Clear glass canisters with sealed lids lined up against the walclass="underline" flour, white sugar, brown sugar, coffee. On one side of the room a window looked over the harbor, and on the other side of the room a magnificent walrus head had been hung on the wall, tusks gleaming with that inner light that only ivory has. One of the tusks was broken off in a painfully jagged point about twelve inches down, the other stretched its full length. Eighteen inches? More like twenty, Liam thought.
Some trick of the light made the hollow eyes of the skull seem to flicker, as if something were staring back at him. He could almost see the walrus raise its lip at him, raise its head and rear back to display those tusks in attack. He raised his mug in its direction, half in salute, half to point. “That's a great head.”
“Walter's father did it,” Ekwok volunteered. “Don't know why he bothered to mount one with a broken tusk. Plenty out there with both intact.”
“It was his first,” Walter Larsgaard said, with an almost imperceptible softening of his stern expression. “When he was a boy, we could huntasveq.”
“Asveq,” the rest of them echoed.
“Walrus,” Ekwok volunteered when he saw Liam's questioning look. “Asveqis Yupik for walrus. He's a carver, is Old Walter. The best in the village. Walter, you ought to let the sheriff see your dad's workshop. He's got some-”
“He's sleeping,” Larsgaard said, his face closing up again.
Well. End of subject, obviously. Liam took another sip of coffee. As if it were a signal, Ekwok said, “I told him about the deckhand.”
Larsgaard's lips tightened.
“First things first,” Liam said, setting the mug down and reaching for his notebook. “Can you tell me who all was on board theMarybethia?”
There was an exchange of glances, a shuffling of feet. Kashatok spoke up in a high, thin voice with a precise diction that was almost British in inflection. “David and Molly Malone. David Malone's brother, Jonathan. Their daughter, Kerry. Their son, Michael.”
“There were two others, we think adult males,” Liam said. “Deckhands?”
There was a universal shrug. “He hired them from Outside,” Ekwok said. “Anacortes, or Port Angeles, or Bellingham, maybe.”
“Maybe we find their names at Malone's house,” Andrew volunteered.
Liam looked down at his pad and doodled. “Mr. Ekwok tells me that Mr. Malone had a problem with a deckhand he hired last summer.”
There was a brief silence.
He looked up to meet Larsgaard's eyes. “He also says, Mr. Larsgaard, that you hired this deckhand after Mr. Malone fired him.”
There was another brief silence. Larsgaard gave a curt nod. “I did.”
“I'll need his name.”
For a moment he thought Larsgaard would refuse. The other man had yet to meet his eyes straight on.
Liam was familiar with the attitude, almost, in a perverse way, comfortable with it. To many if not most of the tribal chiefs in Bush Alaska, Liam was a necessary evil to be dealt with civilly but not cordially and certainly never socially. It was one of the things you put up with if you worked for the state of Alaska in the Bush, along with being on call for every disturbance, civil and criminal, that the local police couldn't or wouldn't deal with, along with being confused for a federal agent and held responsible for every ill visited upon mankind by the IRS. It was why a Bush trooper got step increases to his salary, one for every posting farther away from the population centers of the state, where the majority of the population was white and only distrusted you for your uniform and not the color of your skin.
“You were the trooper from Denali,” Halstensen said suddenly.
Liam willed himself not to flush, and failed. “Yes.”
“Those people died.”
Because the troopers working for him were asleep at the switch. No, he thought. Because they hadn't been properly supervised. Because, no matter what shape his personal life was in, a trooper was never off the job. Because when he was, people died. In this case, five people. “Yes,” he said baldly.
“Athabascans,” Halstensen said.
Liam inclined his head. The temperature in the room cooled noticeably. He made no apologies and attempted no explanations, although he had to grit his teeth to hold back the words.
There was a moment of strained silence, broken when Larsgaard rose to his feet and left the room. There was a murmur of voices, Larsgaard's and another male voice, lighter and more tentative in tone, suggesting age. The voice rose. As always, the Yupik words were incomprehensible to Liam, but the distress in this voice was plain to the ear. Larsgaard's voice, lower, furious, cut him off. In the silence that followed, Ekwok looked at Kashatok. Kashatok stared straight ahead and drank coffee. Andrew and Halstensen buttered slices of bread, spread them with jam and ate them. Safer with your mouth full, Liam thought. Can't say anything then.
Larsgaard returned to the kitchen with a slip of paper, which he handed to Liam. Small, neat block printing spelled out the name Max Bayless, followed by a Seattle address and phone number. “Thank you, Mr. Larsgaard,” Liam said, folding and pocketing the slip.
There was a rustle of movement and Liam looked around to see a sixth man enter the room. His was an old face, older even than the others sitting around the table. The once healthy brown of his skin had faded to a pale ocher, the whites of his eyes were yellowed, his movements stiff and slow. His hair was still black, but thinning noticeably.
Liam identified him instantly as Larsgaard's father; the stubborn chin, the snub nose, the high, flat cheekbones, the shape and set of their shoulders were all too similar to make their relationship anything less close. They could have been brothers but for the elder Larsgaard's stoop and the sea of soft folds and wrinkles that engulfed his eyes and mouth, the marks of time passing that had yet to grace the face of his son.
“Dad,” Larsgaard said, confirming Liam's guess, and, coincidentally, alerting the company to the fact that he was annoyed with his father.
Dad poured himself a cup of coffee and waited. Larsgaard's lips thinned and he pulled his chair out for his father to sit down. The elder Larsgaard settled in and cupped his mug in gnarled hands, breathing in the steam rising gently from the coffee's surface.
“This is the trooper from Newenham, Dad,” Larsgaard said reluctantly. “This is my father, Mr. Campbell. Walter Larsgaard Senior.”
“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Larsgaard,” Liam said.
Old Walter nodded acknowledgment without meeting Liam's eyes.
It was impossible to miss the air of strain between the senior and junior members of the family, but everyone pretended not to notice. The generation gap was alive and well in Kulukak, Liam decided, and said, “Mr. Larsgaard, why did Mr. Malone fire Max Bayless?”
“He didn't say.”
“Was Mr. Bayless angry at Mr. Malone for firing him?”
Larsgaard shrugged. “He shot off his mouth some. I didn't take any of it seriously.”
“What did he say?” Their eyes met and Liam added, “ Specifically?”
Larsgaard's lips tightened in what was becoming a familiar expression. “He said Malone was a jealous old fool.”
Interesting. “Mrs. Malone was a member of the crew, wasn't she?”
“Yes, but…”
“Yes, but what?”
There was a long pause. “Yes,” Larsgaard said finally, “she was a member of the crew.”