Seven

Tuesday, September 3

HE RETURNED FROM LUNCH IN A thoughtful mood and sat in his truck outside the post for a few moments, reviewing the meeting just past. The Blewestown chief was in his mid to late fifties, bulky but not fat, head shaved, dark blue uniform all present and correct. He greeted the waitstaff by name; they in turn called him “Chief” or “Chief Armstrong” and were polite but not friendly.

To Liam, the chief was polite but not genial. When asked, he revealed that he’d lived in Blewestown all his life bar four years in the Marines. He revealed that he was still in the reserves and had seen time in the Sandbox, not a full tour, no, but active service. His parents had been commercial fishermen and he had been a drifter himself and fished across the Bay when his off time coincided with an opener. He was divorced with two children, both out of college, one an LPN at the local hospital, the other a biologist with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game in Anchorage.

“You’re out of uniform,” he said before Liam’s butt had even hit the seat of his chair.

“It’s being shipped,” Liam said, and tried not to feel annoyed.

Armstrong answered Liam’s questions directly, usually in simple declarative sentences. He didn’t ask the same questions of Liam. Either he didn’t care or he already knew, probably the latter. Liam was just a tad notorious in Alaska law enforcement, but Armstrong made only one remark that acknowledged that. “I followed the Gheen case.”

Liam waited.

“I’m acquainted with Nina Stewart’s family.”

It took Liam a moment to remember. Nina Stewart had been Rebecca Hanover’s staunch best friend. “I remember her on the news.”

“Yeah, you don’t fuck with Nina.” Without changing expression or added emphasis, Armstrong said, “You should have killed the son of a bitch.”

Liam swallowed the rage that rose every time someone said that to him. Many had. “I’m a state trooper, not an executioner.”

The air cooled even further. Lunch arrived—okay burgers and soggy fries—and they ate without commentary. Afterward, Armstrong worked a toothpick around his teeth and said, “We haven’t had a trooper assigned here for decades. Usually your people are dispatched out of Soldotna. If we need them.”

The implication being they didn’t. Liam had wondered if he was about to be handed his hat and shown the door, metaphorically at least, and waited warily. Usually local law enforcement in Alaska was ecstatic for any kind of help, but Blewestown was on the road system and one of the state’s larger communities, which bred a larger and more autonomous police department, mostly because it was easier to get help. It took something extra to live and work in the Bush; it took nothing extra to live and work on the road system. “I’m aware,” he said.

The chief nodded. “Our area of responsibility only extends to the city limits. You, on the other hand, are responsible for everything that happens on the other side of those limits.”