a Night Too Dark (2010) Read Free Page A

into full gear out there, Kate. Nothing but trouble. We don’t even get goddamn holidays off anymore.”
Maggie didn’t often use profanity, and “out there” was understood by Kate to be the Suulutaq Mine, not the Kanuyaq. “I know. Jim hasn’t made it home for the last three nights.” That came out a little more forlorn than she had meant it to, and she said, “Bobby says you can’t hardly get in the door of the Roadhouse these days.”
For a moment it looked like Maggie was going to burst into tears.
“It’s jobs, Maggie.”
“I know,” Maggie said, with an emphasis that brought Mutt’s ears up. “I know,” she repeated in a more subdued tone. “It’s just that—”
All anyone ever wanted to talk about anymore was the goddamn Suulutaq Mine and what the mine was going to do to the Park. It was especially all anyone ever wanted to talk about to Kate, who, as the reigning chair of the board of directors of the Niniltna Native Association, the largest governing body in twenty million acres of Park lands, might be imagined to have some say in the matter.
My life used to be so simple, she thought now, and she interrupted Maggie without compunction. “Anybody in back?”
Maggie was hurt, and let it show by the curtness of her reply. “Petey Jeppsen. Oh, and Willard, of course.”
“Willard” was Willard Shugak, Kate’s second or third cousin, or maybe her first cousin once removed—she could never remember which. There were a lot of Shugaks in the Park. There were a lot of Shugaks in Alaska, come to that. One thing she couldn’t and didn’t ever forget was that Willard was Auntie Balasha’s grandson, that her daughter and his mother had been an alcoholic, which made Willard a victim of fetal alcohol syndrome. He was a simple, uncomplicated soul with a gift for the inner workings of the internal combustion engine. He couldn’t read a Chilton manual to save his life but he could fix anything on four wheels blindfolded. Kate walked back to the cells.
Willard, tall for an Alaska Native and carrying an increasing amount of weight, greeted her with his trademark beaming smile. “Hey, Kate! You come to get me out?”
“What are you in for this time, Willard?”
Willard’s beam failed and his brow creased. “I don’t know, Kate.” Short-term memory was not Willard’s strong suit. His long-term memory was even worse.
“Were you bothering Cindy again?”
He hung his head and mumbled something at his shoes. “I don’t remember.” He peeped at her and looked away again. “Hey, Mutt!” He reached through the bars to give Mutt a rough pat. Mutt’s tail gave a halfhearted wag.
The thing about Willard was he really didn’t remember, or he didn’t remember much. Jim had probably locked Willard up more for Willard’s own safety than because Cindy had caught him stealing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from her store again. Cindy had threatened to shoot him last time. “That Chopper Jim,” Kate said, shaking her head. “He sure can be tough on a guy.”
“He sure can, Kate,” Willard said mournfully. “He sure can. But he’s a nice guy anyway, you know?”
Kate had extensive, detailed personal experience as to just how nice Sergeant Jim Chopin, pride of the Alaska State Troopers, could be. With an effort she kept her face solemn as she nodded back. “Where’s Howie, Willard?”
Howie Katelnikof, amateur blackmailer, professional thief, and practicing weasel, was Willard’s roommate. His one redeeming feature was that he took care of Willard. He took good care of him, as even Kate, unwilling to grant Howie the slightest virtue, had to admit. Howie saw to it that Willard was dressed in clean clothes appropriate to the season, had at least one hot meal a day, even if it was nuked out of the freezer, made sure his sheets and towels were clean once a week, and, when Howie wasn’t off stripping a carelessly parked snowmachine for parts, Howie was Willard’s constant companion. Given the low life