Page 31

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There was no chance of going anywhere when there were two feet of new snow on the ground. Ironically, snowy days were often very busy at The Fang, as people shoveled out their vehicles, got their roads plowed, then headed in to see how everyone else had fared.

Bear had found that snowstorms generally brought out the best in people—at least at the start of winter. Towards the end, when everyone was sick of snow, people could get cranky. But for now, his customers were eager to commiserate with anyone who came through the door.

For the next few days, the snow grate outside the front door got a workout, and several sets of skis were usually propped next to it. Whenever he and Lila had a free moment, they skied through the town, or through the forest, along hiking trails. “We might have to ski out to Snow River,” he told her. “But that’s a long trip, so best to work up to it.”

“That’s fine, I love it! I love the snow. I love the light. It’s so magical, like a fairy tale.” Her violet eyes sparkled with joy every time she stepped into her ski boots. Lila was a natural on skies, nimble and graceful. She moved as if she had wings instead of skis.

Watching her in the snow made him wild for her. Once he even kicked off his skis, crowded her up against a tree, and plunged his hand inside her snow pants. Stroked her until she came hard and breathless. Then emptied himself inside her with a soul-deep groan.

Bear gave thanks to whatever guardian angel was in charge of such things that she’d forgiven him. Her little smiles as she relayed an order were back, and even better, so were the arm brushes and secret kisses and saucy winks.

The town was still digging out when Lasse Ulstrom, who’d once competed in the Iditarod, brought his dog team into town. He nearly fell off the sled’s runners when his dogs got distracted by a raven.

“Shakedown cruise,” he explained to one and all as Bear brought him a shot of rum. “First run is always a wild one. Got any soup going today?”

“Sure do, I’ll check on it.”

Lila was busy making moose meat chili. The moose had been provided by Gunnar, who was always called on to deal with the aftermath after someone had struck a moose with their vehicle. Lila had screamed when she first caught sight of the poor bloodied creature in the back of Gunnar’s truck. But after a suitable grieving period, she’d seen the value in not wasting the meat, and had even helped Bear make steaks and burger meat for the freezer.

She was learning about life in the Alaskan wilderness, even adapting. But now was when the rubber hit the road, he knew. A lot of people got stir crazy come winter, especially when it dragged on for so many months of so much darkness. Lila could get fed up at any moment and hop on Sam’s next flight out.

He’d just have to enjoy her presence while it lasted.

“I’ve got orders for six bowls of that chili whenever it’s ready,” he told her as he swung through the door into the kitchen.

“It’s ready.” She took down six bowls and began ladling chili into them. “By the way, not that I mind kitchen duty, but when is the new cook going to start? He came by yesterday and said he’s ready when we are.”

“Shit.” Bear had completely forgotten about the guy. “I have to call him. I have his info somewhere, but he told me he doesn’t have service here.” He shrugged. “Next time he comes in, tell him to start cooking. If not, maybe we’ll get Pinky in here. His shepherd’s pie is legendary.”

“Good stuff?”

“Not at all. The legend is that he served it at a party and the guests all got the runs and filled up his outhouse hole. He had to dig a new one.”

“Ewww. I could have done without that story right before serving all this chili.”

“Sorry.” He loaded up the bowls of chili onto a tray. “If you want a break, you should talk to Lasse Ulstrom. He used to be in the state legislature and he still has a lot of political connections. He might know more about the Hardwell family. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Lasse insisted they both sit down with him; he was that kind of guy, a chatty, jolly storyteller, a veteran of many a night around a campfire during a hunting trip, or a bar in Dutch Harbor after a month-long fishing trip. His gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a leather thong.

“Good chili,” he told Lila after taking a wary bite. “For a newbie.”

She beamed at him and he watched in real time as Lasse fell under her spell.

Bear sat down and stretched out his legs. He was tired after the long day of shoveling and slinging drinks. After that long night in Lila’s bed.

He caught her glance, and felt her leg on his thigh under the table. “Go ahead, Lila. Ask your question. Lasse knows everyone in Juneau.”

“You’re interested in politics?” Lasse turned his friendly gaze on Lila.

“I’m actually curious about Adam Hardwell, the former Senator, the one whose opponent was killed before the election.”

Lasse’s smile dropped. “That mother-effer? Why?”

“His name came up in an article I was reading. Did you know him?”

“Sure. Still do. He lives in a retirement home in Anchorage, lost his marbles a long time ago. He’s gotta be at least ninety.”

“Why do you call him a mother-effer?” Bear asked.

“Corrupt as fuck. The big oil companies put all their money behind him. Put back the environmental movement in Alaska by twenty years. Put us into a one-product economy. Nothing against oil, hell, the world runs on oil. But there’s a way to do it right, and he didn’t care about that. He lined his pockets, bullied everyone who believed something different, paid off Native community leaders, just a low-down evil bastard. A lot of people thought he might have been behind the assassination of Charles Greenley. It sure did benefit him.”

“Did they ever arrest the man who did it?”

“I don’t think so. I remember hearing that he died in a car crash running from the FBI. Whoever paid him, if someone did, that died with him.”

There sure were a lot of suspicious deaths in this saga.

Bear felt Lila squeeze his leg under the table, so he gestured for her to go ahead with a question. “What about the Senator’s family? His son, for instance?”

“Billy Hardwell. What a piece of work that guy was. They did everything they could to keep him out of the news while Hardwell was in the Senate. But he kept fucking up, and eventually they committed him to an institution. Didn’t let him out until Hardwell was out of office.”

“When you say ‘piece of work,’” Bear asked, “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Name the drug, he was into it. A bunch of women claimed he assaulted them. But his daddy was rich and made it all go away. There was even some talk of trafficking. Just rumors, and they got hushed up fast.”

“Do you know where Billy Hardwell is now?”

Lasse shook his head over another spoonful of moose meat. “Nah, all that was thirty-plus years ago. Why are you asking about it now?”

Lila gave him an innocent smile. “I’m just curious. It sounds like such a scandalous story. A candidate assassinated, a son in and out of drug treatment. If that was in New York, there would have been twenty-four hour news coverage. But I didn’t find all that much online.”

“This is Alaska. The lower forty-eight forgets about us, and for a lot of folks, that’s a good thing.” He chuckled and drank a little more rum. “You know, I might have heard something about Billy Hardwell’s son. Jesus, what’s his name? It’s slipping my mind right now. Wait.” He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, as if tuning into a signal. “Mark Hardwell. That’s it. A buddy of mine in the state legislature told me Mark’s getting into the family business. Might run for governor.”

“Really?” Bear shared a glance with Lila. That seemed important. “What’s his story?”

“Don’t really know much about him. Fresh face, young—not even forty. But the Hardwell name ain’t too popular. He’ll have his work cut out for him to get any traction.” He abandoned his spoon and lifted the bowl to his mouth to slurp up the rest of his soup. “Gotta get back to my dogs now.”

Bear tipped his head. “Do they need a snack for the road? We got a little extra moose meat back there.”

After setting Lasse up with some raw meat for his team, Bear watched him pull out into the road with a “Hup.” The dogs milled around and bumped into each other before they got their coordination down. Then they were off, galloping through the snow with doggy joy.

He should get a dog. How many times had he longed for one? But then he’d worry about Jack Daniels, and whether he’d be dealing with brawls in his house as well as in his bar. But Jack was getting older and lazier, and if he could deal with a goldfish, maybe a dog would be just fine.

As he squinted after Lasse and his team, something caught his eye at the edge of the lot on which The Fang was located. A solar array sat back there, with a buried cable in a conduit that connected it to the battery bank located inside the bar. He hadn’t gone back there since this latest snowfall, so he had to wade through snow that reached to the middle of his thighs. It was already getting dark, so it was amazing that he’d noticed anything in this blue twilight. But there it was, fluttering from one of the rails that held up his solar panels. It was a strip of cloth that looked as if it had been ripped from an old patchwork quilt.

Had it been whisked by the wind and snagged onto his array?

Bear frowned, seeing that someone had tied it to the rail. It wasn’t there by accident. It was deliberate. But why?

He switched on the flashlight of his phone so he could see better, and examined the piece of cloth. It was long and narrow, made from red silk, with one end torn.

Bear scanned his surroundings with the flashlight. With this much snow, no one could just sneak in here. They’d leave footsteps in the snow. Even if they came on snowshoes, there would be obvious marks. Even if they used spruce branches to wipe away those tracks, it would still be evident that someone had been here.

Finally he saw the faintest traces of ski marks. The wind had blown the snow around enough so they’d nearly been masked.

Who had tied this here, and why? It felt like someone wanted to play a guessing game. Not a very fun one, if one of the clues was a murdered woman. What kind of demented person would do that? Someone very clever and manipulative. A sociopath.

Or maybe he was thinking about this all wrong. No one else had died since Rita Casey had been found. Maybe these other episodes weren’t connected to her murder.

He didn’t get a chance to show Lila the scrap of cloth until after the workday was done. They went upstairs and collapsed on the couch, while Jack Daniels stared at them imperiously from the windowsill. She curled against him, tucked under his arm, like a fern that still hadn’t unfurled.

“Our mystery prankster might have struck again. I found this tied to the solar array.” He showed her the bit of silk. “What do you think it is?”

She ran her fingers across it, as if trying to pick up any energetic traces left behind. “It looks like a bookmark to me. You know the kind that’s attached to a journal, sewn into the binding?”

He squinted at it, embarrassed that he didn’t do enough reading or journal writing to recognize it. “Yeah, looks right. It got ripped out of the journal.”

Lila peered at it more closely, then held it under the light of the nearest lamp. “Look at this. There’s writing on it. You can barely see it anymore.”

He leaned closer to her to see for himself. Sure enough, something was written in faded black ink along the bookmark. “Is that a date?”

“Yup. And a place. Nineteen eighty six. Snow River.”

She sat back and ran the bookmark through her fingers. “If it was a journal, maybe this was how the writer kept track of the time period they were writing in.”

“So someone kept a journal from Snow River in nineteen eighty-six. Do you think it was Nancy Butcher?”

“It could have been. I can ask Paulina if Nancy kept a journal, and if she recognizes this handwriting.” She glanced up at him. “I think I’m starting to speak this guy’s language. He left this because he wants us to look into Nancy’s time at Snow River.”

“So that’s what all this shit is? Clues?” He shook his head. “There’s got to be a better way to communicate.”

“But maybe there isn’t. They can’t, or they’re afraid.”

“You sound like you’re sympathetic to the guy.”

She cocked her head to think about it, probably feeling for that sixth sense of hers. “Not exactly. But I don’t think this person murdered Rita Casey. Someone else is out there and I think they’re trying to sound an alarm.”