holding a rifle."
"Yes."
"What kind of a rifle?"
Gilbert smiled. "I'm afraid I don't know, officer; I'm not all that familiar with firearms."
I bet you're the only red-blooded Alaskan male within a thousand miles who can say that, Liam thought. "How was he dressed?"
"Who?"
"The man who shot at you. Did you see what he was wearing?"
"What does that matter?" Gilbert said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "I know who he is, I know where he lives; it's not like you have to put out an APB or anything."
"Indulge me," Liam said, and smiled his politest smile.
Something in that smile made the postmaster suddenly cautious. "Well, I don't know exactly, I was kind of busy diving for cover at the time," he said, and tried a smile of his own. "He was wearing clothes," he tried again, smiling more widely. Liam waited, the picture of polite attention, pencil poised. The postmaster cast about for inspiration. "Well, I don't know, I guess a kind of checked shirt and jeans?"
Liam made a noncommittal noise and wrote "checked shirt and jeans" on his notepad. He looked up. "Could we call-what was his name, Greg?--could we call Greg in here, please?"
"Why, I hardly think that's necessary, I've--"
Liam gave him the smile again. "If you don't mind." The smile told the postmaster that the trooper didn't care if he did, and sullenly Gilbert turned in his chair and knocked on the window. He pointed at Greg, backing the forklift out of the trailer, and made a crooking motion with his finger. One of the women trotted over to tap Greg on the shoulder, and a moment later he was in the office.
"Greg Nielsen, this is Officer ... Officer ..."
"State Trooper Liam Campbell," Liam said. "Mr. Nielsen, I understand you were a witness to this morning's shooting."
Greg Nielsen was a fair-haired, pinkcheeked, amiable young giant who, Liam estimated after a few minutes of conversation, was smart enough to run a forklift and no more. He agreed with the postmaster that the post office had barely begun its business day when Kelly McCormick had arrived. "Kelly and I shoot a little pool down at the Seaside," he confided, "and I could tell he was already half in the bag." He shook his head and gave an admiring smile. "That Kelly--when he goes on a tear, he don't wait for the bars to open."
"So he was on a tear?"
Greg grinned. "Looked like to me. Waving that big bastard of a gun around, and cussing to beat the band."
"Rifle or handgun?"
"Oh, handgun," Greg said without hesitation. "He had it stuffed down the pocket of his Carhartt's. I remember especially because them overalls, they were just covered in grease, looked like he'd been up all night changing out the impeller on his drifter again. I swear, that Kelly, he has more bad luck with--"
Liam very carefully did not look at Gilbert, who was sitting extremely still behind his desk and, if Liam was any judge, doing his damndest not to glare through his thick-lensed glasses at his happily oblivious employee. "Mr. Nielsen, do you know why Mr. McCormick was so upset with the post office that he had to come shoot it up?"
Mr. Nielsen became suddenly wary. His eyes slid in what he obviously thought was an inconspicuous manner to his boss, and then away. "Well, I--I don't--well, heck, officer, Kelly's just a good old boy who tends to get liquored up and go on a tear once in a while. He don't make a regular thing of it. Much." He managed a sickly smile. "And, heck, everybody's mad at the post office at one time or another. I figure our number just came up on Kelly's list."
Not a bad recovery, Liam thought with dispassionate approval. He turned to the postmaster. "Mr. Gilbert, you said you knew where--"
There was a piercing shriek from the next room, loud and anguished enough to cause all three men to start. It was followed by a shrill wailing sound. Beneath it Liam heard the muffled tones of Jim Earl trying to soothe someone.
Two pairs of footsteps approached the office door, which opened to reveal the
"Yes."
"What kind of a rifle?"
Gilbert smiled. "I'm afraid I don't know, officer; I'm not all that familiar with firearms."
I bet you're the only red-blooded Alaskan male within a thousand miles who can say that, Liam thought. "How was he dressed?"
"Who?"
"The man who shot at you. Did you see what he was wearing?"
"What does that matter?" Gilbert said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "I know who he is, I know where he lives; it's not like you have to put out an APB or anything."
"Indulge me," Liam said, and smiled his politest smile.
Something in that smile made the postmaster suddenly cautious. "Well, I don't know exactly, I was kind of busy diving for cover at the time," he said, and tried a smile of his own. "He was wearing clothes," he tried again, smiling more widely. Liam waited, the picture of polite attention, pencil poised. The postmaster cast about for inspiration. "Well, I don't know, I guess a kind of checked shirt and jeans?"
Liam made a noncommittal noise and wrote "checked shirt and jeans" on his notepad. He looked up. "Could we call-what was his name, Greg?--could we call Greg in here, please?"
"Why, I hardly think that's necessary, I've--"
Liam gave him the smile again. "If you don't mind." The smile told the postmaster that the trooper didn't care if he did, and sullenly Gilbert turned in his chair and knocked on the window. He pointed at Greg, backing the forklift out of the trailer, and made a crooking motion with his finger. One of the women trotted over to tap Greg on the shoulder, and a moment later he was in the office.
"Greg Nielsen, this is Officer ... Officer ..."
"State Trooper Liam Campbell," Liam said. "Mr. Nielsen, I understand you were a witness to this morning's shooting."
Greg Nielsen was a fair-haired, pinkcheeked, amiable young giant who, Liam estimated after a few minutes of conversation, was smart enough to run a forklift and no more. He agreed with the postmaster that the post office had barely begun its business day when Kelly McCormick had arrived. "Kelly and I shoot a little pool down at the Seaside," he confided, "and I could tell he was already half in the bag." He shook his head and gave an admiring smile. "That Kelly--when he goes on a tear, he don't wait for the bars to open."
"So he was on a tear?"
Greg grinned. "Looked like to me. Waving that big bastard of a gun around, and cussing to beat the band."
"Rifle or handgun?"
"Oh, handgun," Greg said without hesitation. "He had it stuffed down the pocket of his Carhartt's. I remember especially because them overalls, they were just covered in grease, looked like he'd been up all night changing out the impeller on his drifter again. I swear, that Kelly, he has more bad luck with--"
Liam very carefully did not look at Gilbert, who was sitting extremely still behind his desk and, if Liam was any judge, doing his damndest not to glare through his thick-lensed glasses at his happily oblivious employee. "Mr. Nielsen, do you know why Mr. McCormick was so upset with the post office that he had to come shoot it up?"
Mr. Nielsen became suddenly wary. His eyes slid in what he obviously thought was an inconspicuous manner to his boss, and then away. "Well, I--I don't--well, heck, officer, Kelly's just a good old boy who tends to get liquored up and go on a tear once in a while. He don't make a regular thing of it. Much." He managed a sickly smile. "And, heck, everybody's mad at the post office at one time or another. I figure our number just came up on Kelly's list."
Not a bad recovery, Liam thought with dispassionate approval. He turned to the postmaster. "Mr. Gilbert, you said you knew where--"
There was a piercing shriek from the next room, loud and anguished enough to cause all three men to start. It was followed by a shrill wailing sound. Beneath it Liam heard the muffled tones of Jim Earl trying to soothe someone.
Two pairs of footsteps approached the office door, which opened to reveal the
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