Dana Stabenow - Whisper to the Blood

"Well, as you know, a couple days ago somebody got shot out at the Suulutaq when Howie was supposed to be working there," Jim said. Talia frowned this time. "So I wanted to get the word out to folks. If they see Howie, tell him to come on in, okay? I'll keep him safe."

"Okaaaaay," Bobby said, drawing the word out, "you heard it here first, that's Park Air, today at nearly ninety-five on your FM dial, but we won't be here tomorrow! Thanks to the lovely and talented and babealicious Talia Macleod for being on our show today That would be the same Talia Macleod who sold her soul to the devil, oh, I'm sorry, of course I meant to say Global Harvest Resources Inc., aka GHRIn, to convince us all that a fifteen-square-mile open pit mine in the Park is a goo-oood thing."

Talia, unoffended, laughed out loud, and Bobby grinned. "Hey, I'm convinced. Th-th-that's all, folks!"

He flicked a switch. On the console a green light went red and a red light went green and the sound of the Temptations singing "My Girl" soared out of the Bose speakers mounted in the four corners of the room. He turned his chair to Jim. "Okay, boyo, what the fuck was that all about? You think I'm rerunning episodes from Wanted: Dead or Alive on Park Air now?"

"I need to talk to Howie, ASAP," Jim said, "and either someone is going to bring him in for the reward, or what I'm hoping is he'll beat them in scared they're going to catch him."

A warm hand settled on his arm and he looked down to see Talia standing very close next to him. "Do you think Howie Katelnikof killed Mac Devlin?"

"I don't know," he said, and didn't mention what he'd seen at the head of the valley the previous morning. "But he was supposed to be there, and he's my best shot at a witness. So to speak."

She laughed, low down in her throat, and leaned in toward him a little more. He smiled back at her-she was pretty irresistible-and then felt a cold draft on his back as the door opened.

He looked up and beheld Kate, standing in the doorway with a face wiped clean of all expression.

It took less than twenty-four hours for Howie to present himself at the post. "In a place the size of the Park," Annie said appreciatively, "that's making pretty good time."

"Being scared shitless increases ground speed," Old Sam said. "Fact."

Demetri stared pensively out the window of the front office of the Niniltna Native Association, where many people had gathered to watch the fugitive give himself up. "I heard that even Martin was looking for him."

"Five zeros," Annie said. "That'd be enough to get any Park rat through the winter."

Old Sam snorted. "Always supposing that reward story was true, I'd a done it for ten bucks."

Howie arrived alone, on his cherry little Ski-Doo, the engine purring as seductively as Talia Macleod, but that, Jim figured, was only because Willard would have been assigned responsibility for tune-ups, repairs, and maintenance. Howie wasn't careful of machinery, because he knew he could always steal something else when whatever he was driving broke down.

He stumped up the steps of the post and walked into Jim's office, receding chin thrust out as far as it would go. "What's this I hear about some damn reward out on me? I ain't done nothing wrong, Jim, and I expect you to take care of me same as you would anybody else in the Park."

"Hey, Howie," Jim said, carelessly. In fact he'd spent the night at the post on the off chance that Howie would show up earlier and spook when he didn't find anyone there. He'd watched Howie arrive through his office window with quiet joy. There was nothing better than when a plan worked. It made up for all the ones that didn't. "Where you been?"

Howie's eyes slid away. "Around."

"Okay. So why weren't you at work?"

"Work?" Howie said the word like it was a concept foreign to his tongue, which it pretty much was.

"Yeah, Talia Macleod told me she hired you as one of two caretakers for the trailer Global Harvest's got up to the Suulutaq Mine."

"Oh yeah," Howie said. "Right. That work."

"You were supposed to be there all last week, Monday to Monday, until your relief came."

"I was there," Howie said. "I was there, you know, work. Working." Again, he stumbled over the word. He didn't even know the right verb to use with it.

"Well, I'm really glad to hear that, Howie," Jim said, smiling.

Wary now, Howie said, "Oh? Why would that be?"

Jim let his smile fade. "Because Mac Devlin's body was found at the Suulutaq trailer, and I was hoping you could tell us something about how it got there."

Howie's jaw dropped. "Huh?"

"Mac Devlin," Jim said, adding, since Howie seemed to need to hear it, "you know, the ex-owner of the Nabesna Mine. Someone killed him on the doorstep of the trailer and then went away, leaving him to rot where he fell. If you were there, you must have seen something that could help me find this someone." He raised polite eyebrows.

"Mac's dead?" Howie said.

"Murdered," Jim said.

"I didn't do it," Howie said.

"Really," Jim said.

"I wasn't there," Howie said.

"Really?" Jim said. "But you just said you were, Howie."

Howie's voice, naturally a nasal whine, started to rise. "I wasn't there! I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! Let me go, right now, I'm not doing any more time in one of your lousy cells!"

"If you weren't there," Jim said, "where were you?"

His eyes bored into Howie's. Howie stared back like a frightened rabbit. "If you weren't at the mine, where were you, Howie?"

Howie stared back, blinking, agonized, and for the moment blessedly mute.

Jim sighed. "Maggie!"

A head poked in. "Boss?"

"Get Howie's rifle off of his snow machine and bring it in, would you?"

"Sure thing, boss."

"No!" Howie said, making an abortive attempt to stop her, but the door shut smartly in his face. "Have a seat, Howie," Jim said.

When Maggie got back with Howie's rifle, Howie was rigid in a chair in front of Jim's desk, tugging at the handcuff holding him to the left arm of the chair. It was still cold outside, although those clouds he'd seen over the Gulf earlier in the week had paid off in a thickening overcast. This morning smelled like snow. Nothing worse than chasing down a perp in a snowstorm. Actually, nothing worse than chasing down a perp, period. They never watched where they were going, for one thing, and for another, it was just plain exhausting. Jim much preferred to dispense with the possibility altogether.

"Thanks, Mags," Jim said, reaching for the rifle. "Close the door on your way out, please."

Jim sat on the edge of his desk and examined the rifle. A.30-30 Winchester Trapper, well used and not well cared for. Jim looked up and allowed himself a personal comment. "You really are a worthless piece of shit, Howie."

"I didn't do it! I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! I want a lawyer! Get me whathisname, Louis's lawyer! He'll fix it so I don't have to stay here, so I can go home!"

"Rickard?" Jim said.

"Yeah! Him! Get me Rickard! On the phone, right now!"

"Well, I could do that, Howie," Jim said. "Or you could just tell me what happened. If you weren't there, you don't have anything to worry about."

Something about the deep, inexorable tone in Jim's voice unlocked Howie's spine, and he slumped in his chair. "I wasn't at the trailer over half an hour that Monday. I just stopped to take a crap and grab some grub."

"Where'd you go?"

Howie mumbled something.

"Where'd you go, Howie?" Jim went around his desk and sat down.

"I was up the head of the valley," Howie said, studiously addressing the floor.

"What were you doing up there?" Jim said. "That's a ways to go just to sightsee, and it's been a damn cold stretch of weather lately."

"Might have been doing some hunting," Howie said defensively.