hell. She expelled an impatient breath. “He didn't just die, she said bluntly. “He was killed.
As if a switch had been thrown, the indulgent air vanished and the trooper went on alert. Wy could almost hear the howl of the bloodhounds. She'd seen the same expression on Liam's face too many times to mistake it now.
Prince said, “What makes you say that?
Wy remembered Nelson's body and repressed a roll of nausea. “Well, the handle of the knife sticking out of his mouth was my first clue.
“I see. The trooper seemed to sniff the air. “Where is Professor McLynn now?
“At Bill's. He wouldn't stay at the site, so I dropped him off on the way into town from the airport.
“Bill's?
“Bill's Bar and Grill, Wy elaborated.
“This McLynn a drinker?
“He is today, Wy said, her mouth a grim line. “I would be, too, if I didn't have to fly.
The trooper reached for her cap. “I'll follow you there.
Bill's Bar and Grill was a squat, square building with a shallowpeaked roof of corrugated metal and green vinyl siding. Windows basked in the neon light of a dozen beer signs, and worn wooden stairs led up to double doors.
Inside, the building was divided, the bar in front and the kitchen in back. They were separated by a wall with a passthrough window through which wafted the tantalizing smell of beef burned to the proper degree of char and the occasional bellow, “Order up! A bar with a black Naugahyde elbow pad ran the length of the front room on the left, booths and a jukebox were on the right, a small stage and an even smaller dance floor in the back. A hardy indoor-outdoor carpet of indeterminate color suffered beer spills and cigarette ashes with equal indifference, and the walls were arrayed in dark wood paneling and still more neon beer signs. The rafters were exposed, sort of, because every available inch had been stapled with business cards, men's shorts and women's bras, Japanese glass fishing floats, a moose rack that looked wide enough to challenge the current record holder inBoone & Crockett,a length of baleen, the cork line off a drift net and the inevitable and innumerable square foil packets of Trojans.
It was also, on this early afternoon in late July, almost empty, but for a woman standing behind the bar polishing a glass, a man seated opposite her and another man standing next to him. The standing man was tall, dark and in uniform.
“Liam! Wy said involuntarily, and started forward.
“Sir? Trooper Prince said. “How did you get here?
The man turned his head toward them, bringing it full into the light from one of the windows. Wy halted. So did Prince.
He was tall, broad-shouldered and long-legged, with thick dark hair going a distinguished gray at the temples and blue eyes deepset in a brown face. His nose was high-bridged and arrogant, his mouth ready for an easy, sexy grin and his jaw square and obstinate, but despite these uncanny similarities he was not Liam Campbell. On closer inspection Wy realized that his uniform was not the blue of the Alaska State Troopers, either, it was the blue of the United States Air Force.
“I'm sorry, he said with crisp courtesy, “I'm afraid you've mistaken me for my son. He smiled, first at Wy, then over her shoulder at Trooper Prince, and in a heartbeat Wy understood where Liam got all his charm. “I'm Charles Campbell. He smiled again. “I don't seem to be able to find my son, in fact.
“He's out of town, Colonel, Wy said. He gave her a sharp look, wanting to know how a civilian, and a female civilian at that, knew his rank. “I . . . know your son, she said lamely. There was a comprehensive snort from the man seated at the bar. Campbell glanced down at him, and Moses Alakuyak's bright brown eyes met his with distinct challenge.
Wy shot the shaman a fierce look, and the woman behind the bar put her hand over his, in restraint or encouragement, Wy couldn't tell which, but then Bill was like that. “Liam speaks of you often, she told Campbell.
As if a switch had been thrown, the indulgent air vanished and the trooper went on alert. Wy could almost hear the howl of the bloodhounds. She'd seen the same expression on Liam's face too many times to mistake it now.
Prince said, “What makes you say that?
Wy remembered Nelson's body and repressed a roll of nausea. “Well, the handle of the knife sticking out of his mouth was my first clue.
“I see. The trooper seemed to sniff the air. “Where is Professor McLynn now?
“At Bill's. He wouldn't stay at the site, so I dropped him off on the way into town from the airport.
“Bill's?
“Bill's Bar and Grill, Wy elaborated.
“This McLynn a drinker?
“He is today, Wy said, her mouth a grim line. “I would be, too, if I didn't have to fly.
The trooper reached for her cap. “I'll follow you there.
Bill's Bar and Grill was a squat, square building with a shallowpeaked roof of corrugated metal and green vinyl siding. Windows basked in the neon light of a dozen beer signs, and worn wooden stairs led up to double doors.
Inside, the building was divided, the bar in front and the kitchen in back. They were separated by a wall with a passthrough window through which wafted the tantalizing smell of beef burned to the proper degree of char and the occasional bellow, “Order up! A bar with a black Naugahyde elbow pad ran the length of the front room on the left, booths and a jukebox were on the right, a small stage and an even smaller dance floor in the back. A hardy indoor-outdoor carpet of indeterminate color suffered beer spills and cigarette ashes with equal indifference, and the walls were arrayed in dark wood paneling and still more neon beer signs. The rafters were exposed, sort of, because every available inch had been stapled with business cards, men's shorts and women's bras, Japanese glass fishing floats, a moose rack that looked wide enough to challenge the current record holder inBoone & Crockett,a length of baleen, the cork line off a drift net and the inevitable and innumerable square foil packets of Trojans.
It was also, on this early afternoon in late July, almost empty, but for a woman standing behind the bar polishing a glass, a man seated opposite her and another man standing next to him. The standing man was tall, dark and in uniform.
“Liam! Wy said involuntarily, and started forward.
“Sir? Trooper Prince said. “How did you get here?
The man turned his head toward them, bringing it full into the light from one of the windows. Wy halted. So did Prince.
He was tall, broad-shouldered and long-legged, with thick dark hair going a distinguished gray at the temples and blue eyes deepset in a brown face. His nose was high-bridged and arrogant, his mouth ready for an easy, sexy grin and his jaw square and obstinate, but despite these uncanny similarities he was not Liam Campbell. On closer inspection Wy realized that his uniform was not the blue of the Alaska State Troopers, either, it was the blue of the United States Air Force.
“I'm sorry, he said with crisp courtesy, “I'm afraid you've mistaken me for my son. He smiled, first at Wy, then over her shoulder at Trooper Prince, and in a heartbeat Wy understood where Liam got all his charm. “I'm Charles Campbell. He smiled again. “I don't seem to be able to find my son, in fact.
“He's out of town, Colonel, Wy said. He gave her a sharp look, wanting to know how a civilian, and a female civilian at that, knew his rank. “I . . . know your son, she said lamely. There was a comprehensive snort from the man seated at the bar. Campbell glanced down at him, and Moses Alakuyak's bright brown eyes met his with distinct challenge.
Wy shot the shaman a fierce look, and the woman behind the bar put her hand over his, in restraint or encouragement, Wy couldn't tell which, but then Bill was like that. “Liam speaks of you often, she told Campbell.
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