"It's not that big a town, Campbell. You'll manage." Corcoran's grin was a taut stretch of skin, bare of humor or good feeling. "And if you don't, it's not my problem. My time is up, and I am history. Got me a posting to Eagle River, which is close enough to Anchorage to suit me just fine. Got me three girls lined up already, one in Wasilla, one in Spenard, and one in Girdwood, far enough apart not to find out about each other and close enough together for an easy commute between beds." Corcoran winked and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. "So long, Ms. Chouinard. It's been real." He reached out and gave her a chuck under her chin before she could move out of the way. "Should have been nicer to me. I could have stuck around to help you out of this."

Liam gave Wy a sharp look, but her expression gave nothing away.

Corcoran turned and began walking toward the plane, and Liam was abruptly recalled to his situation. "Wait a minute," he said, "wait just a goddamn minute! What about this mess?"

"Like I said," Corcoran called over his shoulder. "Your problem. Airport's outside the city limits, so this baby's all yours. Depends on whether the p-lead fell off on its own or got yanked off with intent. I'd look into that if I were you." He stooped to pick up his bags without missing a step and followed the copilot, pausing long enough at the top of the Metroliner's stairs to give a cheery wave. "Good luck, Campbell!" He added something else that might have been, "You're going to need it," but the wind had picked up by then and Liam couldn't be sure.

THREE

"Liam," Wy said in an urgent undertone.

He watched the Metroliner line up on final as if his life depended on its pilot's perfect takeoff. "What?"

"I have to fly. It's how I make my living. Herring seasons don't last that long. Fish and Game could announce an opener at any moment. I've got to get back in the air. Can I take my plane up?"

He was looking at the plane in question, the red and white paint job, the faded red fabric of the wings, the worn white call letters down the side. If he looked hard enough, he was sure he would find a scratch in the right-side door that he himself had put there while loading a cooler with Pete Petersham's severed head inside into the plane. Two years and a lifetime ago. Seven-eight Zulu. The lines of the little plane were almost as familiar to him as the laugh lines at the corners of its pilot's eyes. "No," he said. "You can't take her up. Not yet."

A variety of expressions crossed her face: anger, frustration ... fear. Why fear? A cold knot grew at the pit of his stomach. "Wy, where were you when this happened?"