Jim was out before the rotors stopped turning. To Kate he said, "Just couldn't wait to see me again, could you?"
Dan laughed. "My words exactly."
Jim hitched up his gun belt. "What have we got?"
They told him. He walked over to the truck and unwrapped the body. He looked at it without expression, and listened to Mark Stewart's story with even less expression.
Kate and Dan helped Jim load Carol Stewart's body into the back of the chopper. Stewart got into the passenger seat and the trooper closed it after him. Instead of walking around to the pilot's side, he walked out from beneath the rotors and motioned to Kate. "He say the bear come after him, too?"
"He said something about shoving her up on the roof of one of the staff houses out back of the mine while he went for help. Other than that, he hasn't said much of anything."
Chopper Jim was silent for a moment, staring at the end of the runway, brows knit. "Okay. I'll fly him and the body to Tok. I got an emergency call about a wreck on Sikonsina Pass. Some asshole's boat slid off the trailer and front-ended a tractor-trailer full of liquid oxygen." He adjusted the brim of his hat with a flick of his fingers, in a crisp, somewhat exasperated manner that suggested he'd like to square away life in all of rural Alaska, or at least that part under his jurisdiction, in the same no-nonsense, no-action- wasted fashion. "I just love breakup."
They looked at the helicopter, Stewart waiting, silent and staring, the tarp-wrapped body of his wife invisible behind him.
"He said they came up here to get away from it all," Kate said.
Jim's grin was taut and mirthless. "Didn't get quite far enough, did they?"
There was a lot more traffic on the road between the village and the Roadhouse than there was on the road between the village and the mine, so it was in better shape, with most of the winter's ice broken up and potholes smoothed out to no more than on average a foot deep. It was twenty-seven miles from Niniltna, and exactly nine feet and three inches outside tribal jurisdiction, which location made it the only legally licensed purveyor of liquor in twenty million acres of Park. A square, solid building with a corrugated tin roof, a satellite dish perched on one corner and a haphazard jumble of tiny rental cabins and Bernie's home out back, it made up in atmosphere what it lacked in architectural aesthetics.
There were no dogsleds and no snow machines visible in the parking lot. There were three rows of vehicles, beginning with a blue Chevy crew cab pickup.
Kate's face brightened. "Great, Bobby's here. Bobby Clark, a friend of Mandy's and mine," she explained to the Bakers.
At the end of the same row there was a fifty-foot Pace Arrow motor home with Pennsylvania plates, proudly displaying the wear and tear of twelve hundred miles of Alcan and another four hundred miles of Alaska dirt road. Kate shook her head. They were coming up earlier every year, and it was getting so you couldn't get them to leave once they'd come. Welcome to Alaska, now go home. Her eye traveled to the vehicle opposite the RV. "That goddam Frank Scully," she said before she thought.
Mr. Baker cleared his throat. "And who is Frank Scully, Ms. Shugak?"
"He moved up from Washington last year, bought Greg Migaiolo's cabin."
Mr. and Mrs. Baker looked inquiring.
Kate pointed. "He drives that Cherokee Chief over there, and he still hasn't got Alaska plates on it. That always ticks me off, people move out into the Bush and think they can get away without paying for a new license and registration."
They pulled in between a rusty black Ranchero and a rustier brown Plymouth sedan with both bumpers missing. Kate put the truck in second and shut off the engine. The Ford was running well even if the driver's-side door still wouldn't open. "Now, folks, remember what I told you, the Roadhouse isn't exactly what you're used to. Are you sure you wouldn't rather head on back to Niniltna? My Auntie Vi makes great cocoa,
Dan laughed. "My words exactly."
Jim hitched up his gun belt. "What have we got?"
They told him. He walked over to the truck and unwrapped the body. He looked at it without expression, and listened to Mark Stewart's story with even less expression.
Kate and Dan helped Jim load Carol Stewart's body into the back of the chopper. Stewart got into the passenger seat and the trooper closed it after him. Instead of walking around to the pilot's side, he walked out from beneath the rotors and motioned to Kate. "He say the bear come after him, too?"
"He said something about shoving her up on the roof of one of the staff houses out back of the mine while he went for help. Other than that, he hasn't said much of anything."
Chopper Jim was silent for a moment, staring at the end of the runway, brows knit. "Okay. I'll fly him and the body to Tok. I got an emergency call about a wreck on Sikonsina Pass. Some asshole's boat slid off the trailer and front-ended a tractor-trailer full of liquid oxygen." He adjusted the brim of his hat with a flick of his fingers, in a crisp, somewhat exasperated manner that suggested he'd like to square away life in all of rural Alaska, or at least that part under his jurisdiction, in the same no-nonsense, no-action- wasted fashion. "I just love breakup."
They looked at the helicopter, Stewart waiting, silent and staring, the tarp-wrapped body of his wife invisible behind him.
"He said they came up here to get away from it all," Kate said.
Jim's grin was taut and mirthless. "Didn't get quite far enough, did they?"
There was a lot more traffic on the road between the village and the Roadhouse than there was on the road between the village and the mine, so it was in better shape, with most of the winter's ice broken up and potholes smoothed out to no more than on average a foot deep. It was twenty-seven miles from Niniltna, and exactly nine feet and three inches outside tribal jurisdiction, which location made it the only legally licensed purveyor of liquor in twenty million acres of Park. A square, solid building with a corrugated tin roof, a satellite dish perched on one corner and a haphazard jumble of tiny rental cabins and Bernie's home out back, it made up in atmosphere what it lacked in architectural aesthetics.
There were no dogsleds and no snow machines visible in the parking lot. There were three rows of vehicles, beginning with a blue Chevy crew cab pickup.
Kate's face brightened. "Great, Bobby's here. Bobby Clark, a friend of Mandy's and mine," she explained to the Bakers.
At the end of the same row there was a fifty-foot Pace Arrow motor home with Pennsylvania plates, proudly displaying the wear and tear of twelve hundred miles of Alcan and another four hundred miles of Alaska dirt road. Kate shook her head. They were coming up earlier every year, and it was getting so you couldn't get them to leave once they'd come. Welcome to Alaska, now go home. Her eye traveled to the vehicle opposite the RV. "That goddam Frank Scully," she said before she thought.
Mr. Baker cleared his throat. "And who is Frank Scully, Ms. Shugak?"
"He moved up from Washington last year, bought Greg Migaiolo's cabin."
Mr. and Mrs. Baker looked inquiring.
Kate pointed. "He drives that Cherokee Chief over there, and he still hasn't got Alaska plates on it. That always ticks me off, people move out into the Bush and think they can get away without paying for a new license and registration."
They pulled in between a rusty black Ranchero and a rustier brown Plymouth sedan with both bumpers missing. Kate put the truck in second and shut off the engine. The Ford was running well even if the driver's-side door still wouldn't open. "Now, folks, remember what I told you, the Roadhouse isn't exactly what you're used to. Are you sure you wouldn't rather head on back to Niniltna? My Auntie Vi makes great cocoa,
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