this interview in the bag.

Kate and Mutt were in the back of George's Cessna on their way to Ahtna. Bobby had already alerted the hospital and the vet. They were both suffering from severe head trauma, resulting from a single blow to the head. Jim had the shovel in the back of the crew cab. It wasn't the blood on the shovel that got to him, it was the short, silky black hairs. He'd almost used it on Virgil then and there.

"Why did you kill them?" he said. "I want answers, Virgil, and I want them now."

Virgil looked as serene as ever. No force had been necessary in subduing him. "I have to get back to Telma now, she will be worried."

Jim noticed Virgil wasn't worried about Vanessa, sh.e.l.l-shocked and speechless, currently in the capable hands of Auntie Vi. "You should have thought of that before you killed two people and tried to kill a third. To say nothing of the dog." Jim caught himself choking back a laugh. He wondered if he was hysterical. He knew the signs. He took a deep breath. "Let's take it from the top, Virgil. Why did you kill Len Dreyer?"

Virgil focused on him and said gently, "Would you please see to my Telma, Jim Chopin? She should not be left alone, way out there by herself."

"I'll get hold of Bernie," Bobby said. "He'll find the Grosdidier brothers, send them out after her. We'll bring her back to town, Virgil, and I'll have Auntie Vi look after her. She'll be all right."

"I thank you, Bobby," Virgil said, smiling at him.