THE BODIES HAD FALLEN around the table like three cards from a spent deck. Jeremy Mike, the jack of spades. Sally Jorgenson, queen of hearts. Ted Muktoyuk, the king of diamonds. The King of the Key, they called him from the bleachers, at five feet ten the tallest center Bernie Koslowski had ever had the privilege of coaching.
Bernie’s mouth was set in a grim line. “What happened?”
Billy Mike had a mobile moon face, usually beaming with good nature and content. This morning it was grim and tired. The jack of spades had been a nephew, his youngest sister’s only child. She didn’t know yet, and he didn’t know how he was going to tell her. He told Bernie instead. “They were drunk. It’s Jeremy’s pistol.”
“How do you know?”
Billy’s face twisted. “I gave it to him for Christmas.” Bernie waited, patient, and Billy got himself under control. “He must have brought it from home. Sally’s parents are in Ahtna for a corporation conference, so they came here to drink.”
“And play Russian roulette.”
Billy nodded. “Looks like Ted lost. He was left-handed—remember that hook shot?”
“Remember it? I taught it to him.”
“Sally was on his right. She couldn’t have shot him in the left side of his head from where she sat.” He pointed at the pistol, lying on the table a few inches from Sally’s hand. “You know Ted and Sally were going together?”
Bernie grunted. “You figure Sally blamed Jeremy? For bringing the gun?”
“Or the bottle, or both.” The tribal chief’s nod was weary. “Probably grabbed the gun and shot Jeremy, then herself.” He stooped and picked up a plastic liquor bottle from the floor.
He held it out, and Bernie examined the label. “Windsor Canadian. The bootlegger’s friend. Retail price in Anchorage, seven-fifty a bottle. Retail price in a dry village, a hundred bucks easy.”
“Yeah.” The bottle dropped to the table, next to the gun.
“You talk to him?”
“I tried. He shot out the headlights on my snow machine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Town’s tense. You know the DampAct passed by only five votes. There’s plenty who think he’s just doing business, that he’s got every right to make a living, same as the rest of us.”
“No,” Bernie said, “not the same as the rest of us.”
“No,” Billy agreed. “Bernie, the trooper’s chasing after some nut who shot up a bank in Valdez, and the tribal police… Well, hell, the tribal policemen are okay at checking planes for booze and getting the drunks home safe from the Roadhouse. Like I said, the town’s tense. Anything could happen.” A pause. “We’re not going to be able to handle this on our own.”
“No.” Bernie’s eyes met Billy’s. “But we know someone who can.”
The tribal chief hesitated. “I don’t know, Bernie. There’s some history there.”
Bernie gave the bodies a last look, a gaze equal parts sorrow and rage. “All the better.”
· · ·
The next morning Bernie bundled himself into parka, gauntlets, and boots, kissed his wife and children goodbye, and got on his snow machine. There had been a record amount of snow that winter, drifting twenty feet deep in places. Moose were unable to get at the tree bark that was their primary food source and were starving to death all over the Park, but the snow machining had never been better. An hour and thirty-five miles later, his cheeks frostbitten and his hands and feet numb, he burst into a small clearing. He cut the engine and slid to a stop six feet from the log cabin.
It sat at the center of a half circle of small buildings, including a garage, a greenhouse, a cache, and an outhouse. Snow was piled high beneath the eaves of the cabin, and neat paths had been cut through it from door to door and to the woodpile between cabin and outhouse. Beyond the buildings were more trees and a creek. Beyond the creek the ground fell away into a long, broad valley that glittered hard and cold and white in what there was of
Bernie’s mouth was set in a grim line. “What happened?”
Billy Mike had a mobile moon face, usually beaming with good nature and content. This morning it was grim and tired. The jack of spades had been a nephew, his youngest sister’s only child. She didn’t know yet, and he didn’t know how he was going to tell her. He told Bernie instead. “They were drunk. It’s Jeremy’s pistol.”
“How do you know?”
Billy’s face twisted. “I gave it to him for Christmas.” Bernie waited, patient, and Billy got himself under control. “He must have brought it from home. Sally’s parents are in Ahtna for a corporation conference, so they came here to drink.”
“And play Russian roulette.”
Billy nodded. “Looks like Ted lost. He was left-handed—remember that hook shot?”
“Remember it? I taught it to him.”
“Sally was on his right. She couldn’t have shot him in the left side of his head from where she sat.” He pointed at the pistol, lying on the table a few inches from Sally’s hand. “You know Ted and Sally were going together?”
Bernie grunted. “You figure Sally blamed Jeremy? For bringing the gun?”
“Or the bottle, or both.” The tribal chief’s nod was weary. “Probably grabbed the gun and shot Jeremy, then herself.” He stooped and picked up a plastic liquor bottle from the floor.
He held it out, and Bernie examined the label. “Windsor Canadian. The bootlegger’s friend. Retail price in Anchorage, seven-fifty a bottle. Retail price in a dry village, a hundred bucks easy.”
“Yeah.” The bottle dropped to the table, next to the gun.
“You talk to him?”
“I tried. He shot out the headlights on my snow machine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Town’s tense. You know the DampAct passed by only five votes. There’s plenty who think he’s just doing business, that he’s got every right to make a living, same as the rest of us.”
“No,” Bernie said, “not the same as the rest of us.”
“No,” Billy agreed. “Bernie, the trooper’s chasing after some nut who shot up a bank in Valdez, and the tribal police… Well, hell, the tribal policemen are okay at checking planes for booze and getting the drunks home safe from the Roadhouse. Like I said, the town’s tense. Anything could happen.” A pause. “We’re not going to be able to handle this on our own.”
“No.” Bernie’s eyes met Billy’s. “But we know someone who can.”
The tribal chief hesitated. “I don’t know, Bernie. There’s some history there.”
Bernie gave the bodies a last look, a gaze equal parts sorrow and rage. “All the better.”
· · ·
The next morning Bernie bundled himself into parka, gauntlets, and boots, kissed his wife and children goodbye, and got on his snow machine. There had been a record amount of snow that winter, drifting twenty feet deep in places. Moose were unable to get at the tree bark that was their primary food source and were starving to death all over the Park, but the snow machining had never been better. An hour and thirty-five miles later, his cheeks frostbitten and his hands and feet numb, he burst into a small clearing. He cut the engine and slid to a stop six feet from the log cabin.
It sat at the center of a half circle of small buildings, including a garage, a greenhouse, a cache, and an outhouse. Snow was piled high beneath the eaves of the cabin, and neat paths had been cut through it from door to door and to the woodpile between cabin and outhouse. Beyond the buildings were more trees and a creek. Beyond the creek the ground fell away into a long, broad valley that glittered hard and cold and white in what there was of
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