Fire And Ice Part 9

"Cecil Wolfe of the Sea Wolfe?"

She sneered. "Yeah, probably the only book he's ever read in his life." She nodded at the closing door. "That's his first mate, Kirk Mulder. Arrogant little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

There was nothing little about Kirk Mulder, but then Liam didn't think the reference had been to Mulder's physical size.

And he worked for Cecil Wolfe. So did Wy, Liam thought.

The scratch on his face looked like it had been left by an animal. A cat, maybe? Mulder didn't look the type to have a cat around, or the type any self-respecting cat would stay around for long. A dog? Same thing. An eagle? Eagles didn't attack humans, or not in Liam's experience.

A raven? For a moment Liam was back beneath the wing of the 206, with the rain falling on his face and a big black bird peering down at him. He shook himself. Get a grip, Campbell.

Making another of her conversational leaps, Bill got back to Liam's question. "I figure Bob DeCreft was no different than any of the rest of us. He came looking for a life with a little more freedom in it, a little more color, a little more adventure." She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at Liam. "It can still be had in the Alaska Bush, you know."

She swept both hands up over her long fall of gray hair, and Liam couldn't help noticing how the movement thrust her very nicely shaped b.r.e.a.s.t.s against her shirt. She noticed him noticing and flashed a flirtatious smile with no hint of encouragement in it. "Anyway, one year Bob flew in and bought himself a little house on the bluff."

"What year, exactly? Do you remember? were you here then?"

She grinned at him. "Honey, I been here forever, and I'll be here when you've been and gone." She knitted her brows. "Let's see now, when would that have been? Five years ago? No, six-he showed up the same year that p.r.i.c.k Cecil Wolfe did. Bob got a job spotting herring for him that day. p.i.s.sed off a lot of the local pilots--for a while, anyway, until they knew what Cecil was like. Then they figured they'd been saved by a higher power."

The buzz on Wy's employer was not encouraging. "Did DeCreft have another job? Other than herring spotting, I mean?"

"He had about twenty of them, like everybody else in the Bush. He fished some, he hunted, might maybe even have done a little prospecting up in the Wood Mountains. He did the finish work on the bar when I remodeled it last year." Her hand stroked the polished oak surface lovingly. "He was a good craftsman. And reliable. If he gave you a bid he stuck to it, and if he said he'd show up at eight, he was here and had the hammer in his hand at eight oh-one. Unlike some people I could name," she added with bitter emphasis.

"Did he have any enemies?"

She shook her head.

"Any friends?"

She shook her head again. "Not particularly. Bob kept himself pretty much to himself."

"Was he married?"

Bill shook her head. "Nope."

"Oh." Well, h.e.l.l. If Bob DeCreft had been murdered, Liam needed to know a lot more about the man than this.

"Had a live-in, though," Bill said, and in her turn enjoyed the way the rangy, wellmuscled body went on alert.

"He lived with a woman?"

Bill pursed her lips. "Best you go see for yourself." She leveled a threatening forefinger. "You go easy on Laura, you hear? She's had a lot to bear in her life, one way and another, and now this. She didn't take the news well. I won't have her hara.s.sed."

Liam drew himself erect. "Alaska state troopers are not in the habit of hara.s.sing witnesses."

Bill's features relaxed into an infuriating grin. "Now, don't get on your high horse, Liam Campbell. Go on, you're liable to miss her--she's due at work at five, and it's after two o'clock now."

She tried to shoo him out of the bar then, saying she had to make ready for the serious spenders of the evening. Her shooing woke her sleeping patron. He rubbed his face with rough hands, stretched until his bones cracked, and limped to the bar for a refill. The limp identified him; this was the older man Liam had seen talking to Wy at the airport the day before. "Hi," he said as the man leaned on the bar next to him.

The man stared at him blearily. "Hi. 'nother beer, Bill?" He waved a generous hand at Liam. "And for my friend, too."

Bill's voice was gentle but firm. "I think you've had enough for today, Darrell."

Darrell drew himself upright, wavering a little on his feet. "Sennonse. It's the evening of the shank. We're getting started just here."

"It's after two o'clock in the afternoon," Bill said dryly, "and we're getting finished just here."

Darrell said craftily, "My leg's paining me something fierce, Bill."

"I know, Darrell. Why don't you go home and take a couple of aspirin?"

Darrell's face crumpled. "Ain't got no home. Mary threw me out."

"Never knew she had that much sense," Bill said beneath her breath, and in a louder voice said, "How about the officer gives you a ride down to your boat, then?"

Darrell squinted. "Officer? Don't see no officer around here."

Bill was about to introduce them when Liam said smoothly, "My name's Liam, Darrell. I've got a truck; how about I give you a ride down to the harbor?"

Darrell leaned across the bar. "You sure about that beer, Bill?"

"I'm sure, Darrell."

Darrell heaved a sigh. "Well, okay then. Might's well go hit the bunk, I guess."

Moses Alakuyak came in as they went out, and they paused on the doorstep. "How long'd you stand post after I left?" Moses asked.

"Too G.o.dd.a.m.n long," Liam said.

Moses grunted. "Not long enough to teach you respect for your teacher, obviously."

He went inside, not slamming the door behind him exactly, but certainly closing it firmly.

A croak sounded from the top of a tree, and Liam looked up to see the enormous raven looking down at him with a knowing black eye. He croaked again. "Oh shut up," Liam said.

"What'd I say?" Darrell asked in dismay.

Darrell more or less folded up on the Blazer's front seat. Liam went around the other side and got in, to find his pa.s.senger blinking at the upright shotgun locked against the dash between the front seats. "What the h.e.l.l?" Darrell asked, looking around. "I'm in a police car?"

"It's okay, Darrell," Liam said soothingly. "I'm just giving you a ride."

"Yeah, just giving me a ride to the pokey!" Darrell clawed at the door.

"No, just giving you a ride down to your boat."

"Forget it, I can get home on my own," Darrell said, but he was unable to figure out the Blazer's door handle and gave up, whimpering a little.

"Darrell," Liam said.

Darrell cringed. "Don't you hit me. Don't you hit me, I ain't done nothing wrong."

"I'm sure you haven't," Liam said soothingly. "I'm not going to hit you."

Darrell plucked up some spirit from somewhere. "Like h.e.l.l. I rode with the last guy to drive this rig. He always. .h.i.t. Always."

Liam met Darrell's rheumy eyes and said with all the persuasion he could muster, "I'm not him, Darrell. I don't hit." With slow, nonthreatening movements, Liam started the car. "Now, which way to the boat harbor?"

"Boat harbor?" Darrell stared around vaguely. "That way, I guess." He pointed up the street.

Liam estimated that Darrell's directions took him a good ten minutes out of their way, but he was starting to make some sense of the series of deltaic hills that held up the town of Newenham and its snakelike road system, and they did pull up at last in front of the dock that led to the ramp down into the harbor. He went around and helped Darrell out. "Which one's your boat?"

Darrell shook off Liam's hand and stood up, wavering a little. "I can get there; I don't need any help."

Liam said diplomatically, "Of course you can, Darrell. I'd sure like to see your boat, though. I hear she's a pretty little thing."

"Not so little--she's thirty-two feet," Darrell said indignantly. "I'll show you."

It was an enormous harbor, the largest Liam had ever seen, featuring row upon row of boat slips attached to row upon row of floating docks. It was full, too, jam-packed from stem to stern and fore to aft, if that was the correct terminology, with boats of every shape and size, from hundred-foot processors docked near the mouth of the two enclosing rock arms of the harbor to open skiffs cl.u.s.tered closest to sh.o.r.e. Seagulls squawked overhead, and a harbor seal surfaced and blew near the edge of the ramp, hoping for sc.r.a.ps.

Liam followed Darrell out onto the dock and down the ramp, and was ready with a steadying arm when Darrell tripped, lost his balance, and nearly pitched headfirst into the harbor. A pa.s.sing fisherman, toting a cardboard box loaded with spindles of green mending twine, laughed and said, "I see Jacobson spent the morning up to Bill's again."

"Looks that way," Liam agreed.

The fisherman pointed. "The Mary J.'s down there--the gillnetter with the pink trim line." He grinned again. "His wife made him do it."

"And then she kicked me out," Darrell said mournfully, relapsing into melancholy.

"Thanks," Liam told the fisherman, and took Darrell by one arm. Together they made their way down the wooden slips to the gillnetter with the pink trim and the matching pink letters spelling out her name in fancy script. Liam helped him up over the gunnel and onto the deck. Darrell shoved the hatch back and tumbled down the stairs into the cabin. Liam followed him and muscled him into one of the two bunks tucked into the bow. The other bunk was already taken. The lump beneath the open sleeping bag never stirred. "You okay, Darrell?"

"Sure am," Darrell muttered. "Awfully early to be going to bed, though." He raised his head and said hopefully, "You sure you don't want a beer? There's a liquor store not a mile from the harbor."

"Never touch the stuff," Liam said. "I'm allergic."

"Allergic to beer?" Darrell said incredulously. "You poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Yeah," Liam said. He waited for Darrell to settle down before saying in an offhand voice, "How do you know Wyanet Chouinard, Darrell?"

"Who?" Darrell said fuzzily, already half asleep.

"Wyanet Chouinard. The pilot. I saw you talking to her at the airport yesterday."

"The pilot? Oh sure, Wy." Something, some instinct of self-preservation, shook Darrell from sleep. He sat up, banging his head on the bulkhead. "Ouch. G.o.ddammit all, anyway."

The lump in the starboard bunk stirred and grunted.

"Oh shut up, Mac," Darrell told it. He rubbed his head and said almost tearfully, "You'd think a man would get used to sitting up careful in a bunk he'd slept in off and on for ten years, now wouldn't you?"

"You'd think," Liam agreed. "How'd you come to be at the airport yesterday, Darrell?"

Darrell rubbed his head some more and avoided Liam's eyes. "Oh, I guess I heard about all the commotion when I got into port and wandered on up. d.a.m.n, my head hurts."

"You out fishing for herring yesterday, too?"

"Well, yeah, sure, wasn't everybody?"

"How'd you do?"

"Lousy, same as everybody--there wasn't no opener. G.o.dd.a.m.n Fish and Game, they say the roe ain't ripe. My a.s.s. Look, I'm tired, I want to go to sleep now." Darrell flopped back on the bunk and pulled the blanket up over his head.

Liam regarded his rec.u.mbent form. "Okay, Darrell," he said after a moment. "I'll see you around."

"Sure," came Darrell's m.u.f.fled voice. "See you around. And thanks for the ride."

"No problem," Liam said cheerfully. He went forward and climbed the steps to the aft cabin. Sink, stove, table, chemical toilet, and bunks were in the forward cabin; the controls were in the aft cabin, including the steering wheel, what looked to Liam's inexperienced eye like a throttle, and a bunch of unidentified k.n.o.bs and levers and gauges set into a control panel. There was a marine radio bolted above the panel; the receiver locked into a hook fastened to its side, with a small black plastic handheld radio lying next to it. A fathometer and a compa.s.s were bolted to the overhead. A lot of tattered charts were rolled and tucked into a rack that was also bolted to the overhead.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" a voice said.

Liam turned to see a young man dressed the same as Darrell watching him suspiciously from the open hatch. "Liam Campbell," he said.

"What are you doing here?"

Liam examined the young man's face. "You must be Darrell Junior."

"It's Larry; Darrell's my dad. Who are you, and what are you doing on my boat?"

"I thought this was Darrell's boat."

The young man snorted. "Yeah: his, mine, and the bank's."

"I'm Liam Campbell. Your father was up at Bill's, needed a ride home." Liam jerked his head toward the forward cabin. "He's lying down."

"s.h.i.t. Is he drunk again?"

"I wouldn't say drunk," Liam said tactfully. "He's feeling no pain. He ought to sleep it off in a couple hours or so." He stuck his hands in his pockets and c.o.c.ked his head. "You fish with your dad?"

"Yeah, I fish with him. What of it?"

"You go out with him yesterday?"

The young man looked suddenly wary. "Yes."

"Fishing herring?"

"Yes."

"How'd you do?"

"Lousy, like everybody," Larry said, echoing his father's words. "There weren't no fishing, since Fish and Game couldn't make up its mind to declare an opener. Guess they want to let all the G.o.dd.a.m.n fish sp.a.w.n before we can get a crack at them." Larry came the rest of the way down the steps. "Why all the questions?"