“Government?” Their eyes met. They both knew what kind of government institution was closest to Tulukaruk.
Wy was silent until they got to the airport. As they were strapping into the Cub, she said, “When did Nelson first contact you?”
“I got his letter four days ago.”
She pulled the throttle, adjusted the mixture and started the prop. The headsets crackled into life. Wy got clearance to taxi and the Cub rolled off the apron and down the runway. Just before they took off, she looked around at Jo. “Colonel Campbell has been here almost a week.”
“I know,” Jo said.
The flight to Kulukak was uneventful, not so much as a bump of clear-air turbulence to mar the journey. As usual, Kulukak was fogged in and, as usual, not enough to abort an approach and a landing. Liam noticed that Prince didn't take the care that Wy did in a landing; they came down hard, smack, so that the plane shuddered and water washed over the floats. She didn't let up on the throttle, either, taxiing flat out to the float slip and running the plane well up onto the boards.
“Thought you were going to take us right up the gangway and into town,” Liam said, dry mouth forming the words with difficulty.
“Just get her down,” Prince said, switching off the mag and opening the door in the same motion. “Just get her down in one piece, and in good enough shape to get her back in the air again, that's all that's important.”
Liam wondered what the maintenance bills were like for the Cessna, and decided it was something he didn't need to know. That was the difference between flying your own plane and someone else's. Sort of like driving a rental car. A rental car three thousand feet up.
It was the twenty-forth, a Thursday, and judging by the number of boats idle in the harbor, the Fish and Game had not counted enough salmon going up the various rivers and streams. Men were hanging and mending gear, scrubbing down decks, working on engines, readying themselves and their craft for when the Fish and Game renewed their contact lens prescriptions and could see well enough to count fish. It was probably Liam's imagination but it seemed like a silence fell as they approached, and gathered in strength behind them as they passed. Prince put it into words. “I feel like I've got a bull's-eye painted on my back.”
“Larsgaard is the tribal chief,” Liam said. “He is probably a popular man, and even if he wasn't, he is still an important one.” Liam cast a look over his shoulder. Action, momentarily suspended, resumed with immense vigor. “And he is a local boy. No matter what he has done, a local boy is still a local boy first and foremost, especially in a Bush village. We work for the state government, remember.”
“I think I remember you saying that about five or six times in the past twenty-four hours, yes.”
They reached the foot of the gangway. “Okay,” Liam said, “you track down Chad Donohoe and get his statement. What's his boat again?”
“Snohomish Belle.” Prince pointed. “Right over there.”
Liam squinted at the trim forty-footer moored near the mouth of the breakwater. “Okay. I'll head up to Larsgaard's, talk to his father.”
“How you going to make him let you in?”
“Innate charm,” Liam said.
The tide was low and the gangway at a steep angle. Liam hoofed it to the top in long strides. A man stood at the dock, blocking the way. “Excuse me,” said Liam, who like any other man had an excess of pride in his physical abilities and was trying not to puff too heavily.
The man moved a half step back. “You're the trooper, aren't you?”
Liam stopped and took a long, he hoped subtle breath. “Yes. Corporal Liam Campbell, Newenham post.”
The man looked at his plaid shirt and jeans with a puzzled expression, then seemed reassured when he saw the trooper badge on Liam's ball cap. He was a thin, wizened man with bandy legs that looked like they'd just stepped down from a mustang. He took two quick steps for every one of Liam's strides. “Name's Greasy Rust. I'm the oil man.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Greasy waved a greasy thumb in the direction of the small tank farm on the hill. “I work for Standard Oil. I sell fuel to the boats.”
“Yeah.” Liam's stride didn't slow. “Nice to meet you, Greasy, but I've got to talk to somebody, and I'm in kind of a hurry, so if you'll excuse me-”
“You really think Walter killed those folks?”
“The case is still under investigation,” Liam replied with exactitude.
“Yeah, but you've got him in jail in Newenham, right?”
Liam paused at the end of the dock to get his bearings. Larsgaard's house was up the hill on the right, as he remembered. “Mr. Larsgaard is helping us with our inquiries, yes.”
“I can't believe I sold him the gas to go out there,” Greasy said.
Liam looked down at Greasy, the top of whose balding head came barely to his shoulder. “You sold Walter Larsgaard gas last Sunday?”
Greasy had inquisitive brown eyes veined with red like a map of downtown Los Angeles. He preened a little now that he had Liam's full attention. “Yeah. Well, I fueled them all up, you know.”
“No, I don't know, Greasy. Tell me.”
“When the fleet came in from fishing the period. Even if they haven't pulled that many fish, everybody always tops off the tanks afterward, just in case the Fish-and-goddamn-Game pulls their thumb out in time for another period the next day. You don't want to be caught at the dock with an empty tank if that happens, believe me. I remember old Mick Kashatok got caught that way one day a couple of years back, missed the biggest run of reds Kulukak has seen in the last ten years because he'd come in from the previous period running on fumes. By the time he'd fueled up, the fleet was an hour ahead of him, and by the time he'd gotten to the fishing grounds, everybody had their nets in prime water and no room left for him. He tried to cork Nappy Napagiak and of course old Nappy don't put up with that for a New York minute and he run his prop right over Mick's gear. Cut Mick's corkline. Course it fouled Nappy's prop and neither of them got much fish that period. Bob Halstensen said he'd never seen such a Chinese fire drill in his life, and then he got into it because both boats were without power and they drifted across the markers and the Fish-and-goddamn-Game got into it-”
Liam, fascinated though he was with this flow of reminiscence, had to break in. “That's all very interesting, Greasy, but you say you refueled everyone, the whole, er, fleet on Sunday afternoon?”
“Yeah.” Greasy shifted a lump from one cheek to another and spat a wad of tobacco juice, accurately hitting the area where the upright on the dock railing intersected with the crossing two-by-four. “Everyone who'd been out fishing that day. Which was pretty much everyone, including a bunch of jerry cans for outboards. Except maybe Alan Seager. Seeing as how theCheyennesunk at the dock the week before. It was my busiest day this month.”
“So it wasn't out of the ordinary for you to refuel Walter Larsgaard, too.”
Greasy's brow creased. “Well, no. I guess not.”
“Okay, Greasy. Thanks for the information, we can use all the help we can get.” It was wise for Liam to build relationships with as many members of the local populations of the villages in his district as he could, and the fuel man in a marine community would see more of the populace more of the time than most. After all, he never knew when he might be back in Kulukak on another case.
“You're welcome,” Greasy said, wiping his palm carefully down his pants leg before accepting Liam's hand. “Always glad to help out.”
“Good to know,” Liam said. He smiled and eased his hand free. “Be seeing you.”
“Anything you need to know, you ask,” Greasy called after him. “I been here forever, and I ain't going nowhere.”
Five minutes later Liam was knocking on Larsgaard's door. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried the knob. It turned and he stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Larsgaard? Sir? It's Liam Campbell, the trooper from Newenham. I need to ask you a few questions.”