“You shoot,” Liam said. “I’ll draw and bag.”

“Okay,” she said, removing her cap to wipe her brow.

She used up two rolls of thirty-six-exposure film, he filled four pages with drawings and distances. Prince dusted the cabin for prints, something both of them felt was a futile gesture.

“What do you think?” she said, standing in front of the cabin when they had finished. The sun had disappeared behind one of the mountains, all warmth vanishing with it.

Liam had a map of southwest Alaska he’d found in the cabin. He looked at the distance between Kagati Lake and Nenevok Creek. “Nunapitchuk was shot yesterday morning. Our best guess for Hanover is sometime today. That creek water’s going to play hell with a time of death.” She nodded. “Nunapitchuk was shot, we think, with a small-bore handgun, probably a twenty-two. Hanover was shot with a shotgun. Nunapitchuk was alone, Hanover wasn’t.”

“On the other hand,” Prince said, “we have two people shot, maybe within twenty-four hours of each other. Both were shot at point-blank range. No shell casings at either site. It’s the same part of Alaska, although the sites are forty miles apart over some very rough territory, territory even an experienced backwoodsman would be hard pressed to cover in that time.”

Liam nodded. “And where is Rebecca?”

“Good question,” Prince said. “Should one of us stay here and keep yelling for her?”

In answer, Liam yelled, “Rebecca! Rebecca Hanover! This is Liam Campbell, of the Alaska State Troopers! It’s okay to come out! You’re safe now! We’re at the cabin, come on out of the woods!”

There was still no answer.

“Maybe she’s running,” Prince said.

“Maybe,” Liam said, frowning down at the fireweed he still held in his hand.

“Maybe she’s running from us.”

His chest rose and fell on a sigh. “Maybe,” he said.

They waited for an hour, calling her name at intervals, but Rebecca Hanover never came out of the woods.

Newenham, September 2

In the end, it took three trips in the Cessna to get all of Teddy and John’s catch home, and it was with sore muscles and a feeling of relief that Wy saw them off in John’s truck. They were still jumpy and irritable, and they still wouldn’t acknowledge it, let alone say why. It was one of their most successful hunts ever; they should have been over the moon. Instead, they were short-tempered and nervous, starting every time a plane landed or a vehicle went by.

Wy shook her head. The evidence, specifically a case and a half of empties, indicated the strong possibility of a hangover. At any rate, it was not her problem. She cleaned out the Cessna, tied it down, piled into her own truck and headed for home, wondering if Liam had beat her there. She chastised herself for being glad that Tim was at fish camp with Moses.

The old man’s truck hit a pothole and launched itself a foot in the air, and she realized she was driving a good twenty miles above the speed limit through the heart of Newenham. She hit the brakes, slowing to a more sedate twenty-five, and made herself pull into the parking lot at NC. They needed half-and-half, and her friend Olga had called this morning and told her that the recent NC shipment of Red Delicious apples was good. The Fruit Hotline, they called it; whenever NC or Eagle got in good fresh produce, phones started ringing all over town and all the way up to Icky, the village on the edge of One Lake forty miles up the road. Wy loved a crisp, juicy apple.

She hated shopping, though. Her idea of shopping heaven was a phone, a credit card and an Eddie Bauer catalogue. Unfortunately for her, NC had yet to accept phone orders. She forced herself to get a cart and walk the aisles in search of specials, too, and even found a few. She counted the items in the cart, came in at one over the limit for the express lane and scrupulously lined up in another, behind a short teddy bear of a man with a stunning brunette on his arm. They were stocking up on Bugles and Corn Nuts, and from the bags in the cart had already paid a visit to the liquor store next door in search of the best Newenham had to offer in the way of merlots. Ah, the food of love.

The brunette nuzzled the teddy bear’s ear, and the teddy bear laughed and let his hand, until then resting casually around her waist, slip as casually down to her ass in a brief and, Wy was sure he thought, surreptitious caress. Somebody get these two a motel room, fast, she thought.

At that moment the teddy bear looked around, and Wy gaped at him. “Jim? Jim Wiley?”

The teddy bear revealed himself to be a moon-faced man in his mid-forties with button eyes, plump cheeks and a full head of white hair that looked fresh off the pillow of a very comfortable bed. “Do I know you?” he said.

“No,” Wy said, “but I’ve seen pictures of you swilling beer in college, in company with a certain state trooper of our mutual acquaintance.”

The button eyes widened, and a smile spread across the moon face that creased the plump cheeks. He looked like a teddy bear from the front, too, soft, cuddly and eminently huggable. “Wyanet Chouinard?”

“Hi, Jim.”

They shook hands. Wy felt the dampness on her palms and hoped he didn’t. This was Liam’s best friend since college. This was the one person other than the two of them who knew exactly and precisely how long Wy and Liam had known each other, and how well. He’d been Liam’s college roommate. He’d been best man at Liam’s wedding. He had stood godfather to Liam’s son, Charlie. He had a history with Liam that far surpassed her own. His opinion probably counted more with Liam than hers did simply by virtue of that long history. “Liam didn’t tell me that you were coming to town,” she said, trying hard to keep the uneasiness out of her voice.

“Liam doesn’t know,” Jim said. He brought the brunette forward. “This is Bridget, a friend of mine from Ireland. Bridget, this is Wyanet Chouinard.”

“How nice to meet you, Wyanet, and what a lovely name. Does it mean something special, now?”

“It’s Lakota Sioux,” Wy said, “and, before you ask, I’m not. Call me Wy.” Bridget had a soft, lilting accent that stressed the penultimate word in every sentence. She sounded to Wy’s inexperienced ears as if she had just stepped down from the frame ofThe Quiet Man, one of Wy’s favorite movies. “So, you’re visiting Alaska?”

Bridget looked at Jim and smiled. “I’m visiting Jim.”

“Ah. Oh. Well. Where are you staying?”

“With you,” Jim said, and grinned.

It was an impish grin, cheerful and attractive, but there was something in his eyes, a considering look, that kept Wy from succumbing. “Good,” she said, summoning a return grin that she hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt. She would have loved to have shown him the door, but Liam’s friendship and Bush hospitality forbade it. “My son is out of town for the Labor Day weekend, so Bridget can have his room.” She didn’t say where Jim could sleep, deciding they could figure it out on their own. “Have you got a car?”

They nodded. “Okay, let’s pay for our groceries and you can follow me home.”

Luckily she’d set a moose roast out to thaw that morning, and it was a big one. She let Jim open and pour the wine while she got busy behind the counter, and Bridget and Jim took their glasses out on the deck and exclaimed over the view of the wide expanse of Nushagak River opening up on the limitless vista of Bristol Bay. An eagle was obliging enough to fly by at just that moment, and three ravens were even more obliging: they launched themselves from where they’d been skulking in the branches of a white spruce tree and started harassing him. The eagle flapped grimly on, ignoring the three black devils as they swooped and dove and k-kkk-raked at him.

Bridget came back in from the deck, glowing. “How amazing that you live in a house where eagles fly by the front windows, Wy!”