Kate sat back, grumbling. "Easy for you to say. Dandy's probably seducing Ellen Steen in the focsle even as we speak."

"That would be Old Sam's problem, not yours. And Mr. Steen's, if there is one."

There had been a smile in Anne Flanagan's voice when she replied, and Kate looked across the deck to find no distaste or censure in the minister's expression. Humor, yes, sympathy, understanding, kindness, tolerance, yes, all these things in abundance, but no rush to judgment, no disapproval, no condemnation. She didn't look much like an Old Testament prophet, either. "You're an odd sort of minister."

Anne raised an eyebrow. "How many have you known?"

"Touche." Kate faced forward again.

Anne dropped a st.i.tch and reached for a crochet hook. "The problem most fundamentalists share is that they mistake metaphor for fact."

Kate's smile was sour. "What? You mean Joshua's trumpet didn't bring down the walls at Jericho?"

"Pastor Seabolt would say it did."

"And you? What would you say?"

"I'd say it's a great story, one that always gets the kids listening and, true or not, teaches a good lesson about the power of faith." Anne put down the crochet hook and picked up the knitting needle again. "Have you ever noticed how all the best biblical stories begin with J? Joshua at Jericho, Jonah and the whale, poor old Job."

"Jesus and the Crucifixion," Kate said.

Anne laughed. The sound didn't surprise Kate as much as it would have a week before.

The Flanagans' gear was riding the incoming tide, with two skiffs out picking it. One was filled to overflowing with three kids and one big man who even at this distance looked hara.s.sed. Kate's heart went out to him. The second skiff was filled with four old women, their hands a blur as they picked fish after gleaming fish, and with a shout of triumph topped off their load before the first skiff was even half full. Jack shook his fist at them, and their laughter as they headed for the Freya reached Kate in her chair on the deck.

"I liked him," Anne Flanagan said, her hands stilling. "Neil Meany. I liked him a lot." She closed her eyes briefly. "I must be the world's lousiest judge of character."

Kate started to shake her head and thought better of it. "No. I saw his brother in action. Believe me, Calvin Meany was enough to drive anyone mad."

A pause while Anne began her second row. Eyes intent on her work, she said, "Was he mad?"

No, Kate thought. Despite the histrionics on the deck of the drifter that evening, she believed that Neil Meany had known exactly what he was doing. "I think he'd been pushed to his red-shift limit. It happens, to all of us."

"But most of us manage to rein it in. Most of us don't wind up killing three people."

"No. Most of us don't."

"Thank G.o.d." Anne Flanagan said the two words in a soft voice, with absolute sincerity and unquestioning belief.

Kate wished she had the faith to believe that G.o.d had both the power and the inclination to curb the more homicidal urges of the human race. It would have been very comforting. "Why did he stay?" "What?" Kate said.

"He took the skiff and Evan McCafferty out to the drifter that morning. You and Jim didn't show up until late afternoon. Why didn't he just raise anchor and sail away?"

Kate had wondered about that, too, with no result. "I don't know."

Anne increased a st.i.tch. "Maybe he wanted to get caught." "Maybe." And maybe he had, maybe Neil Meany had waited for discovery, not knowing who would come, knowing only that someone would. Which might put an entirely different interpretation on whether he knew what he was doing when he pushed the starter. If he had, he'd not only have been committing suicide, he would have been committing his third and fourth murders. Maybe his brother had been right, maybe he was too dumb to drive a boat.

It was all academic at this point, anyway, Kate thought. Neil Meany had killed two people and had taken a third with him when he'd killed himself, accidentally or by design. Either way, he was bent on self-destruction, and Kate had no time to waste on the self-destructive, who all too frequently managed to be as destructive of the people around them as they were of themselves. She thought of her mother.

No. Life, as Old Sam might have said, was too G.o.ddam short.

There was a whoop from offsh.o.r.e, and they looked out on the water to see Jack hold up a king salmon, balancing carefully in a skiff that was rocking exuberantly from side to side with the enthusiasm of its crew.

Anne's eyes narrowed. "Sixty pounds?"

Kate squinted. "Fifty, maybe fifty-five."

"We'll give it to Mary to smoke."

"Good idea."

Anne began the next row. "He was a Yeats scholar. Neil Meany. He could quote everything Yeats ever wrote."

"Um." Kate turned her face more into the sun and closed her eyes. "I never did like Yeats much myself."

"But he's terrific!" Anne was shocked. "He loved women."

Kate snorted without opening her eyes. "Yeah. 'The broken wall, the burning roof and tower and Agamemnon dead.' I remember the first time I read that, I thought, Yeah, and Iphigenia, too, Agamemnon's firstborn daughter, sacrificed by her father for a lousy fair wind to Troy."

There was a brief pause. "You didn't like Neil Meany much, did you, Kate?"

Kate opened her eyes and said flatly, "I don't like killers. Neil Meany killed his brother, killed his niece, killed Evan McCafferty and tried like h.e.l.l to kill me, twice. Lucky I have a harder head than Dani, and that he a.s.saulted me on the deck of the Freya, not in some little upstream backwater where he could have finished the job. No. I didn't like Neil Meany. And no, I'm not sorry he's dead."

Anne worked a few st.i.tches. "You'll have to forgive him, you know. Forgive him, to get past it."

"No." Kate was definite without being overly emphatic. "No, I won't."

"What did you do with Cal Meany the night of the Fourth, auntie?"

"Not much, Katya," Auntie Joy said with elaborate nonchalance. "I just take him down to dock and shove him off."

"Auntie!"

The old woman heaved a deep sigh and added, "But tide is in. He just trip and fall on knees on his own deck."

The four aunties burst into gusts of merriment at the expression on Kate's face.

"Make big cuss words, too," Auntie Joy added, to the sounds of additional merriment.

Evidently there would be no potlatch held to honor Calvin Meany's memory, Kate thought. He would not be missed. She thought of his wife and son, now on their way back to Ohio. He would not be missed by anyone.

It was maybe eight o'clock by the slant of the sun, and all of the sailors were home from the sea, and one hunter home from the hill as well. Aunties Vi and Joy were still at the Flana-gans' cabin, Aunties Edna and Balasha had gone back to fish camp. Jack and Johnny were scarfing up the last of Anne Flan-agan's superb spaghetti. Anne was washing dishes, Kate drying.

Chopper Jim, none the worse for wear, looked Kate over with a critical and not wholly approving eye, nodded once and said, "I guess it takes more than blowing up a boat to kill a Shugak."

He had a lovestruck twin on either knee. Kate was relieved to see that the little monsters had some human instincts.

The trooper said to Auntie Joy, "Why didn't you just tell me that you'd taken Meany back to his boat, Joyce?"

Auntie Joy got up and left the deck. A moment later they heard the creak of the outhouse door.

"Because she's stubborn," Kate said, stacking plates in a cupboard. "Because it's an insult that you asked her to account for her time, like some village kid answerable to his parents for checking the fish wheel or the smokehouse fire. She's an elder. She's not answerable to you."

"Because I'm a trooper?"

Kate shook her head. "No. Or it's not first on the list."

"What is?"

Kate smiled. "You're thirty years younger than she is."

Mutt jumped up and barked once. A shout made everyone look from her to the beach. Auntie Balasha was at the edge of the outgoing tide in the fish camp dory and she was waving her hand urgently enough to ship water over the dory's sides. "Where's Joy? She must come! The fish hawk is back with his paper!"

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Kate said, and dropped the towel to head for the door.

When they got to the fish tamp they found Auntie Balasha and Auntie Edna sitting on their stumps around the campfire, faces set in unrevealing lines. Auntie Vi and Auntie Joy went to sit next to them without a word.

Also next to the fire were Bill Nickle, who had seated himself, and Lamar Rousch, who had not, by which Kate deduced that neither had been invited to. "I don't have much choice in this, Kate," Lamar said the moment he saw her. "The governor ordered me out here this time."

Bill Nickle looked smugger than ever. "What's he here for?" Kate said, nodding at him.

Lamar was unhappy and he didn't care who knew it. "He's got a seat on the board of Fish and Game. He's a gubernatorial appointee. The boss said to let him come if he wanted."

"And I wanted," Bill Nickle said. "Give it to her." Mutely, Lamar held out a doc.u.ment, folded in thirds. Kate took it and ripped it in half and handed the pieces back.

There was a murmur from the four old women. Auntie Vi permitted a wintry smile to cross her face. "The case is still in federal court, Lamar," Kate said. "The state can put their cease-and-desist orders where the sun don't shine."

Bill Nickle erupted to his feet. "Now wait just a G.o.ddam minute!"

"Watch your G.o.ddam language in front of my aunties," Kate snapped.

"Oh, why don't you just f.u.c.k off, Shugak! This is none of your G.o.ddam business, anyway!"

Jack, standing at the rear of the group, stepped back out of range and sent up a prayer of thanks that there hadn't been room in the skiff for Chopper Jim. In the telling, felony a.s.sault could always be reduced to a misdemeanor.

Kate moved forward swiftly, and Nickle raised himself hurriedly to his feet. He was eight inches taller than she was, but Kate didn't seem to find it a disadvantage. "It is my business, Bill. These are my aunties, and this is our family's fish camp. We come here every summer"

"Yeah, right, where were you for thirty years, when the rest of us were working at building up a state!" It was nothing but empty bl.u.s.ter and they knew it, and after the words were out, so did he.

"and we fish to eat," Kate continued without missing a beat. "We don't fish so we can stuff the skin and give it gla.s.s eyeb.a.l.l.s and hang it on a wall somewhere and brag about the big one that got away. We take the fish and we dry it and we can it and we kipper it and we smoke it and we fill our pantries with it and then we by G.o.d eat it, and no one, especially not some jacked-up old fart from Anchorage that some other jacked-up old fart from Juneau misnamed to a state commission is going to tell us different." She stepped back. "Now get out. And don't come back."

She didn't add a warning to the last command. She didn't have to.

Nickle appealed to the fish hawk. "You have to stop them. The judge says so. The governor says so."

"The governor in on this little deal you and Meany cooked up?" Kate said.

"What deal?" Lamar said.

Nickle paled. "What deal? I don't know what you're talking about."

"What deal," Kate mimicked him. "Why, the big fly-in fishing and hunting lodge you and Meany had planned for Amartuq. What did Neil Meany say you called it? A single-destination resort?" As she spoke, she remembered the scene at Mudhole Smith International Airport, all the sport fishermen with their fly-fishing gear taking off for fishing holes unknown. There was one h.e.l.l of a market there, even she could see that. How much more of a temptation would it have been to Meany, clearly a man with an eagle eye on the main chance? And then there was a perfectly serviceable airstrip less than a mile from fish camp. He would have thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

it's also the only one suitable for the people who actually live here to have a fish camp."

Her lip twisted. "And what the h.e.l.l, with virtually no overhead after the initial investment because you good-old-boy guides don't have to pay a lick in taxes, and since there's an old guide network in state government that goes back to territorial days, you figured you had it made. You almost did."

She laughed. "You know, you're nothing but a carpetbagger, Nickle. You don't give a d.a.m.n about the land or the people, you just want to make a buck however you can." She looked around at the aunties, four round brown faces lined with patience and stoicism and a fort.i.tude that had endured and survived a three-hundred-year threat of racial and cultural extinction.

That fort.i.tude was not going to be put to the test today. Kate looked back at Bill Nickle. "Take your fishing flies and your bamboo pole and your two-pound test and get lost."

Faint but persevering, Nickle appealed once more to Lamar Rousch. "They can't do this. We've got the law on our side. We've got a G.o.ddam judge on our side!"

They stood there, at an impa.s.se, the rushing sound of the creek loud in their ears. At last Lamar Rousch sighed and shoved his hat to the back of his head. "You know what, Bill? I'm just not ready to start World War Three, right here, right now. Okay?"

"No, it's not G.o.ddam okay! They're not supposed to be fishing here, you've got the papers, serve them!"

Lamar, well aware that he was putting his entire professional future on the line, smiled and said cheerfully, "No."

20.

The aunties did not cheer as the two men disappeared into the gra.s.s, which was probably a good thing. At this point, they had Lamar on their side. Kate waited for the sound of the Zodiac's motor, and then waited longer until it had faded from earshot. When it had, she said, "Jack?"

"What?"

"Could you and Johnny take a walk, please? Like up the trail to the airstrip and back?"

He looked from her to the four aunties, perched in their solemn row, and said, "Want us to take our time?"

She smiled at him. "No. Normal speed is fine."

"Sure." He fetched his rifle from the cabin. "Johnny?"

"Daa-aad."

"Come on."

Johnny tugged off his Mariners cap with the Ken Griffey Jr. signature on it, beat it a couple of times against his leg, resettled it just so on his head, heaved a martyred sigh and followed his father into the brush.