Liam typed the statement on the post computer, printed it out, and had her read it and sign it. "Do you know any attorneys, Becky?" he said as he rose to his feet.

"I don't believe so. Unless you count the attorney the association board has on retainer."

"No. He-"

"She," she broke in.

"She, then; she'll be a corporate attorney and she most definitely won't do." He looked up a name in his personal address book, and scribbled it and a phone number down on a piece of paper. "Here. Call him in the morning."

She looked askance at the name and number. "Why? It's not like I need a lawyer to prove my innocence-I've already confessed." She added sternly, "I'm not fighting this, Mr. Campbell. You made me aware of my rights, and I confessed anyway. I did it. I'm glad I did it. I have no regrets and I will pretend to no remorse. My girl needed help, and for the first time in her life I came through for her. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing."

It hadn't occurred to her that she might have been of more use to Laura out of jail, and so held her hand, but she was so filled with righteous triumph that he knew pointing this out to her now would mean nothing.

Wife, mother, murderer. She was positively glowing with righteous wrath. If Patrick Fox could put that same glow on display to a jury, Becky Gilbert had a fighting chance at a reduced sentence, possibly even an acquittal. He had to admit, the prospect did not fill him with dismay.

He nodded at the scrap of paper. "You call him, and you tell him I gave you his number. You tell him every single thing you told me, and you let him decide what's best for you to do."

She fingered the paper uncertainly. "I don't have any money to pay a lawyer."

"Let him worry about that, too," he advised her. When she still looked hesitant he said, "Look, Becky, the judge will appoint you a lawyer anyway. This guy is going to be better than anyone you'll draw from the pro bono pool or the public defender's office, believe me."

Her face softened. "Don't look so worried," she chided him. "I'll call him. And I'll be fine."

She was comforting him, this woman who, not four hours before, had willfully, deliberately, and with malice aforethought taken a knife to a man in one of the most calculated and brutal murders Liam had ever seen. "I know you will," he said. "Let's head on over to the jail, shall we?" He opened the door for her and paused. "Becky?"

"What?"

"I suppose you don't know who killed Bob?"

Her face creased with remembered sadness. "No. No, I don't. I wish I did." She looked up at Liam. "He came here for me and Laura, and he stayed for Laura. It was all for Laura."

All for Laura, Liam thought as he helped Becky into the Blazer. So many Newenham lives had been bound up in Laura's, one way or another. Bob DeCreft had wanted to provide for her, Becky Gilbert had wanted to protect her, Cecil Wolfe had wanted to lay her. Richard Gilbert had wanted to ignore her. Bill Billington wanted to give her a hand up out of her adopted gutter.

Liam Campbell, now, what did he want for Laura?

He just wanted to find her father's murderer.

SIXTEEN

Early the next morning, a Monday, the phone rang. Liam sat up from his sleeping bag nest on the post floor and groped for the receiver. "Hello? I mean, Alaska State Troopers, Newenham post, Trooper Campbell speaking."

A vaguely familiar voice, raspy and irascible, said, "You got a pencil I got those buyers for you."

Liam blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"This Campbell or what?"

"This is Campbell, who's this?"

"Sparky, and I've got those buyers for you." The voice began reciting names, spelling out the last names as if it didn't trust Liam to get them right.

"Whoa, hold it, slow down, let me find a paper and pencil."

"Hurry it up, I haven't got all day."

Liam got to his knees and scrabbled around his desktop, shivering in the early morning chill. "Okay, go."

Again, the voice read out the names. "That's Wolfe with an e on the end of it."

"Got it." Two six-hundred-dollar Icom handheld radios had been purchased by Cecil Wolfe, along with four Kings, in February of this year. "Because we only had two Icoms in stock," Sparky growled in answer to Liam's question. "Wolfe didn't care about the brand, he just wanted 'em tuned to the same frequency, so that's how I sent 'em to him. I got the notes on the order form right here."

Six handhelds all together. That fit: one each for two planes and three boats, plus a spare for the plane. If a radio on one of the boats went out, they could signal to each other from deck to deck. Hell, Liam thought, as close as they were traveling the day before, they could shout from deck to deck.

But the spotter was on his, or her, own. Hence the set bolted to the dash, plus the handheld backup, plus the backup for the backup. Wolfe wasn't a guy willing to miss out on an opener due to problems with electronics. And a man who paid a million bucks for a boat wasn't going to boggle at an extra six hundred for another radio. "What about the two Sonys?"

"The cheapies? Got them, too, but it was three of them. They were one order, sold over the phone to a Larry Jacobson, that's Just-a-can-"

"Jacobson; I've got it," Liam said. Three radios: one for the Mary J., one for the Yukon Jack, one for Wy and Bob.

"His address is-"

"I've got that, too."

"Want his phone number or you got that, too?"

"No, I've got that, too. Uh, sir, what is your name?"

"Sparky-why do you think we call it Sparky's Pilot Shop?"

"Okay, Sparky, thanks a-"

Click.

"-lot," Liam said to the dead line. "You've been a big help. I really appreciate it." He put the receiver down and stared at the opposite wall with a meditative expression. Outwardly calm, he was experiencing a slow, steady interior burn. He picked up the phone and dialed a number he had already memorized. "Hi, it's Liam. Can you come down to the post? Yes, right now. No, it can't wait; find someone else to take them to Manokotak."

Fifteen minutes later she walked in the door, apprehension combined with belligerence in her eyes.

Liam was dressed by then, and sitting at his desk with the contents of the inventory of her Cub spread out neatly in front of him. "Hello, Wy. Have a seat."

She perched on the edge of a chair. "I haven't got much time, Liam, I-"

"You'll make time for this."

Her eyes widened a little as she took in his expression, one she had not seen on his face before today. His gaze was hard, his mouth held in a stern line, and suddenly she saw what had frightened many a perpetrator into surrender and a blurted confession over the years. "What?"

He waved his hand at the inventory before him. "Recognize this stuff? I took it out of your plane the last day you flew it. The day Bob DeCreft died."

She nodded, wary now. "So?"

"So, does anything seem to be missing?"

A slight flush rose into her cheeks. "Not that I can see."

He beckoned her forward. "Take a closer look; be sure." His eyes met hers. "Be very sure."

Slowly, she rose to her feet and stretched out a hand to pick through the items.

The wrappings from the Pop-Tart, the Snickers bar, the MandMore's, the Bazooka bubble gum, the Reese's peanut butter cup. "Regular junk food junkies," she said, trying to smile. He didn't smile back, and her eyes dropped to the desk.

"The new map's mine, the old map was Bob's. You know where and how we got the floats. Same with the walrus tusk. Not a very good one-it's broken off near the root-but it's ivory, so… Okay, my survival kit: two firestarter logs, Bob's parka, my parka, my Sorels, Bob's Sorels." She pointed at the plastic Pepsi bottle. "Bob's pee. Ick, I can't believe you've still got that. That's my clam gun and bucket; I always carry them with me when I know I'm making a beach landing. You never know when you'll hit the tide just right." She picked up the gloves one at a time. One was a cotton painter's glove, the second a woman's Isotoner, and the third a man's worn leather work glove. None of them fit Wy's hand. "I don't know where these came from. Probably passengers dropped them." She paused. "And those are the two radios."