A fine and bitter snow (2 page)

On the way to the Roadhouse, she had an inspiration, and five miles short of her goal, she took a turnoff that led down to the river, a mile from the road at this point. Spruce trees stood tall and thick next to a narrow track, snow up to the lowest branches, only to fall into deep declines nearer the trunk. It took some doing not to slide into them, and after the second near miss, Mutt decided to get off and walk. Kate slowed the machine to a crawl and thought about the man she was going to see.

John Letourneau lived on the Kanuyaq River, about a mile downstream from Niniltna. Home was an immense lodge built of peeled spruce logs, with the wall facing the river made almost entirely of glass. He had his own septic system, so there were flush toilets. He had his own well, so there was running water. He had his own generator, so there were electric lights.

It slept twenty in single rooms, each with a private bath, in season, which was as large as he allowed his parties to get. In season was from late June, when the kings started hitting fresh water, until mid-October, when the hunting season ended. There was a miniseason around breakup, when the bears woke up and their coats, which had been growing all winter while they were hibernating, were at their best. He was thinking of starting a second miniseason in January, to take advantage of the prolific tendencies of the Kanuyaq caribou herd.

Letourneau Guides, Inc., offered the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of the kill, a trip into the primal past, where men could get back in touch with their inner hunter, who killed the night's meal with his bare hands—and a .30-06—and bore it home in triumph, to be awarded the best seat next to the fire and the choicest bits of meat. Not to mention best pick of whatever young virgins happened to be handy.

Young virgins, John couldn't provide, although there were occasionally women among his hunters. He couldn't keep them out because he couldn't necessarily tell from a letter who was a man and who was a woman, and as long as their Visa cards went through and their checks didn't bounce, he didn't care. He cut them no slack, however: They had to keep up, and no whining. If it came to that, he'd had a lot more whining from his male clients, not that he was ever going to say that out loud to anyone. Especially the ones who, because they'd outfitted themselves at REI before they came, figured they had the backwoods about whipped.

It was his pleasure, Kate thought perhaps his very great pleasure, to show them, at their expense, that they didn't.

She'd never heard him go so far as to say that he was in the business of making men from boys. But he did not deny that it sometimes happened. He housed them well, he fed them very well, and he ran their asses off all over the taiga. They came home most nights to a hot shower and a soft bed, and sometimes, if it was that kind of party, a woman in that bed, on the house. He wasn't averse to a little of that kind of entertainment himself. No loud parties, however, no boozing, and everyone behaved themselves and treated their companions like ladies or they were on the next plane out.

Usually, his clients went home with at least one trophy, and the smart ones took the meat, too. When they didn't, he handed it out to elders in the Park, because he was a man who could see the value in getting along with one's neighbors. Next to the Niniltna Native Association, he was probably the village of Niniltna's biggest taxpayer, and he paid up in full and on time.

He'd been around since the sixties. He'd started out fishing in Cordova, learned to fly, and homesteaded on the Kanuyaq. He started advertising salmon fishing parties and guided hunts in
Field & Stream
in 1965—tent camping, it was back then. He'd built the lodge in 1969, for cash, and from that day forward had never run empty.

He lived alone. The chef arrived with the salmon and departed with the last moose rack. So did the maids and the groundskeepers and the gardener and the boatmen. In the winter, he cooked his own meals and made his own bed, and spent the rest of the time trapping for beaver and mink and marten and curing their skins, which he took into Fur Rendezvous in Anchorage every February and sold at auction.

He didn't have much truck with religion. He drank some, mostly hard liquor. He collected his mail regularly at the post office, and spent enough time at Bernie's to keep up on what was going out over the Bush telegraph, and to avoid the label of hermit. He had not the knack of making friends, and so his winters were solitary. Kate had the feeling that dignity and a spotless reputation meant more to John Letourneau than anything as messy as a relationship.

She pulled up by the front of the porch, giving the motor a couple of unnecessary revs to give him warning. He was waiting at the door by the time she got to the top of the steps. "Kate," he said.

"John," she said in return. Mutt gave an attention-getting sneeze behind her, and she turned, to see the big yellow eyes pleading for fun. "Okay if my dog flushes some game?"

"Turn her loose."

"Thanks. Go," Kate said to Mutt, and Mutt was off, winging across the snow like an enormous gray arrow, head down, tail flattened, legs extended so that they looked twice their normal length.

"Be lucky to see a ptarmigan again this year," John commented as he closed the door. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

He got a carafe out of the kitchen, along with a plate of shortbread cookies. Conversation was restricted to "please" and "thank you" until he had finished serving her and had taken a seat across the living room, at a distance that almost but didn't quite necessitate a shout for communication. The interior of the lodge was very masculine, sparingly but luxuriously furnished with sheepskin rugs, brown leather couch and chairs, heads of one of each of every living thing in the Park hanging from the walls. No humans that Kate could see, but then, it was a big place.

It didn't look all that lived in to her, but it fit him. He was a tall man with a lion's mane of white hair, carefully tended and swept back from a broad and deceptively benevolent brow. He looked like he was about to hand down stone tablets. He'd kept his figure, too, broad shoulders over a narrow waist, slim hips and long, lanky legs encased in faded stovepipe jeans, topped with a long-sleeved dark red plaid shirt over a white T-shirt. He had not yet reached an age to stoop, and his step was still swift and sure across the ground. His hands were enormous, dwarfing the large mug cradled in one palm, calloused, chapped, and scarred. His jaw protruded in a very firm chin, his lips were thin, his nose was high-bridged and thinner, and his eyes were dark and piercing. He fixed her with them now. "What can I do for you, Kate?" he said. "I'm guessing this isn't just a social call."

Since she liked social bullshit as little as he did, she greeted this opening with relief. "You'd guess right. It's about Dan O'Brian."

John had always been hard to read, his expression usually remote and unchanging, as if sometimes he wasn't really in the room when you were talking to him.

"What about him?"

"Did you hear they're trying to force him into early retirement?"

"No." He drank coffee. "I hadn't heard that."

"The administration is looking for a change of flavor in their rangers."

He picked up a cookie and examined it. "I can't say I disagree with them."

She smiled. "Come on, John," she said, relaxing back into her chair. "You've got things pretty good right now. You and Demetri are the sole big-game guides licensed to operate in the Park. Between the two of you, you constitute a monopoly. Dan's happy to keep it that way."

He didn't say anything.

Kate plowed on. "Plus, we know him, and he knows us. What if they start making noises about drilling in Iqaluk again?"

"Are they?

"They are in ANWR. I figure if they start punching holes there, they'll look to start punching them other places, too, and Iqaluk is one of the few places in the state that has already supported a profitable oil field."

"Fifty years ago."

"Still. They can make a case that there's more to find. What happens then? I'll tell you. They move in all their equipment, and they either find oil or they don't. If they don't, it's a temporary mess and we hope they don't screw up the migratory herds too much, and don't spill anything into the water that'll screw with the salmon. If they do, it's a permanent mess, requiring long-term remedial work. Who better to deal with either of these scenarios than the guy who's been on the ground for the last twenty years? The guy we know, and who knows us? Who actually listens to us when we tell him we need to cut back on escapement in the Kanuyaq because too many salmon are getting past the dip netters and it's messing with the spawning beds?"

He smiled, a slight expression, one that didn't stick around for long. "You're very eloquent."

Kate dunked a cookie in her coffee. "Thanks."

"What do you want me to do?"

She swallowed. "You host a lot of VTPs here, John, people with power, people with influence. As I recollect, the governor's been here a time or two. So have both senators and our lone representative. Not to mention half the legislature, and past governors going back to territorial days. Call them and ask them to put in a good word for Dan."

He didn't say anything. He was very good at it.

Kate wanted a commitment. "It's in your best interest to do so, John."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."

She looked at him, puzzled. "Why wouldn't it be?" She searched her mind for any Park legends involving a confrontation between the chief ranger and its biggest guiding outfit, and came up zip.

"It's personal," he said, dumbfounding her. He got to his feet. "That all you wanted? Because I was about to go out when you drove up."

She set down her mug, still half-full, and her cookie, only half-eaten, and got up. "Sure. Thanks for listening. You'll think about it?"

"I'll think about it."

Personal? she thought as she drove away. John Letourneau had something "personal" going on with Dan O'Brian?

She was pretty sure the earth had just shifted beneath her feet.

The Roadhouse, a big rectangular building with metal siding, a metal roof, and a satellite dish hanging off one corner, was packed right up to its exposed rafters, but then, it always was the day after Christmas. People came from all over the Park to show off their presents, drink away the fact that they hadn't received any, and generally recover from an overdose of family.

Dandy Mike was dancing cheek-to-cheek with some sweet young thing, but he winked at Kate as she threaded her way through the crowd. Bobby and Dinah held court in one corner, baby Katya on Bobby's lap, resplendent in a bright pink corduroy kuspuk trimmed with rickrack and wolverine, necessitating a brief deviation from Kate's course. Katya saw Kate coming, and as soon as Kate was within range, she gathered her chubby little legs beneath her and executed a flying leap that landed her on Kate's chest.

"Oof!" Kate almost went down under the onslaught.

"Shugak!" Bobby bellowed. "Good ta see ya. Sit down and have a snort!"

Kate exchanged sloppy kisses with Katya and exchanged a grin with the ethereal blonde who was her mother. "Hey, Dinah."

"Hey, Kate."

An unknown blonde with melting blue eyes and a figure newspaper editors used to call "well nourished" came over, inspecting Kate with a quizzical eye. "What can I bring you?"

"You know Christie Turner, Kate?"

Aha, Kate thought. "We haven't met, but I've heard tell."

Christie cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

Kate grinned. "I was just up to the Step."

Christie ducked her head and appeared, in the dim light, to blush. A shy smile trembled at the corners of her mouth. "Oh." That was almost textbook, Kate thought, watching, but then Christie rallied to her duty. "Can I get you a drink?"

The Park was like a desert in midwinter—it sucked every drop of moisture out of the body, caused lips to crack, hangnails to sprout, and an unquenchable thirst for anything in liquid form. "Club soda with a wedge of lime would be good. One of the big glasses."

Ben E. King came on the jukebox. "You've got baby duty," Bobby told Kate, and snatched Dinah's hand and rolled his wheelchair out onto the dance floor.

"Da-deee! Da-deee!"

"You'll have to get taller first," Kate told her.

Mandy and Chick were jitterbugging. Old Sam was watching a game on television and doing the play-by-play, since the sound was turned down. "Where's the defense? Where the hell is the defense? Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, just give him the ball why don'tcha and tie a bow on it while you're at it!" The First Nazarene congregation, consisting of three parishioners and one minister, was holding a prayer meeting in one corner. A group of Monopoly players huddled around one table, with no attention to spare for anything but buying property, acquiring houses, and collecting rent, not even for Sally Forrest and Gene Mayo, who were all but having sex on the table next door.