Dana Stabenow - Whisper to the Blood

"Was it registered, maybe?" she said.

He looked at her.

She closed her eyes and held up a hand. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"Attack the second. On November ninth, three days later-" He moved his finger downriver. "-just outside Chulyin, maybe a mile from their house, Ike Jefferson and his kid, Laverne, are hauling home a fifty-five-gallon drum of diesel fuel when what sounds like the same three assholes on snow machines show up, whack Ike with the two-by-four, terrorize the kid, and take off with the diesel."

"Did they hurt her?" Kate said.

He shook his head. "She's only eight and they laid her dad out in front of her a mile from home. She got him back on the sled and home all right. She was pissed by the time I got there yesterday." He gave a reluctant smile. "Told me I had a shiny new gun but it didn't look like I used it much."

Kate smiled, too. "Good for her."

"Yeah, she's a feisty little pup. I can see why Ike is so proud of her. And I'll tell you, Kate, if I'd had one of the bastards at point-blank when her dad was telling me the story, I might have pulled the trigger on my shiny new gun then and there."

"You said there were three incidents."

"Yeah, attack the third." He looked back at the map and slid his finger farther down. "November fifteenth. They waited a week this time, by which time they had upgraded their arsenal." He held up a small, innocuous-looking black cylinder. "Don't move," he said, and gave his hand a casual flick. A telescoping rod cracked out with astonishing speed and Kate jerked back instinctively.

"It's weighted on the end," he said.

A chill went up Kate's spine. "I know," she said quietly. "It's a collapsing baton, isn't it? I've heard about them but I've never seen one before."

"It's lethal force, Kate. You whack someone with this, you can hurt them badly, you can even kill them. And you can order them off Amazon for twenty bucks apiece." Another wrist flick and the baton collapsed in on itself again. "They used it on Christine and Art Riley of Red Run when they were on their way home from a trip to Niniltna to bring Art's mother home. Grandma Riley has been feeling poorly lately, and wanted to go downriver once more before she died."

Kate closed her eyes briefly. "Grandma Riley is something like ninety years old, isn't she?"

"Ninety-three. Evidently these assholes are no respecters of elders. They jumped the Rileys halfway between Potlatch and Red Run. Christine managed to get their rifle out of the scabbard but this thing knocked it out of her hands. The good news is, it knocked this out of the attacker's hands, too. Christine picked it up and brought it home. I had to talk her into giving it to me. I think she was planning on using it on them if the Rileys ever ran into them again. Can't say I blame her." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm figuring that's why they went back to the two-by-four for the attack on Johnny and Ruthe and Van thirteen days later. Attack the fourth."

"Although they've probably already ordered another of those batons."

"They've probably already ordered another dozen," he said. "Fifty-five gallons of diesel fuel at, what's the most recent Bush price, four sixty a gallon? That's almost two hundred and fifty-five bucks. They could sell that off a couple of gallons at a time, buy a dozen of these fuckers, and have enough left over for a case of Windsor Canadian." He tossed the baton into the glove and hat box behind the door and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Art Riley says it was the Johansens."

The spatula paused in the act of flipping a steak. "He identified them?"

"They were wearing helmets. But he says it was them." He scrubbed his face again. "God, I'm tired."

Kate decided it was time to relax, regroup, and reassess, and for her that always began with food. "The question is, are you hungry?"

He gave her a tired smile. "Is the answer to that question ever no?"

She smiled back at him. "I just started a fire. You want something to drink?"

"I'd love some Scotch, but I better not. I've alerted all the village councils about the attacks, up and down the river, and I've called Kenny Hazen and got him excited about it, too. I better be sober if any of them call back."

"Grab a shower, then. You've just about got time."

Demonstrating the innate ability of the adolescent to arrive just as dinner was put on the table, Johnny walked in the door as Kate served up a large and redolent offering of country fried caribou steak and gravy, mashed potatoes, and canned green beans drained and stirred into caramelized onions and crispy bacon bits. Served with bread baked fresh that morning, everyone dug in with a will, and everyone felt better afterward.

"You do groceries well," Jim said to Kate.

"Yes, I do," she said, and looked at Johnny. "Things okay at school today?"

He hunched a shoulder. "Yeah, fine."

They both looked at him, Jim pausing in the act of loading up dishes for a trip to the sink. "What?" Kate said.

"It's all anyone is talking about," Johnny said. "I'm a hero for getting beat up coming up the river. Poor old Mac gets shot and hardly gets a mention."

Jim started stacking dishes again. "It's a matter of setting priorities, Johnny. Folks are on the river every day, going hunting, buying fuel and supplies, visiting relatives, going to basketball games. Safe passage on the river is essential to the life of the 'Burbs."

"And what's one miner more or less?" Kate said.

"Oh man, Kate," Johnny said in dismay. "That's kind of harsh."

"Pretty harsh, yeah," she said. "Also true. And, you know, it's life. Or at least it is around here." She looked at Jim. "Have you tracked Howie down yet?"

Jim let out a long, heartfelt sigh. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Howie. No. No, I haven't. He isn't at home, and Willard claims he hasn't seen him. Of course we all know that Willard can't remember today what happened yesterday, unless yesterday was Darth Vader's birthday. Howie hasn't been to the Roadhouse for the last five days, according to Bernie, which fits because he was supposed to start his shift at the trailer on Monday. You'll remember that storm we had just before Thanksgiving?"

"No tracks?" Kate said.

Jim gave a gloomy nod. "No tracks."

"Who's out there now?"

"At the trailer? FNG name of Gallagher."

"What?" Johnny said, looking up from his trig homework.

Jim looked at him. "Talia Macleod hired Howie and a new guy, a Dick Gallagher, to babysit her trailer a week on, a week off. This was supposed to be Howie's week."

Johnny opened his mouth and Kate said, "Is he armed?"

"I didn't ask. He's a fool if he isn't. And Macleod would probably insist." He hesitated.

"What?" she said. "You want me to find Howie for you?"

He gave an irritated wave of his hand. "No, I'll find Howie. I always find Howie whether I want to or not."

"Uh…," Johnny said.

"No," Jim said, "I want you to go talk to the villagers for me."

"But you already have."

"Come on, Kate. They'll say things to you that they won't say to me."

"Oh. You think the highwaymen have to be the Johansens because that's who Art Riley said they were. Even if he couldn't identify them."

He winced. "Please don't call them that. People'll start romanticizing them, think they wear cocked hats and carry swords and fall in love with the landlord's daughter, and the next thing you know there'll be stories about them robbing from the rich to give to the poor."

"Okay," she said obligingly, "you think Art's right about who the assholes on the snow machines are."

He nodded. "If not know, then suspect. Hell, don't you? Maybe the Kaltaks or Ike saw something. Find me an eyewitness and I'll lock up those sonsabitches and throw away the key."

"Usual rates?"

He grumbled. "Yeah, fine. You're getting to be my single biggest budget item, Shugak."