P.J. glared at Lyda. I don‘t fucking have time for this shit.

Vern said to give her every facility, Lyda said. To her credit, she did not appear intimidated.

P.J. glared at Kate. Yeah, fuck me, Vern‘s not down here making sure fucking Rig 36 has enough fucking drill pipe to finish out the fucking day shift.

Yeah, fuck me, Kate said, like I don‘t have fucking anything better to do than fucking hare around after some fucking whiny little bastard who decided to fucking off himself in my fucking backyard.

Lyda sucked in a breath.

P.J. glared at Mutt, standing next to Kate, ears up. I don‘t have fucking time for fucking wolves in the fucking warehouse, either.

Mutt lifted her lip to display a fine set of very large and very sharp teeth. Her growl and his sounded almost identical.

P.J. glared some more. Kate and Mutt glared right back. Standoff.

P.J. didn‘t go so far as to relax into a smile, but a discernible twinkle did appear in his near-together black eyes, albeit very far back, and no one would mistake it for goodwill. Whaddya wanna know? A forklift roared up and slid to a halt, barely missing a man in a hard hat who tripped and almost fell in his haste to get out of the way. Harry, for fuck‘s sake try not to get yourself fucking run over on my fucking shift, all right? Fucking paperwork‘s a fucking killer on a fucking accident. What was he like? Kate said. P.J.‘s head whipped around and he glared at her. Dewayne Gammons. What was he like on the job?

He fucking showed up on time, he fucking did what he was told. Until he fucking didn‘t. Harry handed P.J. a fistful of papers and P.J. snarled at him. Mutt, startled, snarled again in response, and everyone except Kate and P.J. took an involuntary step backward.

P.J. rustled through the papers. Fucking Suulutaq Mine is fucking killing every fucking tree on the fucking planet. He consulted a laptop computer open on the tote, and hunted and pecked until another piece of paper spit out of the printer next to it. He checked a box, signed at the bottom, and shoved it at Harry, who took to his heels.

Do you remember him saying anything, where he was going, maybe about how he was feeling, before he left work for the last time?

The question sounded feeble even to Kate‘s ears, and P.J. let out a bark of laughter. In case you ain‘t fucking noticed, this warehouse is responsible for supplying five fucking rigs a fucking camp and a hundred fucking employees working a fucking twenty-four-seven shift. We got no fucking time to stand fucking still, let alone go all Dr. fucking Phil.

So, no, you don‘t remember him saying anything, Kate said.

Fucking right no. He had a fucking pulse and a strong fucking back and he could carry a fucking box without fucking dropping it and push a fucking dolly without running it off the fucking dock. P.J. glared around the room. Fucking anybody got fucking anything to fucking add?