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“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?”
“I
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 ru
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 theCheye
“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.”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, and something came down on his head like a sledgehammer, knocking the legs right out from under him. He fell backward, landing with his back half supported against the wall, and the last thing he saw before the lights went all the way out was the walrus head on the opposite wall, the ivory tusks rising in what seemed like a knowing leer.
The same sledgehammer hit him again and a wave of blackness overwhelmed his vision and he stopped thinking at all.
The ride to the dig was uneventful, not so much as a bump on the way. They touched down smoothly and rolled to a stop. As Wy pushed up the door, McLy