Dana Stabenow - So Sure Of Death

They had a third party in the plane with them, an arson investigator from Anchorage who had stepped off the jet that morning with all the air of Stanley heading out into the heart of Africa. He was a short, thin boy with an eager face and a lot of straight, yellow hair shaved at the sides and long enough on top to flop into his eyes. He looked as if he ought to be in Tim's class, but he had the proper credentials, so Liam managed-barely-to refrain from demanding he show his driver's license for proof of age.

The boy, Mark Sandowski by name, redeemed himself by opening the large aluminum suitcase he had brought with him and going immediately to work on theMarybethiawith various implements and liquids. “We're headed uptown to talk to some people,” Liam called through the open hatch. Sandowski, nose an inch from a charred piece of deck, didn't even look up, and Liam's estimation of him rose another notch.

“Who first?” Prince said, heading up the gangplank.

Liam consulted his mental list. “Chad Donohoe, deckhand on theSnohomish Belle,said he saw a man answering to the description of Walter Larsgaard in a skiff heading away from the direction of theMarybethiaat approximately three a.m. on the morning in question, is that correct?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Okay, let's go ask Larsgaard where he was that night.”

She was trying hard not to look eager. “It wasn't a positive ID,” she reminded him, and herself, warning them both against hoping for too much. “Donohoe isn't a local man, he's from Washington State.”

“You said.” He held back a grin. He remembered his own rookie days, when every interview was an adventure, every interviewee under suspicion. “Let's go talk to Larsgaard anyway.”

Five minutes later they were at Larsgaard's house. They knocked. There was no answer. They knocked again. Another minute passed before the door opened and Walter Larsgaard's father's face peered through the crack. He didn't look pleased to see them. “What you want?” he growled.

“We'd like to talk to your son, Mr. Larsgaard,” Liam said. “Is he here?”

“No.”

“Could you tell us where he is?”

The old man said something in Yupik that sounded less than complimentary, and the door shut in their faces.

Prince, predictably, wanted to kick it in. “No,” Liam said, “we have no probable cause. What's the name of Larsgaard's boat?”

Tight-lipped, Prince consulted her notes. “TheBay Rover.”

“Fine. Let's check it out.”

They marched back down to the boat harbor, where they ran into Mike Ekwok, who pointed out theBay Roverwithout hesitation, a trim little sternpicker about thirty-two feet in length, painted white with blue trim. There was a man at the deck controls, and as they watched, a plume of smoke came from the stack. The rumble of an engine was heard a moment later. “Son of a bitch,” Liam said, and hit the gangplank at a run.

“What's the matter?” he heard Ekwok cry over the sound of Prince's footsteps pounding behind him.

Liam almost overshot the other side of the float at the bottom of the gangplank, caught his balance just before he went head-first into the harbor and continued on toward Larsgaard's boat. He was close enough to see Larsgaard look over his shoulder, a drawn expression on his face, just before the fisherman cast off the stern line. TheBay Roverwas twelve feet from the slip when Liam skidded to a halt, too far to jump. “Goddamn it!” Liam roared.

“Come on!” Prince yelled, and he turned to see her pounding back to the Cessna. He followed, and by the time he got there she had already cast off and had the prop rotating. The engine caught with a roar. “Get on the float!” she yelled, pointing, and without thinking he stepped to the right float just as it moved away from the slip.

“What the hell are we doing?” he yelled over the noise of the engine.

“If I can beat him to the harbor mouth, we can box him in! If not, I can bring us alongside and you can jump onto the deck!”

Liam clung to the strut with both hands, the sound of the Cessna's engine roaring in his ears, the wind from the prop tugging at his hair, his boots slipping on the wet surface of the floats. He wanted to ask Prince if she was out of her fucking mind, but he was too scared that the physical activity involved in forming the words would jar him off the float. The leading edge of the wings ripped apart the wall of wet, clammy mist, forming droplets of water on the metal surface that with the force of the air coalesced into rain against which he had to narrow his eyes. He could barely see Mike Ekwok running down the slip opposite, waving his arms up and down and shouting something Liam couldn't hear. The front of his uniform was already wet through. The derelict hulk of theMarybethiaflashed by, Mark Sandowski's astonished face framed in the hatch.

Prince got the Cessna clear of the slip, moving at a speed that definitely violated the no-wake speed limit inside the boat harbor. Liam blinked his eyes again to clear them, and saw Larsgaard just coming out from between the two sets of floats. TheBay Roverheeled over on its right side and the wake foamed up behind the stern. Prince responded by opening up the Cessna's throttle. The rock face of the breakwater loomed dangerously close to the tip of the left wing. “Watch out!” he yelled.

“Get ready!” she yelled back.

TheBay Roverspeeded up. Forgetting where he was, Liam yelled, “Faster!”

“We're almost up on the step as it is,” Prince yelled back. “We go any faster we'll take off, and there's no room!”

Larsgaard looked over his shoulder, saw the Cessna bearing down on his port stern and pointed the bow of theBay Rovertoward the entrance of the breakwater. At that moment another boat, a Grayling bowpicker returning to its slip from the fuel dock, crossed the bow of theBay Rover.Its skipper stared at the oncoming boat with the float plane in hot pursuit, mouth open and apparently incapable of thought or action. Larsgaard heeled theBay Roverhard aport and slammed the engine into neutral and then reverse, at the same time Prince cut the throttle on the Cessna, abruptly slowing their forward motion.

That was all it took. Liam's hands lost their grip on the strut and he was catapulted off the float and onto Larsgaard's deck, which was passing inches in front of the Cessna's still-rotating propeller. He retained just enough sense to tuck and roll, and everything would have been fine if his somersault hadn't achieved momentum and rolled him over the opposite gunnel, which caught him painfully in the small of his back but didn't stop him from going over the side.

The cold, dark water of Kulukak's small boat harbor closed over his head, and for a moment all he could think of was what the salt water was going to do to his freshly cleaned and only other uniform. Son of a bitch.

He swallowed water and battled his way to the surface, to find the gunnel of theBay Roversix feet away, engine idling, boxed in by the Grayliner, the Cessna and the breakwater. Two overhand strokes brought him within reach, and he heaved himself up and over the gunnel and onto the deck. He looked up to see Walter Larsgaard standing over him, boat hook raised. He met Larsgaard's eyes and from somewhere found the air to gasp, “Walter Larsgaard, you are under arrest for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.”

Larsgaard stood where he was for a long moment. Liam gulped in more air and continued, “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”

The boat hook came down, and Larsgaard held it out, in the manner of a soldier surrendering a sword. Liam accepted it automatically.

“… to have an attorney present during questioning. If you desire to have an attorney and cannot afford one, an attorney will be provided for you.”