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him?"
     
    "Never seen him before."
     
    "He speak English, or have an accent if he did?"
     
    Bernie shook his head. "Kurt did all the talking."
     
    "How long were they here?"
     
    "One drink, couple of beers. They didn't finish them." Bernie looked mildly annoyed. "Alaskan Amber, too. I hate pouring good beer down the sink."
     
    "You notice anything else? Anything change hands?"
     
    Bernie shook his head again. "Not in the bar."
     
    "Okay. Thanks, Bernie."
     
    "No problem. You didn't bring the wolf in to say hi?"
     
    Kate grinned. "She's chasing geese."
     
    Bernie swore. "Not Edna's geese, not again, Kate."
     
    Kate relented. "She's in the cab."
     
    Bernie looked relieved. "Thank god I won't have to stop my wife from rioting in the streets." He plucked a package of beef jerky out of a jar on the bar. "For the wolf."
     
    "Thanks."
     
    From the Roadhouse, Kate drove back to Niniltna and the airstrip, and this time she managed to arrive at the same time George Perry touched down. He was in the act of removing his headphones when he saw her. "Oh crap," he said, "what now?" He headed immediately for the 1966 Ford Econoline van—held together by faith, dirt, and duct tape—which served as ground support for Chugach Air Taxi's air-freight business. He backed it around to the Cessna and began unloading boxes from the one and stacking them in the back of the other.
     
    Normally, Kate would have given him a hand, but over the past twenty-four hours she had been made humiliatingly aware that she might have overdone it in the gratitude department. "Have you done any business with Kurt Pletnikoff lately?" she said to George's determinedly turned back.
     
    "Nope," he said, tossing a box into the back of the Econoline with a fine disregard for the fragile sticker on its side.
     
    "Has he met any flights lately—say flights with unknown passengers of Asian origin on board?"
     
    George paused. "Maybe."
     
    "Did he or didn't he?"
     
    "He might have," George said.
     
    Kate gritted her teeth. She wasn't a patient person, but she was on probation and she knew it. "When might he have?"
     
    George gave a characteristic little wiggle, something between a shrug and the Shimmy. "An Asian gentleman could have flown in last Tuesday."
     
    "And could he have said why he was here?"
     
    George shook his head.
     
    "Did he have you call a ride?" There wasn't what you could call a cab in Niniltna, but George did have the names of people from the village who had vehicles and were willing to rent themselves out by the mile.
     
    He shook his head.
     
    "When did he leave?"
     
    "That evening."
     
    "Did you notice if he was carrying something out that he didn't carry in?"
     
    "Maybe a duffel bag."
     
    "How big?"
     
    "Basketball-size. Maybe a little bigger. Had handles. Dark blue. Had a logo on it."
     
    "What logo?"
     
    George screwed up his face. "Can't remember. Some sports team maybe. Not the Kings."
     
    As in the Kanuyaq Kings, the local high school team, and very likely the only team logo George could recognize on sight. He was dutiful in his devotion to the hometown boys, but he wasn't the biggest sports fan. "And this was last Tuesday?"
     
    George nodded.
     
    "Okay," she said. She started to thank him, then caught his eye, and thought better of it. "I need a ride into town," she said instead.
     
    "When?"
     
    "Tomorrow morning."
     
    He thought for a moment before giving a short nod. "I can do that, if you don't mind early."
     
    "I don't mind early. Seven?"
     
    He nodded again. "Don't be late. I've got to be back here in time to bring the Grosdidier brothers home from Alaganik."
     
    "You can fit them all into one plane?"
     
    He grinned, the most natural expression he'd shown her all summer. "I packs 'em tight," he said, adding, "Don't tell the FAA."
     
    She drove up to the Niniltna Native Association headquarters, a prefabricated building beneath a metal roof that positively sang in the rain and to which even the