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  He imagined Uncle Pat coming to him for a loan for a new kicker or a new shotgun, and smiled to himself. Of course he would give him the money. Of course he would. He only hoped the old man would stroke out trying to say thank you.

  Two miles above Kushtaka village, the river had carved a wide loop in the face of the landscape. Cottonwood grew in clumps on the curve, thick trunks covered with coarse bark looming thirty feet over the alder and diamond willow jostling for place below. The soft wood of the cottonwood tree made it prone to snap off in high winds. Cottonwood scrags formed bridges for the alder and willow to lean on and trail leafy fingers in the water beneath. Together they cast welcome shadows over the gravel shallows for weary salmon returning home to spawn.

  The Mack family had had a fish wheel just below that gravel bar since 1901, when a stampeder, one Joshua Malachi Smith, had struck out panning for gold and got lost on his way to Valdez for a boat home. Daniel Mack found him trying to catch salmon with his bare hands, and the Kushtakans took him in before he starved to death or died of exposure, whichever came first. In return, he taught them how to build a fish wheel, a series of buckets on a wheel caused by the current of the river to rotate on an axle. The buckets scooped up the fish on their way upriver and dumped them into a chute that led to a holding pen. When the salmon were running, the holding pen had to be emptied two and three times a day. During a good run, sometimes more.

  The first fish wheel was made of woven willow, which did not stand up well to a current made swift and strong by runoff from a winter’s worth of snow, and had to be rebuilt every spring. Today, the Mack fish wheel was made of stainless steel and mesh, held together with nuts and bolts. It was indestructible as well as portable, designed to be removed from the water at the end of each season and rebuilt at the edge of the river again every spring.

  A fat red jumped on Tyler’s left, falling back against the water with a rich, full smack! The sun peeped over the Quilaks just in time to turn the resulting flash of droplets into liquid diamonds, suspending them momentarily in midair before they fell back into the river, itself a moving, jeweled surface pregnant with mystery and treasure.

  None of which did Tyler take any notice of, and this in a year in which king salmon were scarce and cloudy, rainy days plentiful.

  What he did see as he nosed the skiff into the bank next to the fish wheel, was Jennifer Mack in a skiff on the other side of the river. The wrong side of the river, which is what you might expect from a girl, who had no business anywhere near a fish wheel anyway.

  He opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing—maybe he could blackmail her into working the wheel today while he was at it—when he caught sight of a second figure, a man standing in the alders at the foot of the set of stairs leading down to the gravel bar that served as Kuskulana’s landing. The man stepped forward to catch the bowline she threw and hitched it to a tree branch.

  It was Ryan Christianson, and the outraged yell died in the back of Tyler’s throat, unuttered.

  Pat Mack’s outboard was so quiet that neither of them heard or saw Tyler, or maybe they were just too concentrated on each other to be aware of anything else. They vanished into the undergrowth as if they’d never been there. He would have doubted his own eyes were it not for the skiff, the name, Jennifer M., painted plainly across the stern for all to see. Or rather, her father’s skiff. Even without the name, Tyler would have recognized that elderly New England dory with the blue paint fading to white anywhere between here and Cordova.

  He realized his own skiff was drifting out from shore and he gunned the outboard to nose it back in. The aluminum hull grated against the gravel and he hopped out and tugged it up out of the water close to the fish wheel, all the while his mind busy with speculation. What was his cousin, Jennifer, a Kushtaka Mack, doing meeting Ryan, a Kuskulana Christianson? And at this hour of the morning?

  He pulled on rough rubber gloves that reached well past his elbows and hooked the suspenders of his hip waders over his shoulders. The water next to the fish wheel’s bin was teeming with salmon, and he didn’t even sigh at the sight.

  Give him credit, he tried to be fair. He tried to think of all the reasons why Jennifer would be meeting Ryan on the wrong side of the river this early in the morning, and in the end could only come up with the obvious. If there had been any doubt, it would have been wiped clean by the way Jen’s hand went into Ryan’s—sure, easy, familiar. She’d put the boat in at his feet and he’d been standing in exactly the right spot to catch her bowline, too. It wasn’t the first time they’d met there.

  Tyler’s eyes narrowed. So, he knew something he hadn’t before. What was in it for him?

  He’d have to talk it over with Boris. Boris always had all the best ideas.

  He waded into the water and plunged his hands into the holding pen, grabbing the salmon by the gills and tossing them with a practiced throw so they thumped hard into the plastic tote sitting amidships of his uncle’s skiff. He was good at it, because he hated it so much, he’d figured out the most economical way to get the job done as fast as possible. It was a good catch, maybe twenty-five reds weighing an average of eight pounds, and still pretty fat for having traveled all this way upstream.

  He was so focused on getting the salmon out of the pen and into the tote that he didn’t even hear the boots crunching into the gravel behind him.

  * * *

  Pat Mack was, indeed, eleven hundred years old, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, and when that worthless grandnephew of his hadn’t shown up by four o’clock that afternoon, he went grumbling down to the beach and climbed into Tyler’s tiny, trash-filled skiff, having sent Tyler upriver in Pat’s own skiff because it was big enough hold a fish tote. The kicker, new when Eisenhower was invading Normandy, took a dozen tries before it caught and with a sound like a chain saw giving birth ripped a shrieking hole in the serenity of the afternoon. Tyler probably hadn’t changed the oil since spring. Useless little fucker.

  He pushed the kicker as hard as she’d go, which amounted to about half a knot per year. The sun had traveled to the other side of the sky and was making its usual empty threat to set by the time he got to the fish wheel. His mood, already bad, didn’t improve when he saw that the fish wheel was jammed, the current battering it and rattling the above-water baskets in their brackets.

  “Goddamn good-for-nothing little shit,” he said, and beached the skiff.

  His own skiff was there, drawn up on the gravel next to the fish wheel, tied off to a scrub spruce growing out of the edge of the bank.

  Tyler wasn’t, which only fueled his ire.

  The tote held at least a dozen fish, red salmon, almost a hundred pounds of fish. Pat’s temper spiked when he saw that they were all dead and had been sitting in the sun without ice. He poked at them. All day, by the look of them. It’d been a warm one, and they were starting to smell.

  “Tyler, you useless little fucker, you’ll be lucky if you’re able to walk ever again when I get done with you!”

  His bellow echoed across the water and startled a flock of pintail into the air. There was a rustle in the bushes across the river and he snapped his head around, one hand reached for his rifle. This time of year there was enough fish for everyone, but bears were not reasonable creatures.

  It wasn’t a bear; it was a man, ducking back into the alders behind the Kuskulana landing on the other side of the river. Pat squinted. Some Kuskulaner, most likely a Christianson, since most Kuskulaners were Christiansons, with a few Estes and Halvorsens and last he heard still one lone Romanoff thrown in. Might have been Roger’s son. They all looked alike to Pat anyway. Although he had heard tell of a couple of new families totally unrelated to the existing population moving in. Which wasn’t surprising. Kuskulana had everything Kushtaka did not and a functional airport besides, so you could get the hell outta town when you had to.

  He saw them at their landing on the other side or driving by in a skiff from time to time. S
ometimes they waved. Sometimes he waved back. Sometimes he even said hi. The longtime rivalry and resentment between the two villages was a lot of damn foolishness anyway, although he’d never be able to convince his nephew, Dale, of that. Or any of the other Kushtaka men, for that matter, young or old.

  Sometimes Pat Mack thought of moving out of Kushtaka himself, by god, to Niniltna, maybe, or Ahtna, or all the way Outside. The Macks had family, albeit distant, in rural Oregon. Probably didn’t snow as much there, and if there were family feuds, well, he didn’t have to opt in to them. In the Park, birth, community, and history forced him down on the Kushtaka side of the fence whether it was the right side or not.

  He stamped over to the fish wheel and looked into the holding pen. Still some fish in it, although not many. And where was that useless little fucker, Tyler? Nowhere to be found, as usual.

  Muttering curses, Pat pulled on hip waders, sleeve protectors, and rubber gloves and waded in. The current wasn’t as swift near the bank as it was center stream, but it had rained hard last week and the water was running high and dirty, so that he couldn’t see beneath the surface. It was plenty fast enough to pull at his legs, which were not so young or so reliable beneath him as they used to be, and it was cold enough to instantly chill his flesh through multiple layers of protection. He took a minute to get and keep his balance, leaned against the current, and bent to run his hand along the curved edge of the wheel.

  Two of the baskets were submerged, one partially, the other entirely. The partially submerged basket was clear of debris, although an eight-pound red that would have looked a lot better in the tote swam out and away as he was feeling around. The second basket was wedged firm.

  “What the hell?”

  There was something long and rigid thrust through the basket and into the riverbed, a branch or something. Probably a limb broken off a scrag. Although it felt awful solid and inflexible. It sure was stuck, good and hard. The current must have brought it downriver at a fast enough lick that it had somehow jammed itself through the open mesh of the basket and become wedged into the river bottom, bringing the entire fish wheel to a halt.

  He heard the sound of an outboard engine and looked up to see a Kuskulaner idling by in his skiff, watching him with a curious look on his face. He looked back down and wrapped his hands around the branch and tugged. It didn’t move. He wasn’t altogether sure he had enough upper-body strength left to make it move, but Pat Mack never lacked for stubborn. He set his jaw, squared his shoulders, dug his heels more surely into the gravel, and tugged harder.

  It came free with a whoosh of water. He dropped it and staggered back up the beach, sitting down hard half in and half out of the water, looking at what was in his hand. “How the hell—?”

  The current pulled at the wheel. The freed basket scraped across the gravel, still not moving normally.

  “Well, shit,” Pat said, and pulled himself to his feet.

  And then stood there, openmouthed, as the basket lifted free of the water to reveal the body of Tyler Mack crumbled inside it.

  Three

  TUESDAY, JULY 10, LATE EVENING

  Kushtaka

  The old man was sitting in his skiff, his back to the fish wheel, puffing methodically through a pack of unfiltered Camels.

  Jim picked up his evidence kit in one hand and used his other to vault over the side of Roger Christianson’s skiff. His boots crunched when they landed in the gavel.

  “Pat,” he said.

  “Got here quicker’n I thought,” the old man said, lighting another Camel off the end of the last one.

  “Chuck’s call caught me at the post,” Jim said.

  The old man drew in hard on his cigarette. “That’d be Chuck Christianson, going by in his skiff? Yeah, I saw he had his cell phone out.”

  Chuck had, in fact, snapped a picture of Tyler Mack in the basket of the fish wheel and texted it to Jim, but Jim thought it tactless to mention that. “Anyway,” he said, “I went straight up the hill, fired up the Cessna and flew to Kuskulana. Roger here was waiting on the strip. He brought me over.”

  The old man puffed out a cloud of smoke and peered through it. “Appreciate it, Roger.”

  Roger Christianson, staring with a sort of sick fascination at the body suspended in the fish wheel bucket above the swift-moving river, made a visible effort to pull himself together and said, “Glad I could be of help, Pat.” And then, as if the words were wrenched out of him, “I’m sorry as hell about this.”

  “Yeah,” Pat said.

  Which exchange sort of surprised Jim, because until that moment, he would have taken bets on neither man knowing the other’s name, let alone admitting to it out loud.

  The body was mostly inside the basket, knees bent, arms tucked in, sightless eyes wide open and staring at the water hurrying swiftly south below it. The basket rocked a little, the river’s current hitting the baskets still in the water. Jim spotted the line attached to the stump of a birch, holding the wheel steady against the push of the water.

  Pat saw him looking. “Tied it off when I got here. Figured you’d want to see him as I found him.”

  Jim nodded. Everybody knew about CSI, even Kushtakans.

  Water dripped from the body, making tiny circles on the silver surface of the river that quickly disappeared downstream.

  Still in his skiff, Roger swallowed audibly. “That’s really Tyler?” He was having the usual difficulty reconciling the sodden corpse with the living man.

  The old man nodded, still without turning around. “That’s him. Useless little fucker.”

  Shocked, Roger looked at Jim, who was making a bit of a production of getting out his iPhone and turning on the camera.

  “Couldn’t never get him to come up here, and then when I finally threaten him into it, stupid bastard falls headfirst in and drowns.” Pat inhaled, his cigarette burning down to his fingers. He lit another from the butt and flicked the butt over the side. A boil of water nearby indicated momentary interest on the part of something large with fins. Involuntarily, Pat thought of his dip net, Roger thought of his rod and reel, and Jim thought of Kate and the smoker she’d built from an old refrigerator out back of the house.

  “Roger,” Jim said, “could I ask you to stick around a little while longer? I’m going to take some photographs, and then I’m afraid I’m going to need some help getting Tyler out of that basket.”

  Roger swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from the body. “Sure, Jim. Whatever you need.”

  If he had cause to regret the offer, he didn’t say so, even as he stood shivering uncontrollably on the river’s edge. Like Jim, his hands were bruised and numb, and he was so cold, he thought he might break if he bumped against the side of his skiff one more time. There was no help from the sun, which by now was well behind the trees that lined the bank. Roger had spent his life manhandling gear into his gillnetter and salmon out of the gear, twelve- and twenty-four- and sometimes thirty-six-hour periods at a time, but none of it was any comparison to trying to get 130 pounds of previously healthy man out of a fish wheel bucket. It had taken a couple of tries, him on Pat’s belaying line and Jim maneuvering the bucket to get it to a level where they could reach it from the skiff, which they had tied off to the fish wheel frame, and doing all this with the river pushing against them the whole time. It wasn’t the steadiest platform from which to operate. Rigor had set in on the body, which made things even more awkward.

  Pat didn’t offer to help, but he didn’t go anywhere, either. He sat in his skiff and watched them, his leathery, seamed face set, his eyes narrowed against the smoke from the Camels. A collection of ravens, crows, and magpies had gathered in the nearby treetops, not saying much, like Pat watchful, and waiting.

  By the time they got Tyler’s body out of the basket, Roger’s skiff was nearly swamped and both Roger and Jim were soaking wet. They put the body on the beach so they could tip the water out of the skiff. While Roger, teeth chattering, bailed out the rest, Jim squatted over
the contorted body to see what he could see. His hands were almost too cold to tap the button on the camera app.

  The limbs were frozen in place, elbows bent, knees up, head bent far back, and unresponsive to pressure. Time of death was going to be a bitch, given the temperature of the river water, which rose in the Quilak Mountains and consisted for the most part of snow and glacier melt. The mesh of the basket had imprinted itself on Tyler’s forehead.

  In his pockets, Tyler had a cell phone that would not turn on—no surprise there—and a thick wad of twenties and fifties. That was all. Jim bagged them both and took a lot of photographs.

  He stood up, stretching himself back into shape and trying not to groan out loud. His uniform was clammy against his skin. “What time did you say he came out here, Pat?”

  Hiss of burning cigarette paper. “I booted his sorry ass out of bed at six A.M. He was on the river fifteen minutes later.”

  Jim rose to his feet and walked over to look into the square plastic tote in the aluminum skiff. It held about a dozen dead salmon. They had been there for long enough to begin to smell.

  “You ever do any canning or smoking here on-site?” he said.

  Pat Mack thought it over and decided it wasn’t a trick question. “Sometimes.”

  “This year?”

  The old man drew smoke deep into his lungs. “Don’t think so. I haven’t, anyway.”

  Jim looked into the pen attached to the fish wheel, again revolving with the passing river. The pen held more salmon, perhaps another dozen, these alive and well and whapping each other in the nose with their tails. Reds mostly, along with a few early silvers.

  He looked up to find the old man watching him, the red glow of his cigarette the only warm thing on the river that evening. “How long would it take him to pick this many fish out of the pen and toss them into the skiff?”

  Pat expelled a cloud of smoke with a snort. “Woulda took me about five minutes. With Tyler checking his text messages every thirty seconds, probably take him an hour.”