And they spent the forty miles of gravel road between Chinook Air Force Base and Newenham talking of old acquaintances from Anchorage and Elmendorf. One thing about Campbell Senior, he could take a hint. If he wanted to.

He dropped Liam in front of the trooper post, came inside ostensibly to check out Liam's office, really to see if Prince was there, which she wasn't, and made a date with Liam for dinner the following evening at Bill's. Liam stood on the porch, watching the truck go around a corner and out of sight. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “You're a pilot, not an engineer.”

He went back inside and called his father's office in Florida. It was six o'clock Alaska time, which made it ten o'clock Florida time, so there was no answer. Tomorrow, he thought, hanging up the phone.

He tried the number David Malone had had on file for Max Bayless, and got the not-in-service message that began with those three loud and infinitely irritating tones that jarred the phlegm loose in his sinuses. He called Directory Assistance. The phone on the other end rang thirteen times-he counted-and then was answered by a breathless voice that had to rise over the noises of squabbling children in the background to inform him that she had no listing for a Bayless, Max, a Bayless, Maxim, a Bayless, Maximilien, or a Bayless of any kind, for that matter. A dead loss to the state of Alaska of sixty cents.

Prince walked in. “You been to the hospital?” he said.

She nodded. The gesture didn't look as painful as it had a couple of hours before. “I'm okay. They gave me some pain pills if I need them.”

“You need them?”

“No,” she said firmly, and made her report. She had managed to get Don Nelson's body on the last plane out to Anchorage. Frank Petla was locked up in one of the six cells located behind the local police department's dispatch office, waiting on arraignment. If Liam couldn't talk Frank around his request for a lawyer, he would have to delay further interrogation for either an early return of silvers, which would precipitate an equally early return to town by local public defender Cecilie Lundren from her fish camp up the river, or request a public defender from Anchorage. The way the fishing season wasn't going, it looked like requesting a P.D. from Anchorage would be preferable, although with state cutbacks it would probably be a week before one showed.

There was no longer any pretense in the American judicial system of a swift and speedy trial, Liam thought. So much for the Sixth Amendment.

But the sooner Liam informed Bill Billington of Don Nelson's death and Frank Petla's apprehension, the sooner she could swear out a felony warrant and the better for his chances of a conviction. Liam dearly loved convictions, and he didn't want this one screwed up because he'd violated the doctrine of habeas corpus. Too bad Frank Petla couldn't be tried before Bill. The letter of the law did not worry Bill a great deal, and her trials, conducted at Bill's Bar and Grill with Bill presiding over the bar and before a Greek chorus of bar patrons, most of whom were a little worse for the wear, frequently achieved the level of performance art.

He thought of Teddy Engebretsen, defendant in the first of Bill's trials Liam had witnessed, and grinned involuntarily. “Sorry, Prince. No, go ahead. What else?”

The phone rang as Prince was finishing her report. Liam picked up the receiver and said, “One moment, please,” and covered the receiver with his hand. “Have you looked for a place to stay?”

Prince shook her head. “Well, go look. I'd recommend the local hotel. It's expensive but it's clean, and it has hot and cold running water.” She started to speak, and he overrode her. “You're off duty, Trooper, as of now. There's a truck in the lockup out back.” He fished for the keys in the desk drawer. “Eat, grab some sleep and be back here in the morning ready to fly.”

She looked eager. “We'll be going back to Kulukak?” He nodded, and she said, “I'll be here at eight.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll be here at ten.” He waited until the door closed behind her before saying into receiver, “Alaska State Troopers, Newenham post, Campbell speaking.”

The blast from the other end of the line nearly knocked him out of his chair. “What the hell you mean, wait a minute! What the hell kind of way is that for an Alaska state trooper to answer the phone! Supposing somebody was shooting me; was I just supposed to take a number while you got around to talking to me?”

Liam sat back up, crossed his feet on the desk and said, “Well, hey, John. How've you been?”

TEN

“Who the hell cares where I been! What's this I hear about you jumping out of airplanes!”

“News travels fast.”

There was a short, electric silence. “Jesus!” Barton spluttered finally. “You mean it's true?”

“Yup,” Liam said, and waited.

The explosion was not long in coming. Barton erupted into the phone, called Liam ten kinds of fool, questioned the legitimacy of his ancestors to the fourth generation, libeled his education, condemned his training and subjected his intelligence to a scathing review. He paused for breath, and Liam said sweetly, savoring the moment, “Just doing my duty, John. You know we troopers always get our man.”

Another eruption followed, and Liam waited it out, checking the level of paper in the printer tray, rearranging the inbox, the outbox and the to-be-filed box. By the time John ran down the second time, he'd closed two files, one for drunken driving and reckless endangerment on the road between Newenham and the Air Force base, one for sexual assault in the third degree, and had started on a third, embezzlement of funds from the local Native corporation. This last was being closed because there was no point in a prosecution, as no one could be found to testify for or against anyone else, no matter how much money was missing, and the person who had reported it gone had been fired and the person accused of stealing it named to the board of directors.

“Liam!”

The bellow broke his concentration. “John? You still there?”

“Yes, you smug bastard, I am still here.” A pause. Almost pleadingly, his boss said, “What the hell were you thinking?”

Liam put down his pen and sat back again. “I was thinking that a guy who maybe killed one person, who actually did shoot another and assault a third-one of our own, I might add-I was thinking this guy was going to get clean away if I didn't do something, and do it fast.”

A brief pause. “You're sure this guy did it?”

“The shooting and the assault, yes. I don't have his confession on the stabbing yet, but he was there, he had the murder weapon, he was fleeing the scene. And he was drunk. He looks pretty good to me.”

Another pause, while they both thought about what booze did in the Alaskan Bush to keep up the rates of child abuse, rape and murder every month. “There wasn't any other way to apprehend him?”

“No.” There might have been, but Liam had been the trooper on the spot, and it had been his decision to make. He wasn't going to back away from it.

Another pause. “All right.” A long sigh. “But, Jesus, Liam.”

Liam grinned at the calendar on the opposite wall. “Well, John, you know how I hate to fly.”

“Fine,” Barton said, “then just don't get on them in the first place. You don't have to jump out of them in midair.”

He didn't say and Liam didn't mention that if you were a trooper in the Bush, you flew.

Their minds must have been following the same track, because Barton said, “You ever think about learning to fly, Liam?”

“No,” Liam said for the second time that day.

“All right, all right,” Barton said, “never mind, it was just a suggestion. Who was this guy and what'd he do?”

Liam told him. Barton grunted. “Nice he returned to the scene of the crime.”