Dana Stabenow - A Taint in the Blood

Besides, she thought, getting to her feet, it was more than time to continue her bedevilment of Sgt. Jim Chopin.

She smiled. It was more a baring of teeth than an expression of amusement, and if Jim had seen it, the marrow would have chilled in his bones.

Oh yes. Kate Shugak had plans for Jim.

The red run petered out the third week of August and George Perry flew into Mudhole Smith Airport to fly Kate and Johnny back to the Park. He was very businesslike, cutting short Kate’s attempts at conversation on the ground and becoming totally absorbed in the controls of the Cessna once they were in the air. He’d even been perfunctory with Mutt, who seldom met a man she didn’t like. Finally, Kate said, “It’s okay, George. You can relax.”

She was riding shotgun, and she could feel him stiffen next to her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” she said. “I’m done trying to reorganize Chugach Air Taxi. Although I do think you should call Jake Baird over to Bethel. He’s got some ideas he could pass along. But”- this as he began to stiffen again-“I’m done trying to do it for you. I promise. It’s your business, hands off.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She took a deep breath. It was never easy for Kate Shugak to admit she’d been in the wrong, especially when she wasn’t absolutely sure she had been. “I got a little off there for a while. It freaked me out, you guys building that house for me and all. I felt like I had to pay you back.”

“All of us, all at once,” he said. He glanced at her. “Is it true you went to one of Marge Moonin’s Tupperware parties?”

“Oh hell,” she said, and had to laugh. “I hosted one in my new house.”

When he stopped laughing he said, “I would have paid good money to have seen that.”

“If I’d known that, I would have charged admission,” she said, and the rest of the flight went much more smoothly, both in the air and inside the cabin.

On the ground in Niniltna, she endorsed her paycheck from Old Sam and handed it to George, who would take it to the bank in Ahtna. “Half in savings, half in cash,” she said.

He stuffed the check into a random pocket. “Okay. You going to be back in town anytime soon?”

She shook her head. “Just to get the rug rat registered for school and that’s not until next week. If you see Auntie Vi, give her the cash. If not, just hang on to it.”

“Okay.” He took a chance. “Good to have you back in your body, Shugak.”

She laughed. “Good to be back in it, Perry. Later.”

The red Chevy pickup was parked next to George’s hangar. She and Johnny tossed their duffels into the back. Mutt jumped in next to them with a joyous bark, tail wagging furiously. The engine started on the first try.

Kate grinned at Johnny. “It’s good to be home.”,

He grinned back. “Yeah. I like Cordova, but…”

She nodded. “It’s a city.”

He nodded. “Too many people.”

“Two thousand and more,” she said, nodding.

They both shuddered. Mutt barked encouragement from the back, and Kate put the truck in gear and they started the last leg home.

The gravel road from Niniltna was rough, the remnants of an old railroad bed graded every spring by the state and then left to fend for itself until the following year. Every now and then a remnant of its former life surfaced as a railroad spike in someone’s tire. The tracks the spikes had held together had been pulled up by the owners of the Kanuyag Copper Mine, the rapidly decaying ruins of which lay four miles beyond Niniltna. The ties had long since been scavenged by Park rats and used to surface access roads, fence gardens, and serve as the foundation for more than one house.

It was going on sunset when they turned onto the game trail that led to Kate’s homestead. It was a little wider and less rough than it had once been, due to all the traffic down it the previous May, but the indefatigable alders were coming back fast and now whispered at the windows of the truck as it went by. Kate saw the steep, neatly shingled roof of the new house first, and the late-evening sunshine made the river of windows down the front gleam a bright gold, repeating the warm blond surface of the shaped cedar logs and glinting off the railing surrounding the deck that ran all the way around the house. The sight of it seemed to soften the jagged peaks of the Quilak Mountains rearing up behind it.

Kate was so mesmerized by the sight that she nearly rear-ended the royal purple Cadillac Escalade parked square in the middle of the clearing, equidistant from the half dozen buildings that formed a semicircle around the edge. She slammed on the brakes and she, Mutt, and Johnny all pitched forward.

The view was not further improved by the sight of the woman sitting on the deck.

Johnny swore beneath his breath.

Kate swore out loud.

“Who is she?” Johnny said, sounding as surly as Kate felt.

“I don’t know,” she said, and slammed out of the truck.

“Kate Shugak?” the woman said, rising to her feet as Kate all but stamped up the stairs.

“Who’s asking?” Kate said, not caring how unfriendly she sounded.

“Charlotte Muravieff,” the woman said without a blink. “It’s nice to meet you, finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She was a woman in her mid-forties and her face had that carefully tended look that only the rich can achieve. Her hair was as bright a gold as the sun setting on the windows behind her, and her eyebrows had been dyed to match. She was elegantly, almost painfully thin, and she wore what Nordstrom probably considered proper for one of the few outings that wouldn’t include a trip to the spa-khakis tailored to fit well, but not so tight as to be called vulgar, a hand-knit sweater of 100 percent cotton over a button-down shirt of the softest linen, the shirt one exquisite shade of blue darker than the sweater, and perfectly knotted brown leather half boots, polished until they reflected the setting sun as well as the house’s windows. The bootlaces might even have been ironed. Kate didn’t recognize the couturier, but the whole ensemble reeked of a platinum card with no credit limit and no expiration date.

Kate took the hand automatically. The nails were well-shaped ovals, gleaming beneath a coating of pearlized polish. Kate was made aware of the rough calluses and ragged hangnails on her own hands, which accounted for at least some of the pugnacity displayed in the jut of her chin. “Charlotte Bannister Muravieff?”

The woman nodded, and looked at Johnny over Kate’s shoulder and gave him a dazzling smile. “You must be Johnny Morgan.”

Both Kate and Johnny bristled at this unearned assumption of familiarity. Muravieff saw it and, in an obvious attempt to forestall an immediate eviction, said to Kate, “Could I speak to you privately?”

Kate had had a very long summer, most of which, yes, had been of her own making, but still. She wanted a long, hot shower in her brand-new bathroom. She wanted to make moose stew in her brand-new kitchen. She wanted to curl up with a good book in her brand-new armchair, and she wanted to turn in early for a long, uninterrupted night’s sleep on her brand-new bed in her brand-new loft. She had determined to have all these things, while at the same time quelling the uneasy conscience that told her she hadn’t earned them, didn’t deserve them, and didn’t really own them, and that was, in fact, the root of most of her actions over the past three months.

In consequence, her voice might have been a trifle brusque. “For what purpose?”

Muravieff looked at Johnny. He folded his arms and met her gaze with a hard stare. Muravieff looked back at Kate and found no softening there.

She took a deep breath, and let it out with a long, defeated sigh. The “to the manor born” pose vanished, leaving behind a middle-aged woman whose expensive clothes, authentic jewelry, and makeup by Clinique could not disguise an exhaustion that seemed as if it had been accumulating not just over the day but over decades. Though the wounds were not visible, she looked beaten, emotionally, spiritually, and physically.