Part 2 (1/2)
”One day, maybe two.”
”How long before I'm reimbursed?”
”You'll have to take that up with the Earlybird representative.”
”Which one is he?”
He pointed at a skinny man with a thin, harried face standing on the other side of the wreckage. ”The name's Kevin Bickford. He's Earlybird's director of operations for the state.”
”Thanks,” Kate said, and walked around the wreckage to tap Bickford on the shoulder. He turned and stared at her uncomprehendingly.
”Kate Shugak, Mr. Bickford.” He looked blank, and she added pointedly, ”This is my homestead your jet engine just trashed.”
He cringed inside his oversize parka, reminding her of nothing so much as a parky squirrel diving down the nearest hole. He even looked a little like a parky squirrel, with small, bright eyes set close on either side of an insignificant little nose that didn't look as if it could suck in enough oxygen to keep a gnat alive. His teeth, bared in a failed attempt at an ingratiating smile, were little and white, with the exception of the front two, which were big and buck. ”Mr. Bickford, as far as I'm concerned, this could not have happened at 25 a worse time. I need my truck. When will I be reimbursed for the damage done by your engine?”
He couldn't hide his look of surprise, and Kate wondered sourly if he thought broken gutturals would have been more appropriate to her brown skin, black braids and Bush lifestyle.
Bickford cleared his throat nervously. Kate raised her brows and waited.
His gaze fell on the scar at her throat and widened.
”Holy-”
”About rest.i.tution, Mr. Bickford,” Kate said.
He flushed and his eyes slid past her guiltily. ”Well, Ms. s.h.a.geluk-”
”Shugak,” she said, patiently for her. ”SHOOgack.”
”Of course.” His smile was weak. It matched his chin. ”Well, Ms.
Shungnak.” Close, but no cigar. Kate left it for another day. ”I don't rightly know when you can expect rest.i.tution. We have to a.s.sess the damage first, of course. Get an estimate on the replacement value of your truck, that sort of thing.”
”Including delivery here,” she said.
”Of course, of course,” he said hurriedly.
”And not forgetting the collateral damage done to the tools in the garage.”
”No,” he said obediently.
”Or the interior of my cabin, and the contents therein, not to mention the roof.”
”Certainly not.”
What the h.e.l.l. ”And the meat cache.”
He took it without a blink. ”Of course.”
”Fine,” she said. ”I'll start a list. One more thing.”
Relieved that it was only one more thing, he said almost eagerly, ”Yes?”
”I don't want a check.”
He blinked. ”No check?”
”No. Cash. Nothing bigger than a hundred, please. Fifties if you can manage it.” Cash because the nearest bank was Ahtna, 26 and fifties because it was next to impossible to get change for a hundred in the Bush during breakup anywhere except maybe the Roadhouse.
Everybody was broke, even Bernie, who let customers drink on tab until they made their first set of the year.
She saw no need to explain herself to Bickford, who looked a little dazed by the request, but such was the force of her personality that he found himself mumbling agreement.
The go team went about its business, locating, identifying and cataloging the various pieces off the engine around the clearing and marking their location on a map they had drawn of the site five minutes after they had arrived. Other than requesting, very politely, that she touch nothing, they hadn't bothered Kate much. Except for the photographer, whose flash had to be about ready to wear out. Kate would be seeing spots for the rest of the week.
She left Mutt to supervise the debris collection process from a post next to the woodpile and went back to her cabin. The interior looked as if the second chinook of the year had pa.s.sed directly through it, books and canned goods and ca.s.sette tapes alternating with gla.s.s shards and wood splinters all over the floor. She couldn't even put on any music to drown out the sounds of the people outside because one of the turbine blades had skewered the ca.s.sette deck, an electronic s.h.i.+sh kebab. Not that there was anything to play after the piece off the engine squashed most of her tapes.
A can of stewed tomatoes looked like breakfast, and she dumped it into a bowl and ate to the accompaniment of a low hum of conversation and an occasional clang of metal from the yard. She did her best to ignore both, but as she was sc.r.a.ping the bottom of the bowl, rain began to patter on the roof, and through the hole onto the couch and the box of crushed tapes beneath it. She heaved a sigh, went out to the garage, located the ladder among the wreckage and set it up against the eaves of the cabin.
The hole was about a foot and a half in diameter. The good news was that it appeared to have missed all the rafters. Kate went 27 back to the garage, started the generator, plugged in the power saw, mercifully intact, and cut a piece of plywood to fit the outside and a piece of Sheetrock to fit the inside and scrounged up enough pink insulation to stuff in between. Caulking, tar paper and s.h.i.+ngles followed. A quant.i.ty of s.p.a.ckle later and the job was done, except for painting. Kate had a dreary suspicion that she'd have to paint the entire inside of the roof to make it match, but that was for tomorrow, when the s.p.a.ckle had dried.
O joy, Of rapture, it was time for lunch. A can of retried beans heated up and seasoned with garlic powder and oregano was better than cold stewed tomatoes. She cleaned up the kitchen, tossing the ventilated canned goods and restoring the rest to the shelves above and below the counter, adding as she did so to the grocery list, which was beginning to resemble the provisional logistics for D-Day.
After that it was time to start a list of everything Earlybird was going to replace whether they wanted to or not. She started with the tape deck and Ae box of tapes beneath the couch. The list was over fifty t.i.tles before she was done.
She moved on to the books, where the news was even worse. The copy of The Wind in the Willows with the wonderful Michael Hague ill.u.s.trations had been pierced through the center, stabbed to the heart, a fatal wound. Next to it, Louise Erdrich's Tracks had the cover peeled back like an onion. ”G.o.ddammit,” she said, and started another list.
Halfway down it came the sound of raised voices from the yard. They got louder. She marched over to the door and yanked it open, ready to kick a.s.s.
The go team were cl.u.s.tered in a group in the center of the clearing, around two of their own, a man and a woman. Stewman, his back to the cabin, heard the door open and turned.
She glared at him. ”What's with all the noise?”
He glanced back at the group. ”We've, ah, we've run into a little, uh, well, I guess you could call it a snag.” He tried to smile but it didn't take.
28 The woman, a slender redhead with freckles, looked as if she was going to throw up. The man next to her, the albino blond, looked terrified. Kate took a step forward. ”What's going on?”
Stewman glanced back around the circle, and back at Kate. ”We, uh, well, we found a body.”
Kate stared at him. ”I beg your pardon?'
He shoved back his cap to scratch his head, and resettled it firmly.
”There's usually a pattern to the way debris scatters in an incident like this one. I sent Selina and Brandon”- he indicated the terrified man and the nauseous woman -”out to canva.s.s.” He paused. ”They found a body instead.”
”They found a what?”
”A dead body,” John Stewman said for the third time. He had regained his composure and he was patient and apologetic but firm. ”The body of a dead man.” He glanced back at Selina and Brandon. ”I gather it's not in the best of shape.”
Kate stared at him. He wasn't joking. She sat down heavily upon the doorstep. Mutt, concerned, deserted her post near the woodpile and trotted forward to nose at her cheek. Kate put an arm around her neck and rested her forehead against the thick gray fur. ”You're not kidding, are you,” she said into Mutt's ruff.