Bad Blood by Dana Stabenow Page A

no utility lines. The spaces between the cabins were filled with lean-tos and drying racks displaying filets of salmon hung on split tails, exposed flesh glowing like faceted carnelian. It was the most colorful thing in the drab little village.
    Barring the small prefab school, standing on pilings at one end of the village, doors and windows covered with sheets of plywood, there were no public buildings, and no commercial buildings, either. In Kushtaka if you wanted five pounds of flour, you got in your skiff and went down the Gruening and then up the Kanuyaq to Niniltna, or downriver and west on Prince William Sound to Cordova. More like, you waited until the fall Costco run to Ahtna.
    The Kuskulana store was not an option, not if you lived in Kushtaka.
    A very few kids of widely varying ages and heights were shooting free throws through a netless hoop nailed to a wall of the school, on a basketball court consisting of faded lines painted on cracked pavement. A yellowing lace curtain moved but when Jim looked, it had already fallen back over the window.
    An old man sat on a straight-backed chair leaned up against the wall of another cabin, smoking. Jim walked over to him. “Uncle.”
    The old man exhaled and narrowed his eyes against the smoke.
    “I’m Sergeant Jim Chopin of the Alaska State Troopers,” Jim said, pulling off his ball cap. “I helped Pat with Tyler’s body. I’m very sorry for the trouble that has come to your village.”
    The surest way to get people to clam up on you in the traditional villages was to ask questions. Jim didn’t say anything more, just stood where he was, hat in hand, nose into the breeze coming up the river. It brought with it a mixed aroma of diesel exhaust, woodsmoke, and decaying salmon. A dog barked and a gray-striped cat, hair sticking straight out all over its body, galloped around a cabin and disappeared into the grass. A family of goldeneyes made a strafing run over the rooftops and landed somewhere out of sight, setting up a furious quacking. An eagle soaring above provided the reason. From inside the cabin, Jim heard the muted sound of a radio and what might have been Bobby Clark’s voice. Park Air was probably the only contact Kushtaka had with the outside world.
    After a while, the old man got up, knees popping, and hobbled into the cabin. Presently he came out carrying another chair and two boat mugs by a finger hooked through their handles. Jim sat in the chair and accepted the mug. “Thank you, Uncle.” Manners were manners, and Jim was experienced enough not to mistake mandatory Bush hospitality for an offer of friendship. It would not do to presume.
    They drank. The coffee tasted like it had first been brewed during the Kennedy administration, with more grounds and water added every morning ever since. Jim could feel the old man’s attention, and took another big gulp, suppressing the resulting gag reflex without so much as a single betraying quiver. Not for nothing did they call Alaska State Troopers the toughest of frontier lawmakers.
    After a while, a younger man came out of the house opposite and started doing something to the Honda four-wheeler parked outside, which looked like it needed the encouragement. They watched him in silence. Ten minutes later, he got on the ATV and pushed the starter. With reluctance, the four-wheeler allowed itself to be coaxed into life. The man revved it a few times and turned it off. He wiped his hands on a rag and seemed to notice the two of them for the first time. He walked across the road. “Uncle.”
    The old man nodded. Maybe he was mute.
    The younger man looked at Jim.
    “I’m—”
    “I know who you are,” the younger man said. “I’m Dale Mack. I’m the chief here.”
    If Jim stood up, he would tower over the other man. But if he didn’t stand up, it could be regarded as a sign of disrespect not only of the chief but of his entire tribe as well. He put down his mug and stood up. “Any relation to