Dana Stabenow: Fire And Ice

Face wiped clean of all expression, Liam replied in a neutral voice, "Trooper Campbell now, Sergeant. Roger Corcoran, isn't it?" He held a hand out. "I believe I'm relieving you."

"You're out of uniform, trooper," Corcoran said.

Wy looked from the trooper to Liam and back again, a frown puckering between her brows. Gary Gruber let the tarp fall and stepped out of range to join the crowd, which was following along with a curiosity they didn't bother to hide. Liam nodded at the Metroliner, still sitting where it had slid to a halt fifty feet away. "Just got in. Haven't had time to change." He kept his hand out.

Waiting just long enough for his hesitation to become obvious, Corcoran took Liam's hand in the briefest of grasps and immediately released it. "How's Glenallen these days? Arresting any drunk drivers up there lately?"

Next to him Liam heard Wy draw in a sharp breath. "Like always," he said, his voice steady.

There was a tiny pause. Then Corcoran, evidently abandoning the effort of trying to get a rise out of Liam, nodded at the body lying in front of the plane, the rain keeping the blood a rich and vivid red. "Walk into the prop?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Corcoran's brows rose. "Oh?"

Liam jerked his head, and Corcoran came over to stand next to them. Dropping his voice, Liam said, "The p-lead was disconnected."

"What the hell's a p-lead?" Corcoran was no pilot, either.

Liam let Wy explain.

The tufted brows disappeared into the fur edge of the hat. "Really. Excuse me." They stepped aside, and Corcoran bent over the seat to examine the dash, poking at the wire with one gloved finger.

They waited. The crowd shifted and muttered, and began to drift away. "Hold on a minute," Liam said, and began collecting names and phone numbers, although to a man and woman they protested they had seen, heard, and said no evil. Moccasin Man pulled up in a gunmetal gray Isuzu Rodeo with PITBUL on the license plate and a tiny Stars and Stripes flying from the antenna. Could have been worse, Liam thought, could have been the Stars and Bars. The Hell's Angel and the Flirt climbed in and the Rodeo pulled out with an ostentatious screech of rubber on pavement, just as Liam was approaching with pad and pencil. The airline crew began loading luggage into the Metroliner. A small plane took off down the strip, another taxied up to the fuel pumps. The pilot got out and stood for a moment, watching, before he fetched the hose and began fueling his plane. Business as usual.

Liam walked over to Wy. "What were you doing up?" She looked blank and he said impatiently, "What work? What job were you on? Who were you flying for?"

"Oh. Spotting. We'd been spotting." She looked up and caught his expression. "For herring. Bob was my observer."

Liam felt a chill run down his spine. Spotting-using a small plane to find schools for the fishing boats in the water below-was like playing Russian roulette, only with five bullets in the gun instead of one. Kind of like glacier flying in and out of Denali, he thought, and she used to do that, too. "Still living dangerously, are you, Wy?" he said tightly, every muscle under control, every cell in his body humming with what might have been rage.

Wy didn't answer him. Corcoran looked around, one speculative eyebrow raised as he took in the strained expressions on both their faces. "You two know each other?"

Liam was silent. Wy took her cue from him.

"Well, well, well," Corcoran said, a sly smile spreading across his face. "I think I'm kind of sorry to be leaving after all. Things might finally be getting interesting in this shithole of a town."

"Sergeant?" The copilot tapped Corcoran on the shoulder. He was still pale and he kept his gaze rigidly averted from the body on the ground. "We're leaving."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

"What?" Liam said.

"Trooper, you relieve me," Corcoran said, giving his hat an unnecessary adjustment. "I'm outta here."

"Bullshit," Liam said, forgetting their comparative ranks. "We haven't had any kind of a handover, I don't know anything about this posting, who the local cops are… You haven't even shown me where the office is!"

"It's not that big a town, Campbell. You'll manage." Corcoran's grin was a taut stretch of skin, bare of humor or good feeling. "And if you don't, it's not my problem. My time is up, and I am history. Got me a posting to Eagle River, which is close enough to Anchorage to suit me just fine. Got me three girls lined up already, one in Wasilla, one in Spenard, and one in Girdwood, far enough apart not to find out about each other and close enough together for an easy commute between beds." Corcoran winked and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. "So long, Ms. Chouinard. It's been real." He reached out and gave her a chuck under her chin before she could move out of the way. "Should have been nicer to me. I could have stuck around to help you out of this."

Liam gave Wy a sharp look, but her expression gave nothing away.

Corcoran turned and began walking toward the plane, and Liam was abruptly recalled to his situation. "Wait a minute," he said, "wait just a goddamn minute! What about this mess?"

"Like I said," Corcoran called over his shoulder. "Your problem. Airport's outside the city limits, so this baby's all yours. Depends on whether the p-lead fell off on its own or got yanked off with intent. I'd look into that if I were you." He stooped to pick up his bags without missing a step and followed the copilot, pausing long enough at the top of the Metroliner's stairs to give a cheery wave. "Good luck, Campbell!" He added something else that might have been, "You're going to need it," but the wind had picked up by then and Liam couldn't be sure.

"Liam," Wy said in an urgent undertone.

He watched the Metroliner line up on final as if his life depended on its pilot's perfect takeoff. "What?"

"I have to fly. It's how I make my living. Herring seasons don't last that long. Fish and Game could announce an opener at any moment. I've got to get back in the air. Can I take my plane up?"

He was looking at the plane in question, the red and white paint job, the faded red fabric of the wings, the worn white call letters down the side. If he looked hard enough, he was sure he would find a scratch in the right-side door that he himself had put there while loading a cooler with Pete Petersham's severed head inside into the plane. Two years and a lifetime ago. Seven-eight Zulu. The lines of the little plane were almost as familiar to him as the laugh lines at the corners of its pilot's eyes. "No," he said. "You can't take her up. Not yet."

A variety of expressions crossed her face: anger, frustration… fear. Why fear? A cold knot grew at the pit of his stomach. "Wy, where were you when this happened?"

The anger was back with a vengeance, then. "Oh, so I sabotaged my own plane to kill a guy I'm not going to be able to spot without, just so I won't make my loan payment and my insurance payment and my tax payment, not to mention attorney fees for-" She bit the rest of her words off with an effort.

He waited patiently. Better than most, she knew the drill.

After a moment she said curtly, "I was getting us lunch at Bill's."

"Who's Bill?"

"Bill's Bar and Grill. It's a bar and a restaurant in town. There isn't one out here at the airport." She walked over to her truck and wrenched open the door, producing a grease-stained brown paper shopping bag. Making an elaborate show of it, she opened it and displayed the burgers and fries inside, both wrapped in foil and exuding a heavenly aroma.

Liam's stomach growled. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost six o'clock. He'd had a McDonald's sausage biscuit for breakfast and an apple for lunch, but then he hadn't been hungry lately. He was now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so hungry. Yes he could-the last time he'd been really hungry he'd been sitting down to dinner across from the brown-eyed blonde glaring at him now.