Dana Stabenow - Whisper to the Blood

The thing was, she'd been a little pissy lately, too. No reason had surfaced as to why. He wondered if he'd even have noticed it if they hadn't been all but living together. He still rented his room at Auntie Vi's, but it was more an overnight flop for when he had to work late than separate living quarters, and the step increase he got for working in the Bush more than covered the expense.

No, he thought grimly, he was living with Kate, all right. All he kept at Auntie Vi's was a change of clothes and a spare toothbrush.

It didn't frighten him as much as it once had. There was still passion, and laughter, a shared sense of the ridiculous. They had a lot in common in work and in play. He was a trooper, she was a PI. They both read recreationally, anything and everything, and that was a bond right there. Kate, he knew, thought better of people who read. He sometimes thought it was what had pushed her over the top as far as he was concerned. Okay by him. They both liked to talk about any and every topic under the sun, nothing sacred, everything fair game from abortion to gay marriage to states' rights to Alaska seceding from the union and forming its own country with Siberia and the western provinces of Canada.

They both loathed recreational exercise. Jim had been a little surprised by that. Kate would think nothing of strapping on crosscountry skis to go over to Mandy's if the snow machine wouldn't start, but ask her to go skiing just for the fun of it and she'd look at you like you'd grown a second head. He supposed it was natural for someone born to a Bush lifestyle, though. Anyone who could fix a hole in a roof that had been punctured by parts falling off a Boeing 747 was bound to be in good enough shape for anything else that came along.

She was beautiful. Or maybe not beautiful, exactly. He didn't know anymore. He knew he liked looking at her, waking, sleeping, laughing, loving, happy, even pissed off, even if it was at him. He liked watching her work, that innate curiosity that demanded satisfaction, that would brook no distraction until all the questions had been answered.

It surprised him that she still believed in justice. She'd been lied to, beat up, shot at, her house had been burned down, her truck had been run off the road, her dog had almost been killed, she herself had been in the hospital more times than Evel Knievel, and left not in the best of shape even when she managed to stay out of it. Only too well did he remember finding her bruised and covered with blood, driving a stolen truck with the exaggerated care of a drunk down what was little more than a goat track out of the back range of the mountains north of Anchorage. She put herself at risk too often, and all for a lousy paycheck.

He smiled to himself.

It wasn't the paycheck, and no one knew that better than he did.

His smile faded. Still, she had been getting a little pissy lately. Thinking, he dated it back to the Louis Deem murder the year before. Amazing first, that he'd noticed. Amazing second, that he wanted to know why.

The fisherman let him off in front of the Cordova cop shop, and he went in to meet and greet and compare notes on several of the Park's most stupid, most drunk, most likely to, and most wanted. Afterward he walked down to the Club Bar for a burger and a Coke.

The first person he saw when he walked in was the ubiquitous Talia Macleod, holding forth to a table of Cordovan movers and shakers, all with drinks at their elbows for which Jim was willing to bet large Macleod had paid. They were all sprouting GHRI ball caps, too, the ones with the golden sunburst peeping over a line of mountains, recognizable as the Quilaks if you looked close.

She saw him at once and raised a hand in greeting without missing a word of what she was saying. He sat at the bar and ordered, and as he was finishing his meal her meeting broke up and she joined him there. "Cheese it, the fuzz," she said.

He grinned. "How you doing?"

She grimaced. "Sometimes I feel like I've taken a vow. And that I get paid by the convert." She looked over her shoulder and waved someone over.

Jim looked and saw a burly man of medium height, late thirties, dark hair and wary eyes. He patted the air and shook his head, nodding at the group he was talking to. She insisted, and he trailed over, obviously reluctant and equally obviously trying not to show it.

"Jim Chopin, meet Dick Gallagher," she said.

"How do," Jim said.

"Hey," Gallagher said. His handshake was brief and a little clammy. "So," he said, his eyes taking in the blue and gold, "you a cop?"

"Trooper," Jim said. He'd been one too long not to recognize the reluctance, and ran a quick interior scan of the most recent wants and warrants. None of them sported Gallagher's name or his description, and few people liked cops anyway, so mentally he stood down, for now.

"You need me for anything else?" Gallagher said to Macleod. He half turned from Jim as he spoke, focusing his attention on Macleod. Crowded in close, too, and touched her knee.

"No, I think our work here is done," Macleod said, composed. "For today, anyway. You can head for the barn if you want."

Jim watched the tension in Gallagher's jawline increase. "A couple of the gentlemen want to shoot some pool down to the Cordova House. Figured I'd tag along."

"You lose your own money, not Global Harvest's," Macleod said, unperturbed.

Gallagher laughed, but it rang false. "What time do we leave tomorrow?"

"Ten A.M., George picks us up at the airport."

"See you then," he said. He gave Jim a distant nod without meeting his eyes and left with the other men.

"I've been duly warned off," Jim said lightly.

"No need to be," she said, as lightly, and smiled at him.

Jim felt an unwilling sympathy for Gallagher, so easily discarded, and Macleod must have somehow intuited it because she added, "He's like every other boomer who ever came into the state, his hand out for any and everything he can get before he hauls ass south."

The bartender came over and she ordered a glass of chardonnay.

"Women always order chardonnay," Jim said.

She made play with her eyelashes over the rim of her glass. "Sometimes we order pinot grigio." She sipped. "But most of the time they don't have it. Besides, men always wear blue."

He looked down at himself. It was true. "In my own defense, it is the color of my uniform."

"What are you doing in town?" she said.

"Prisoner escort, and I had to reach out to the local cops on a few things. Routine. I don't have to ask you what you've been doing. How long have you been here?"

"Two days. Got a suite at the Reluctant, or what passes for a suite, which is two rooms with a connecting door. I have had breakfast with the Chamber of Commerce, lunch with the school board, attended a meeting of the library advisory board, played pinochle at the Elks Club and Bingo with the retired folks at Sunset Arms."

Jim smiled. "Whatever they're paying you, it isn't worth it."

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I had a lesson in beading from a nice lady, name of Pat, retired from the school administration. Or I did until her granddaughter Annie showed up. She told me to go find my own beading teacher."

"Gotta watch out for them granddaughters," Jim said. "Where do you go next?"

She brightened perceptibly. "I'm spreading the word to the villages on the river, by snow machine."

"No kidding," he said, impressed. "You're heading out to the 'Burbs, are you?"

"Yeah, I've been waiting until the river froze up enough for traffic."

"You want to be careful when you get close to the mouth. It starts to get a little slushy."

She laughed. "I'm told that it's fish camps the last twenty-five miles before the Sound, summers only, so I should be all right. I'm going to take my skis, see if I can get in some snow time while I'm out there."