Fire And Ice

"And he was 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 gri

"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 ma

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 woman who had been fluttering around the postmaster's wound sobbing into her hands. She was supported by an extremely uncomfortable mayor, who patted at her shoulder ineffectually while repeating, "There, there now, Rebecca. Come on, girl, buck up." He looked at the postmaster. "I'm sorry as hell about this, Richard. Rebecca and I got to talking about the hooraw at the airport yesterday. I thought everybody already knew."

He guided the sobbing woman into a chair and, having discharged his duty, stood back with an air of palpable relief. "I didn't know you folks were that close to poor old Bob. I wouldn't have said, if I'd known." He cast an uneasy look at Rebecca, who was bent over, her face buried in her arms. "I'm just sorry as hell," he repeated.

"That will be all, Greg," the postmaster said, rising to his feet, and Greg shot out of the room as if he'd been fired out of a ca

Jim Earl fell all over himself making for the nearest available exit. Liam hesitated.

"Kindly permit me to deal with my family in my own way, officer," the postmaster said.

"Family?" Liam said.

His lips a thin line, Richard Gilbert said, "Rebecca is my wife."

Liam looked at the woman in the chair, who was now rocking back and forth slightly, shrill wail dropped to little moans that came out of her every time she touched the back of the chair. "Of course, Mr. Gilbert," he said. He paused, one hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry for your loss."

The door closed on the sight on its pneumatic hinge, but before it did, Liam heard Gilbert's voice. "Oh for heaven's sake, Rebecca. Stop making a spectacle of yourself."

Not as grief-stricken as his wife, and not the most loving and comforting spouse, either, Liam thought.

The door closed softly behind him, cutting Rebecca's soft keening off as if someone had thrown a switch.

SIX

Seen in sunlight, the town of Newenham rambled across twenty-five square miles of rolling hills, all of which looked alike, with one important difference: they were either on the river, or off it. The roads ranged from the two-lane gravel monstrosity that co

That morning Liam made three wrong turns, one that ended on a shaky dock built of oiled piling and worm-eaten planks jutting over the river, one that ended in a minisubdivision of six two-story houses on a perfect circle, all with identical blue vinyl siding, green asphalt shingles, and rooster weather vanes, and a third that would have taken him twenty-five miles south to the small air force base at the end of the road. Fortunately, there was a sign halfway there a

He turned around and headed grimly back to town, throwing himself on the mercy of the first person he saw, a plump woman driving a Ford Aerostar with five children and a load of groceries in back. She was willing to help but a little distracted. Liam thanked her, drove around a corner, and was flagged down by a man waving vigorously from a parking lot. He remembered it vaguely from Jim Earl's quick and dirty drive-by the day before as the parking lot of one of the local grocery stores. The punks on the porch had vanished, with the exception of the one at present being held firmly in the grip of the man waving Liam down.

Liam muttered something beneath his breath and brought the Blazer to a stop. Through the open window he said, "Was there something I could help you with, sir?"