Fire And Ice Part 15

She took a deep breath. "Look, I admit, the attraction is still there. But you are still married to Jenny. I'm sorry, G.o.d I'm sorry, for her, and for you, but you can't divorce her, you simply can't." She straightened in her chair. "I'm actually glad that you've raised this--this situation, so we can talk it through. I'm adopting a child, Liam. The authorities are going to look very carefully at my private life. So far in Newenham, and for all they know for my whole life, I am squeaky clean."

So long as they didn't talk to John Barton. Liam smiled at her. "There hasn't been anyone since me, has there?"

"Liam!" she said, exasperated. "That's not the point, and you know it."

Their conversation was interrupted by the phone. "Don't answer it," Liam said, but Wy fairly s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver. "What? No lie? Great! Okay, will do."

She hung up the phone and stepped around the counter to where a marine radio sat. She switched it on and turned to Channel 15. A voice came on, a male voice, dry, academic, reading from something. "I repeat, this is the Alaska Department of Fish and Game announcing a possible herring opener in the Newenham district for both seine and drift net at noon tomorrow, May fifth. Tune in to this channel tomorrow at ten a.m. for confirmation. Over and out."

Wy looked up, eyes bright. "Yes!"

"I thought you just had a herring opener," Liam said.

"We didn't make the quota," she said, grinning. "Fish and Game's giving us another shot at it." And then her smile faded. "Oh. That's right. I don't know if I'm fired or not. I haven't talked to Cecil yet."

As if on cue, the phone rang. Wy lifted the receiver. "Yes? Oh, h.e.l.lo, Cecil. Yes, I heard it. Yes, of course. Well, there is the 180--no, sure, I can get hold of another Cub, not a problem."

Oh really, Liam thought.

"Yes, of course I can find another spotter." She climbed up on a stool and swung one leg over the other, wiggling her foot. "I am still waiting on last period's check, Cecil. Yeah, I know it's only been a couple of days, and I know it won't be much, but I flew for you, I earned it, and I want it now. Um-hmmm. Sure. Fine. Okay, I'll be in the air at six. Right after I pick up the check at the cannery office. You can leave it there in an envelope for me, okay?" Wolfe's growl was audible even to Liam, and a satisfied smile spread across Wy's face. "You going out tonight? Okay, drop the gas at the usual spot on the beach, one up, two down, gas pump on the upright barrel. Okay? Okay." She hung up, jumped down from her stool, and pumped her hand once. Her face was exultant. "Yes!"

"What other Cub?" Liam said.

"What? Oh. There's an Anchorage dentist who parks his Cub next to mine. I keep an eye on it for him, service it when he calls to let me know he's coming down to hunt caribou or whatever."

"Does he know you're taking it up to spot herring?"

"s.h.i.t!" she said, elation fading from her face. "Where the h.e.l.l am I going to find me a spotter between now and tomorrow morning?"

"Wy," Liam said carefully, "you once told me that herring spotting was the surest way to get yourself killed short of jumping off a cliff."

She shrugged this off, tapping one fingernail against the counter, eyes narrowed on some distant object.

"Wy, they had a herring opener in Prince William Sound two weeks ago," Liam said, voice rising. "One plane ran into another's float. He crashed, and it totaled the plane and killed him and his spotter."

"Uh-huh," Wy said.

"Wy," Liam said, rising to his feet and giving her the benefit of full volume, "last summer a couple of spotters had a midair in Kachemak Bay! What makes you think it won't happen to you?"

She blinked at him, drawn out of her absorption by his vehemence. When she spoke, her voice was low, reasonable, and utterly infuriating. "Liam, I own a flying business. People pay me to fly. I fly pa.s.sengers, I fly freight, I fly supplies into hunting and fishing lodges and mining camps. I fly archaeologists out to old burial grounds and villagers out to fish camps and federal marine biologists out to count walrus. I even fly state troopers out to crime scenes," she added pointedly. "And when somebody like Cecil Wolfe, who has been high boat on the Bay for the last four years, when Cecil Wolfe calls and offers me a fifteen percent share-fifteen percent of three boats, Liam--then I fly for him." She stared at him challengingly, hands on her hips.

"Jesus, Wy, I'll loan you the money. I've got over a year's worth of back pay in the bank; you can have it, every dime."

"Who said I needed money?" she demanded hotly, and flung up a hand before he could answer. "Oh that's right, I forgot you eavesdropped your way into that little tidbit of information. Look, Liam, I'm spotting herring for Cecil Wolfe because he needs a spotter and that is part of what I do for a living. Is that clear?"

"Very clear," Liam said.

"Fine," she said. "Now where the h.e.l.l am I going to find me a spotter?"

"Beats the h.e.l.l out of me," Liam said, hoping she wouldn't find one in time.

"I'll go up with you, Wy."

Both adults turned to see Tim standing in the doorway. An empty c.o.ke can dangled from one hand.

"Like h.e.l.l you will," Liam said before he thought.

Wy glared at Liam. "Back off, this is my business." She turned to Tim. "Like h.e.l.l you will."

"Why not?" Tim said. "I've been herring fishing before, on one of my uncle's boats. I haven't seen herring from the air, but I've spotted them balling up from the crow's nest. I know what to look for."

"Wy," Liam said. "You can't."

"Why can't she?" Tim said. "She needs a spotter. I've spotted before. What, you gonna spot for her instead?"

Liam stared into the boy's defiant, challenging eyes. "Yes," he heard himself say. "Yes, I am."

TEN.

The ring of the phone woke him the next morning. He groaned and rolled out of the sleeping bag Wy had lent him and onto the cold, hard, not entirely clean office floor. The phone rang again, insistent. He reached up with one hand and fumbled around until he found the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?" Shivering, he slid back inside the plaid lining and tried to generate a little body heat. "Oh. h.e.l.lo, John."

"There's no easy way to put this, Liam," John said, wasting no time on politesse. "Wy needs money, and she needs it bad. She's running a tab with everyone--Chevron, NC, she took out a second mortgage on her business, which payments have been late a time or two. No wonder she decided to spot herring."

Liam was wide awake now. He said, "Did you find out why?"

"She's up to her ears in a court case, has been for a year. She's trying to adopt a kid. Did you know that?"

"I've met him."

"Jesus, Liam, did you know the kid's mother accused Wy of kidnapping?"

Liam sat up, sleeping bag falling away. "No, I didn't know that."

"She filed a complaint about nine months ago."

"What?" Liam tried to sort this out. "Only nine months ago? I don't get it. Wy's had him for two years."

With awful irony, Barton said, "Apparently it took that long for Mom to notice the kid was gone."

"s.h.i.t," Liam muttered.

"My sentiments exactly."

Liam ran rough hands through his hair. "How did you get all this stuff so quick? I figured it'd take you a couple of days at least. At least until Monday, when the state courts opened back up for business anyway."

"Deb--you remember Deb, my very own personal ferret--she called in a favor at TRW. Right away she picked up on all the checks Wy was writing to an attorney. She went over to the courthouse yesterday afternoon with a buddy of hers, who just happens to be one of the clerks of the court, and they dug up the case. The tapes had just been transcribed, and I spent last night reading them." John snorted. "Hamilton-Theodore Hamilton, you remember him, he presided over the Murdy murder trial-anyway, Hamilton seemed to actually have a clue, that day anyway, so he didn't give the kid back. But the bleeding heart b.a.s.t.a.r.d gave the mom a chance to dry out and straighten up her act." Barton snorted contemptuously. "So now Wy is suing for the severance of parental rights and full custody. It's costing her. It's costing her a bundle. And she's not doing real well at keeping up."

"I'll bet." Liam remembered the phone call from the night before. "Who's her attorney?"

"Abood. Harold Abood."

Harold. Harry. As in, Look, Harry, I'll get you the G.o.dd.a.m.n money just as soon as I get paid myself.

"Liam?" Barton said.

"What?"

Barton sighed, once, a deep, heavy, unhappy sigh. Blunt as he was, John Dillinger Barton took no pleasure in being the bearer of bad news. "The only person Wy doesn't owe is her mechanic. She's been paying his bills regularly every month."

"What's his name?"

"Fred Barnes, as in Fred's Fly-in and Fix-it Shop. He's in Newenham, close to the airport from the address."

There was a perfunctory knock on the door. It opened, and Wy stuck her head in. "It's six o'clock; come on, we've got to get in the air."

"Who's that?" Barton demanded.

"My pilot," Liam said. "Didn't I mention, John? I'm going herring spotting today."

He got to his feet, clad only in boxer shorts, and saw Wy's expression. He grinned at her. She reddened. "I'll wait for you outside," she said, and closed the door a little harder than necessary to make the latch catch.

Barton was sputtering into his ear. "Herring spotting? Are you out of your G.o.dd.a.m.n mind? You've got work to do--you don't have any G.o.dd.a.m.n time to go gallivanting off on some G.o.dd.a.m.n herring spotting excursion! Besides, you're liable to get yourself G.o.dd.a.m.n killed! Crazy G.o.dd.a.m.n b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Patiently, Liam waited for Barton to run out of steam, at least momentarily. "John, I don't have a clue as to what DeCreft was doing immediately prior to his death. I don't know anything about the herring fishing business or what spotting is like, except for what I read in the papers. If there were another trooper here, more knowledgeable about the lifestyle, I'd--why isn't there another trooper here?" he said in sudden realization. "In a town this size, there ought to be at least one other trooper, and a sergeant as well. What's going on? Why am I here all by myself?" Silence on the other end of the line. "John?"

Barton sighed. "Okay, look, I'll tell you, but this is strictly confidential. Did you ever stop to wonder why Corcoran would want to transfer out of a Bush post that pays seven steps above basic and into an urban post that pays only basic?"

"I haven't had time to wonder about anything except where I'm going to sleep from night to night," Liam said slowly. "Why?"

"Like I said, this is strictly on the QT. I wouldn't be telling you but for the fact that you might run into some of the fallout. He really f.u.c.ked up an investigation down there. There was a local pharmacist who was trading drugs for s.e.xual favors from teenage boys. Corcoran busted the guy, forgot to Mirandize him, and then roughed him up in sight of the perp's family and friends."

Liam remembered Darrell, and his fear of getting in the trooper's vehicle. Corcoran seemed to have made a habit of beating on the local populace. He grimaced inwardly. The job was hard enough without having to reinstill the trust in your office that your predecessor had so comprehensively abused. "How rough?"

"The guy wound up in the hospital." He paused. "And when he could, he walked."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. The community was not happy with Corcoran, or with us for posting him there. Corcoran pulled some other stunts, too, but that was the last one. That's why he's gone and you're there."

"Why am I here alone?" Liam thought about the size of the judicial district he would be responsible for, the villages scattered from Newenham to Newhalen, from Togiak to Ualik, from Kilbuck to Kas.k.a.n.k, and recoiled at the thought of how many hours in the air he'd be logging to do his job. "Why was Corcoran?"

There was another pause, followed by another sigh. "Corcoran got the last trooper a.s.signed to his command pregnant. She resigned. We haven't been able to fill her place yet--no one wanted to work with Corcoran, seven-step-increase notwithstanding. It'll be different now."

"Yeah, I'll bet they'll just be lining up around the block to come work with me," Liam said, "the guy who was relieved of command and busted down for falling asleep on the job while a Native family of five froze to death in Denali Park. Did you ever think of that, John?"

"Ah, quit your b.i.t.c.hing, you're employed, aren't you?"

Liam swore beneath his breath. "Look, John, I've got to go."

"Herring spotting?"

"Yep," Liam said, repressing a shudder.

There was a brief pause. "But you're afraid of flying!" Barton said at last, as close to pleading as John Dillinger Barton ever got.

"Don't remind me. And quit your own b.i.t.c.hing--you're the one who posted me here." He hung up. Not many people had hung up on John Barton and lived to tell the tale. Liam hoped he would be in the minority of survivors.

He reached for his pants. He'd taken a spit bath the night before in the post's one bathroom, so he didn't actively smell, and at least he had clean clothes, although he would run out of them soon if he didn't find him a place to stay with a washer and dryer in it.

He paused, considering. He could ask Wy to wash his clothes for him.

Of course, he could just cut his own throat and be done with it that much quicker, too.

He grabbed for the baseball cap with the AST patch on it that along with his weapon were still the only two outward indications of his profession--the hot water faucet in the sink in the bathroom hadn't generated enough steam to smooth the wrinkles out of his uniform--and opened the door.

And came face-to-face with Moses Alakuyak. He and Wy were standing post next to each other. "Oh s.h.i.t," Liam said, but he said it to himself.

"Get your b.u.t.t down here, boy," Moses barked.

A harsh croak seconded the command, and Liam looked up to see the big raven regarding him mockingly from what seemed to be his personal branch. He was so big the branch of the spruce tree curved downward at a severe angle-possibly even an acute angle, Liam thought, remembering Tim from the night before--and the big black bird bobbed up and down like a puppet on a string, if a puppet could ever look that completely self-willed.

"Look, Moses, I--"

Moses' voice was like the crack of a whip. "Get your b.u.t.t down here."

Liam looked at Wy, who rolled her eyes but didn't move out of her modified horse stance. He bowed to the inevitable, and went to take his place on Moses' other side.

They worked together for twenty minutes, standing post, working on the previous day's two movements, commencement and ward off left and adding a third, right push upward. It was hard work, and Liam kissed last night's spit bath good-bye. At least he was going to be cooped up in the same small s.p.a.ce with a woman who was working as hard as he was. With luck, they'd cancel each other out.

At the end of the exercise Moses signified grudging approval, although he did say, c.o.c.king a knowing eye at each of them, "You didn't practice last night, either of you."

They both looked undeniably guilty. He shook a finger at them. "Practice! Practice, practice, practice!" He made a fist of his right hand, enclosed it in his left palm, and bowed once. Liam awkwardly, Wy with grace and a.s.surance, followed suit. "I'm outta here," Moses decided, and walked to his truck. He paused, one hand on the cab, one on the door, one foot on the step, and yelled, "Keep the G.o.dd.a.m.n beach on your left, Chouinard! You got that?"

"I got it, Moses," she said.

"And you, trooper, you stay awake!" He slid into the truck, slammed the door, started the engine, ground the gears into first, and jerked off down the road.

"Let's go," Wy said.

They strapped into the borrowed blue and white Cub, Wy up front on the stick, Liam seated directly behind her in the plane's only other seat, his knees b.u.mping against the back of her seat and his shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the interior. There was gla.s.s from his seat forward on both sides, meeting at the windshield, and a gla.s.s skylight overhead. Liam didn't like the skylight; it was cut into the roof where he felt there ought to have been a ridgepole connecting the wings, a ridgepole of tempered steel or maybe t.i.tanium. Something stronger than gla.s.s, anyway.

"Okay," Wy said, twisting her neck to look at him, "you understand what your job is?"