Dana Stabenow - Better To Rest

“John offered him his old job back.”

“His old job?”

“Uh-huh.”

“His old job, as in, his old job in Anchorage?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh.”

“So you see.”

“I sure do. Where can I buy a gun?”

“Jo.”

“If he dumps you again, Wy, I swear I’ll-”

“He didn’t dump me last time; I dumped him.”

“He could have left his wife, and he didn’t.”

“He had a baby son at the time. He couldn’t leave both of them.”

“He could if he’d loved you enough.”

“He could if he was a total slimeball, Jo, and that wasn’t the guy I fell for. Now knock it off. I’m done with that, and you should be, too.”

A brief silence while Jo battled her baser self. “So what’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Jo raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Wy said. She knew that eyebrow.

“You haven’t asked him.”

“He hasn’t said.”

“You haven’t asked him?” Jo said, making it a question this time.

“I don’t think he knows.”

“You haven’t asked him!”

Wy gave a quick glance around to see who was listening. “Stop yelling. He hasn’t given John an answer, okay? And John asked almost a month ago.”

“Ahuh. Well.” Jo put her hands on her hips and surveyed Wy from head to toe. “Things must be pretty tense around the Chouinard household. You let Liam move in yet?”

Wy hunched a shoulder.

“Right. Why not?”

Wy didn’t answer.

“Yeah,” Jo said. “So, getting so much in the way of solid commitment from you, naturally he would leap at the chance to blow off his boss’ offer of promotion and spend the rest of his life in Newenham.”

Wy was as affronted at this turnabout on the part of her first, best friend as she had been annoyed at Jo’s attack on Liam. “So now you’re on his side?”

“Somebody has to be, poor bastard.”

“Up yours, Dunaway.”

“Backatcha times two,” Jo said promptly. “Okay, enough with this. You go get Tim, I’ll go get Gary, and don’t worry, all will be well.” She waved all-inclusive hands. “Leave it to me; Auntie Jo will fix everything.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wy said, but she was saying it to Jo’s back going away.

November 30, 1941

A C-47 came in today with the heat exchanger out. One of the passengers kept his feet warm with a blowtorch all the way from Watson Lake. Man Im glad I wasnt on board that flight.

The airstrip isnt even paved and everytime we land we kick dirt and ice up against the fuselage. I hope none of that stuff is making it up into the props or the engines.

To cold today to snow. Gray overcast about ten thousand feet. Saw a dozen moose laying next to a frozen river southwest of Anchorage. They looked like theyd laid down to die and I dint blame them but theres an old Eskimo guy who hangs around the base doing odd jobs for cash who says the moose are conserving energy and that they dont move around much in the winter.

He says hes a gold miner and that he sells it to Russians because their money is no good and they pay more than Americans will. He has to be careful because its illegal anymore for private citizens to own gold. Im wondering what the Russians buy the gold with if their money is no good but thats what he says.

Liam and Diana were still recovering from the fit of giggles caused by the vampire-disposal kit when they pulled up in front of the small square building with the Last Frontier Bank sign over the door. A burly man waited for them on the steps. He had a belly like a beer barrel, a head like a rectangular bullet, hair that stood up all over it in stiff white bristles, and a scowl carving lines into his cheeks and forehead. He wore button-fly jeans and a blue cashmere sweater with a button-down collar peeking out from underneath the crew neck. Liam suspected that the laces on his boots were ironed. “Brewster,” he said as he stepped out of the white Chevy Blazer with the badge of his service emblazoned on its door.

The burly man gave a curt nod. “Campbell. Took your time getting here.”

Liam felt rather than saw Diana stiffen. “We had some things to take care of at the post.” He hitched up his gun belt. “Molly says somebody tried to steal your ATM again.”

Brewster Gibbons, manager of Newenham’s only bank and general pain in the civic ass, watched Liam’s hand settle on the butt of the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson strapped to his right hip. “Yes.”

Liam ambled forward to inspect the machine secured to the wall of the bank. Its corners were dented. Further investigation found a length of heavy galvanized chain tossed in a careless heap beneath the porch, as well as a horizontal burn in the right-hand upright of the porch railing, and two deep ruts in the driveway. The last two links of the chain were bent open, as if the chain had been made from clay. “Looks like someone tried to haul it off, all right.”

In spite of its wounds, the machine’s screen continued to flash advertisements for credit cards and car loans and home mortgages. Liam got out his wallet and inserted his cash card. Obediently, the machine spit out fifty dollars. “Although it doesn’t seem to have hurt it much.” He stuffed the cash into his wallet and the wallet back into his pocket. “My turn to cook dinner,” he told the bank manager. “I’m thinking take-out chicken from the deli counter at Eagle.”

Prince made a face. “I don’t know, sir, that burrito I got from there was pretty awful. You might want to reconsider.”

“What I want to know,” Brewster said, his face tight and his eyes angry, “is what you intend to do about it.”

“I don’t know,” Liam said. “Probably pick up some Maalox on my way through the checkout counter.”

Brewster Gibbons took a visible breath, looked again at the hand resting on the gun butt, and bit back what he had been about to say.

A raven’s soft croak sounded from a nearby tree, followed by a series of click-click-click s and craaaa-ack s. A stiff breeze blew on shore from Bristol Bay, dropping the already crisp chill factor to a temperature close to freezing. After a summer’s absence the stars had returned to the Alaskan sky, and Liam looked up to let the Big Dipper show him the way to the North Star.

Brewster stood it for as long as he could. “Well? Somebody tried to rob my bank! I want to know what you’re going to do about this! When Anchorage finds out, they’re going to want some answers, and they’re going to be talking to our friends in Juneau!”

Diana Prince hadn’t been working with Liam Campbell for even four months, but it was long enough to look at Brewster Gibbons and think, You poor dumb bastard. Every two years Brewster Gibbons contributed five hundred dollars to the campaign of anyone of the Democratic, Republican or Libertarian persuasion running for state office from the Newenham district and thought that bought him influence. It was the maximum amount allowed by law, as anyone in Alaska could have told him, and was standard operating procedure for any businessman covering his political bets. It hardly rated a thank-you note. But then, she’d always been something of a cynic when it came to politics.

Without ceasing communion with the celestial beings overhead, Liam said, “Trooper Prince? How many times has someone attempted to kidnap Mr. Gibbons’ cash machine?”

“I believe this makes it four times, sir.”

“Uh-huh. And the first time was, when, exactly?”

“That would be June. June sixth, I believe.”

“Hmmm. And the method used?”

“The first time they wrapped an electrical cord around the machine and pulled. The cord snapped.”