So Sure Of Death

“I was?” Charles looked around and saw a half-filled dance floor swaying to the strains of “That's What Living Is to Me.” “I guess I was,” he said, and led her out onto the floor.

“Cocky bastard,” Liam muttered in the parking lot.

“He's a pilot, Liam,” Wy said. “We invented cock.”

“That's not what it's about, Wy. Ever since my mother ran off, he's been screwing everything in skirts just to prove to himself and everybody else how fucking irresistible he is.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “Do you remember her at all?”

“No. She left before I was six months old.”

Wy winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I always figured he was probably screwing around before she left and that was why she did.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Anyway. Well, goodnight, I guess.”

Just as awkward, Wy said, “Yeah.”

The door to the bar banged opened and a couple staggered down the stairs. They weren't drunk, really, just flushed with laughter and good food and good times. They paused at the foot of the stairs for a passionate embrace. When they pulled apart the man whispered something and the woman, trying to be haughty, said, “What makes you so sure?” The man snatched her up into another kiss, and when he put her down again they raced each other to see who'd make it to their truck first. Liam was fairly certain he could have followed them home and enriched the state's coffers with a hefty fine for speeding.

“The state's got enough money,” he said out loud, and turned to find that Wy had gone.

He drove to the post in no very good temper, slammed into the office and punched out a number on the phone in the ma

“Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“It's Liam.”

“Liam.” Another yawn. “Jesus Christ, man, it's not even ten o'clock.”

Once upon a time, Jim Wiley and Liam Campbell had been college roommates, Liam majoring in criminal justice with a minor in sociology, and Jim majoring in girls and Rainier beer with a minor in computer science. Upon graduation, Liam magna cum laude and Jim with the exact amount of credits and grade-point average required and no more, Liam had gone on to study for a master's degree and Jim had moved into a house in Muldoon, in Anchorage, and gone into business selling information. He had acquired, legally or otherwise, the names, addresses and Social Security numbers of every single citizen of the state of Alaska. He knew where they worked, how much they made, where they lived, if they voted and where, their phone numbers, listed or not. He knew if they had a license to hunt, to fish, to shoot ducks, to dig clams, to fly a plane, to drive a car, a taxi, a bus or a semi. He knew if they had parking spots at Lake Hood and how much they paid for them each year-“I'd sure like the concession on that racket,” he told Liam-and if they were rated to fly floats. He knew if they owned a car, a plane, a boat, an RV, a snow machine, a four-wheeler, a dog or a cat, and he knew all the numbers, from the tags on their cars to the tags on their cats. He knew how much they spent at Nordstrom, how much they owed Visa, how often they flew Outside to visit their parents, he knew what cable cha

He organized all this information into tidy little packets; everyone who lived on Hillside, say, with homes worth more than $350,000, a combined income of six figures, two children, three dogs and a bow-hunting permit. He would turn around and sell their names and addresses to a real estate agency looking to market property in the area, or to the state senator from their voting district who was soliciting funds for his next reelection campaign, or to the gourmet pizza parlor that had just opened at the corner of O'Malley and Old Seward. It made him a very good living, which he spent immediately, having moved into his own graduate program, from girls to women and from Rainier beer to French champagne.

Wiley Jim could get to more information quicker than any state computer Liam had ever turned on. Prince had run Larsgaard and Petla through the trooper database; now they would face a real search. “I need you to run a couple of names.”

Another yawn. A voice murmured in the background, something feminine and seductive. “If you've got time,” Liam added.

“Gosh, we sound like we're in a good mood tonight,” Jim observed. “Who?”

“Walter Larsgaard, Junior. Frank Petla.”

“Spell them.” Liam did. “Hang on a minute. Honey?” This apparently not to Liam. “Could you get another bottle out of the fridge?” Rustling sounds, followed by nuzzling sounds, followed by kissing sounds. “Thanks.” Another murmur, followed by low laughter.

“Should I call back later?” Liam said, with awful politeness.

“Jesus, Liam, go get laid.”

“I'm trying,” he said before he could stop himself.

A brief silence. “Really? Anybody I know?”

Liam said nothing.

“Is it Wy?”

Jim was the only person he'd told about Wy. “Yes.”

Liam heard the sound of keys clicking on a keyboard. “It's about time.”

“She's resisting.”

“She's scared. You hurt her.”

“She hurt me.”

“Yeah, but you had your family to go back to. She slept alone.”

Liam thought about that until Jim's voice said, “Okay, Larsgaard. Forty-two, born in Newenham, resident of Kulukak. Not registered to vote. Hey, no credit cards, not one. Checking account has fourteen thousand and change. Owns a boat, has a Bristol Bay drift permit. Doesn't own his own home, but I don't see any regular payments that might be rent-”

“He lives with his father.”

“Ah. Well, he pays his bills on time. No missed payments on the boat. He had to split up an insurance payment in 1993 but he cleared it with the company first. Taxes paid in full on April 15 every year.”

“Anything in my area?”

“Not so much as a parking ticket. He's got a truck, but it's twenty, no, twenty-two years old. Hasn't had an emissions check, but then he's not required to have one out in the Bush. Pays the minimum in property tax on it, on time.”

“A pilot's license?” Liam trusted Wiley Jim more than he did the State computer.

“Nope.”

“How about Frank Petla?”

Jim's voice brightened. “Joseph Aaron Petla; now, there is someone I can sink my electronic teeth into. The state's been renting him rooms since he was eleven-”

“I thought juvenile records were sealed.”

Jim made a scoffing noise. “Renting him rooms since he was eleven, when he and two friends were taken into custody for robbing a house. The record refers to him as a repeat offender, so they shipped him off to McLaughlin.”

Liam thought of Charlene Taylor's words- “Liam, he just never had a chance”-and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“It was the first of many visits, up until he was fifteen.” There was the sound of keys being hit. “Darn it, there should be some record of his transfer to an adult institution-”

“He was fostered out the year he was fifteen,” Liam said.

“Oh. Okay, that explains it. It was a year before his next offense.”

“Anything major?”

“A lot of drunk and disorderly, a couple of assaults, four B &Es, only one of which stuck.”

“He ever shoot anybody?”

“No.”

“Stab anybody?”

“No.”

“Kill anybody?”

“No.”

“Assault anybody?”

“Not on record.”

“How's his income?”

“Shows a little bump in the summer. He's been on unemployment every winter but one for the last five years. He owns a boat.” Jim sounded surprised. “It's mortgaged to the hilt, and he misses about one payment a year, around April, but he makes it up, usually in July or August.”