Дана Стейбнау - Spoils of the Dead

“He’s going to piss off everyone on the south side of the Bay for sure.”

“Been doing that for years.”

“Why has he got such a hard-on for drilling in the Bay, anyway?”

“Who the hell knows? Maybe he owns stock in RPetCo.”

Liam wondered why a big donation to the Blewestown Chamber of Commerce should piss off everyone on the Bay who didn’t live in Blewestown.

An informal sort of receiving line formed as the applause died and as it did Liam could see the object of all the attention. He recognized him immediately as the old fart with the walker he’d seen on the street on Monday, trying to kill the protesters with laser beams from his eyes. He’d also been at Backdraft. Liam watched as he shook everyone’s hand and called them by their first names and asked after their children and grandchildren and brushed off any attempt to compliment him on his generosity. “Aw hell, come on now. It ain’t much but it’s what I can do.”

The room began to empty out and Liam saw another man standing next to Jefferson, and he recognized him, too. It was the old man who had accompanied Domenica Garland to Jeff’s pub. Hilary Houten, that was it. Houten looked a lot like Blue Jay Jefferson but that might have been because both men were in a similar state of decay. Old people always stood out in Alaska because there were so few of them. Alaskan winters weren’t kind to old bones and retirement turned a lot of them into snowbirds. They’d come back just long enough to not lie on their Permanent Fund Dividend applications and head Outside again, for Oceanside or Sun City or Tampa, where it never snowed and sunrise and sunset stayed the same damn time year round, or near enough as not to keep you up all the damn night. Those who had managed not to blow everything they’d earned during the years of big oil spent their winters in Kona, which along about January seemed like a good idea to Liam, too.

All three men had been present at McGuire’s party on Monday night.

The door closed behind the last person who wasn’t Liam and he walked forward. “I’m guessing you are Aiden Donohoe,” he said. “Sergeant Liam Campbell, Alaska State Troopers. I’m in charge of the new post.”

“Of course, of course,” Donohoe said heartily, grabbing Liam’s hand. His was damp and a little slippery and Liam was able to slide right out of it. He looked at the old man on Donohoe’s left. “Mr. Jefferson.”

“Sergeant. We howdied at Jeff’s but we ain’t shook. Call me Blue Jay. Everyone does.” The bony hand was covered in papery skin and had a surprisingly strong grip, and his voice was surprisingly deep. “This here’s a buddy of mine, Hilary Houten. He’s got some fancy dan degree in old bones. For forty years I been telling him to get a real job but he’s even better at ignoring me than he is looking at bones.”

“Everybody’s good at ignoring you, Blue Jay, and a good thing, too.”

Hilary Houten’s hand felt papery and fragile. Liam kept his grip gentle and released Houten’s hand as soon as he could. “Nice to meet you again, gentlemen. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time?”

“What can we do you for, Liam?” Donohoe said, but his eyes were wary.

He would rather have interviewed them separately, but the interaction between witnesses could also prove useful. “I’m guessing you’ve heard about Erik Berglund.”

“Yes,” Donohoe said. “Shame.”

“Shame,” Jefferson repeated, equally without conviction.

“Pudgy little fucker,” Houten said, and thumped the end of the diamond willow cane that was holding him up for emphasis. This close Liam could see that the handle had been inlaid with jade, and the striations of the bark were starkly dramatic. It really was a beautiful piece of work. If Liam ever needed a cane he wanted one exactly like that.

Then Houten’s words caught up with him and he blinked, because Erik Berglund had been more lean and hungry than pudgy. “It appears that the last time Mr. Berglund was seen alive was at Gabe McGuire’s party on Monday night. I understand that all three of you were in attendance.”

Everyone waited for someone else to speak first. No one did. “Are any of you aware if Mr. Berglund had any enemies? Anyone he had annoyed at work, for instance?”

Donohoe rolled his eyes, Jefferson maintained his glare, and Houten snorted. “He said he’d quit his job to come home, but if you check I bet you’ll find they fired his ignorant little ass.” Houten’s voice was high and indignant and wavery in a way that Jefferson’s was not.

“There was almost no one in the Bay area that Erik hadn’t made an enemy of,” Donohoe said.

“Including yourself, Mr. Donohoe?”

“It’s Aiden, Liam, and sure, I was pissed off at him. Have you seen RPetCo’s rig parked up the Bay?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to build a resource extraction industry in the Bay that will provide hundreds of jobs, which is not a small deal for a community our size. And if they actually find oil that could be thousands of jobs, direct and support, for decades. And then along comes goddamn Erik Berglund, insisting with literally zero proof that the Bay should be declared off limits to resource extraction of any kind at least until he can prove his thesis. For what? An old trail that might or might not have existed that isn’t even in use now?”

“I did see some of the artifacts he had discovered,” Liam said.

With obvious patience Donohoe said, “We all saw them, Liam, including Hilary here, who has a lot more time on the job than Erik had, and Hilary says they don’t date back more than a century.”

“Mr. Houten?”

“Two at the most,” Houten said in his high, quavering voice, “but that’s pushing it beyond the bounds of scientific credibility. We argued about it. He laughed at me.” It was clear that the memory stung.

Liam, whose experience with science was more along the lines of crime scene investigations, didn’t know enough to argue with Houten. “The night of the party,” he said, “did Erik have any arguments with any of the other guests? A quarrel loud enough to draw attention?”

“Come on, boy,” Jefferson said. He looked older than Houten and sounded younger, his voice deeper and steadier. “There was almost no one at the party that didn’t have a beef with Erik. Boy might not have known his bones but he did know how to make enemies. Including the host.” His stare was challenging.

“You mean about vacating the right of way that led to the beach and Mr. Berglund’s dig? Yes, Mr. McGuire told me about that.”

“Hah! I’ll just bet he did. Those Outside slickers got every base covered and all the money in the world to pay for ’em.”

“You don’t think I should believe him?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, boy. Where’d you say you were from, anyway?”

“I didn’t, sir, but Newenham, most recently.”

“Hah! You born in Alaska?”

It was a question an Alaskan old fart always asked, always at the beginning of any acquaintance. Alaska old farts could and would bury you with time served. Even if you had been born in Alaska, they could always trump you by having been born in the Territory, with chapter and verse on statehood and how they didn’t vote for it, although let the record show that in 1958 Alaskans did vote for statehood six to one. “No, sir, I was born in Germany. We didn’t move here until I was two years old.”

“Army brat?”

“Air Force.”

“Hah.” It was beginning to sound more like a verbal tic than a judgment and Liam relaxed a little. “You never served?”

“No. Law enforcement was more my style.”

“You one a them flying troopers?”

“No.” God forbid. “But I can handle an ATV pretty well.”