Liam got to his feet. "I don't know yet." He went into the post and closed the door behind him, leaving the two women to stare at each other, puzzled.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Wy said.

"Beats the hell out of me," Bill said. "I've got to head back to the bar. Buy you a beer?"

"Can you drop me off at the harbor first? We left my truck there."

"Sure."

Wy looked again at the door. "Hang on a minute, okay?"

"Sure. I'll wait for you in the car."

Liam was seated at his desk, frowning down at a large piece of paper with a lot of boxes on it drawn in pencil, when Wy stuck her head in. "Bill's going to give me a lift to my truck," she said. "If you didn't need me for anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Charging me with first-degree murder, any little thing like that."

He flapped a hand without looking up. "No, go on home. I'll talk to you later."

She stood there for a moment, mystified at his abstract tone. He'd been in a blind rage just moments before, which she was smart enough to know was due in large part to his fear for her. Now, he seemed oblivious, to her and to the events of the evening.

Behind her, the '57 Chevy's horn gave an impatient honk. Liam didn't look up. Wy stepped back and closed the door gently behind her.

Liam didn't look up at the sound of the door. He knew Wy was leaving, and he knew what John Barton or any other competent law enforcement officer would have said about turning her loose: Wyanet Chouinard had done everything but shove the knife into Cecil Wolfe's back to get herself arrested for murder.

Everything, but not that. Liam knew it for fact, but that was about all he knew, and the only reason he knew that much was because he knew Wy intimately. It wasn't a reason he wanted to have to swear to in court.

She'd had means-anyone involved in the fishing industry, anyone living in the Alaskan Bush for that matter, could lay hands on a knife. The wounds were big ones. Liam would bet that the weapon, when it was found, would prove to be a hunting knife, or perhaps a sliming knife of the kind cannery workers used to head and gut fish, a wide blade fixed into a plastic handle. Processors bought them by the case, and over the years sliming knives had found their way into the lives and homes of most Alaskans who lived on a coast.

Or a river.

And Wy had had all the opportunity in the world -he cursed her, without heat, for not staying at Bill's, for actually accompanying that asshole to the docks against his explicit instructions, and then for having the colossal stupidity to follow him down to his boat. He thought again of coming upon Laura Nanalook too late, of how shaken and forlorn and hopeless she had seemed. He didn't ever want to see that look on Wy's face. If he had his choice he'd never see that look on the face of any woman ever again, but given his profession the choice was not his to make.

At least Cecil Wolfe wouldn't be responsible for putting that look on a woman's face ever again. He knew a sudden, visceral pleasure at the thought.

As for motive-he pulled the envelope from inside his shirt. He didn't need to take the check out and look at it-it was burned into his memory. Pay to the order of Wyanet Chouinard, twenty thousand dollars and no cents.

If it looked like a motive, and walked like a motive, and sounded like a motive, it probably was a motive. Wy had had motive, all right-twenty thousand motives.

He swore once, tiredly, and put the envelope in a drawer, then stared at the paper with the boxes on it. He pushed it aside and began to draw a new one.

Bob DeCreft, with a dotted line down to Laura Nanalook. Probably born Laura Elizabeth Ilutsik-why the change of name? He made a note on a pad.

Bob DeCreft, who flew observer with Wyanet Chouinard, both of them working for Cecil Wolfe.

Cecil Wolfe, whose first act upon hearing of the death of Laura Nanalook's roommate-and so far as anyone knew, her lover-had been to stake a physical claim.

Who wanted both Bob DeCreft and Cecil Wolfe dead?

At the side of the page he began a time line.

In 1977, Laura (ilutsik) Nanalook was born in Icky.

In 1992, Bob DeCreft moved to Newenham, and he and his daughter moved in together.

He remembered the two bedrooms in the DeCreft house, the feminine clutter of the first, the spartan maleness of the second. "I must be slowing down or something," he said out loud. "Of course they were sleeping in separate bedrooms. How the hell could I have missed it?"

Bob DeCreft and Laura Nanalook, father and daughter.

"Wait a minute," he said. I've known him since I was a kid, Wy had said. Wy had been a kid in Newenham, when her adopted parents had been teachers for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, back before the state had started building rural schools. Bob DeCreft had been flying in and out of Newenham about the time Laura was conceived. He looked back at the time line he'd drawn. Laura's mother could have been from Newenham. Laura's mother could still live here.

He thought about the cars he had seen in Bill's parking lot that evening, and what was that story Charlene Taylor had told him-six years ago on the river, Bob with some woman? He stared hard at the unrevealing countenance of a fire extinguisher mounted on the opposite wall.

He reached for a phone book and looked up a number. A sleepy voice answered, and belatedly he realized it was almost midnight. "It's Liam Campbell," he said. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize it was so late."

There was a yawn. "It's all right, Liam, we just hit the sack." There was a murmur in the background. "It's okay, honey, go back to sleep, it's that new trooper I told you about."

There was another murmur, and the mouthpiece was covered, but not before Liam heard a male voice say, "Oh, the one with the wife?" He set his teeth and waited.

The voice came back. "Okay, Liam, what did you need?"

"Charlene, you told me you'd seen Bob DeCreft up the river with a woman."

The Fish and Wildlife Protection officer was amused. "What is this, Cherchez la Femme Day? God, Liam, that was five years ago. Six."

"I know, and I know you said you didn't recognize her. But you did say she was dark."

There was a pause. Taylor said finally, "Yeah, I remember that much."

"Was she Yupik?"

"Yes," Charlene said immediately.

Liam was taken aback by her immediate certainty; he'd thought he'd have to coax it from her. "How can you be sure?"

He could hear Taylor's shrug over the phone. "She was short and very dark and kind of thick through the middle. She looked the same general shape as most every Yupik woman I've ever met. Some of them are skinnier, some of them are taller, but the skin and the hair and the eyes and the general stockiness pretty much stays the same all up and down the river; you don't need to be an anthropologist to see that. Kind of like most Scandinavians are tall and blond and blueeyed. She was Yupik, Liam. Or at the very least Alaska Native."

"Okay, Charlene, thanks."

"Sure, but what's this all about?"

"I'll tell you later. Thanks again."

He hung up.

He had to talk to Laura Nanalook.

He found her at Bill's. Wolfe's crew had vanished, and for all that it was a Sunday night the place was subdued. People were clustered in small groups, talking in low tones. Gary Gruber wasn't holding down his usual place, either, gazing upon Laura with the hopeless adoration of a pet dog, a pet dog one wanted frequently to kick.

Nobody seemed to be drinking much, because Laura Nanalook was taking a break at the bar.

Moses looked at Liam from his usual stool and said, "All history is personal."

"What?" Liam said.

"One American congressman kept the war going in Afghanistan because he was still pissed over Vietnam. Hitler killed twelve million people, not counting soldiers, trying to prove he wasn't the Austrian version of poor white trash. Closer to home, Red Calhoun spearheaded the fight for d-2 because it created a national park around his homestead in Prince William Sound. All history is personal." Moses leveled a finger at him. "All of it, and don't you forget it."