Shaman Pass by Stan Jones Page A

Active. “Can I help you, officers?”
    “Why don’t you send the boys and Mrs. Bass inside and we can talk out here a little bit,” Active said.
    Bass shot a glance over his shoulder. “Billy, Gene, you take the rabbits on in so your mom can clean ’em. Lena, you keep everybody in the house for a while.”
    One of the boys grabbed a bulging gunnysack from the sled and disappeared into the cabin with his mother and brother.
    Active and Long introduced themselves, then Active showed Bass the amulet. “Would you mind telling us where you got this?”
    Bass peered at the charm, and shook his head. “It’s not mine. I never seen it before.”
    Active gave a small, calibrated sigh and stared at Bass, waiting.
    “Sorry I can’t help you.” Bass shrugged.
    “Your son says you gave it to him yesterday afternoon. Would he lie about that?”
    “I nev—wait a minute, let me take another look.” Bass made a show of inspecting the amulet, then slapped himself on the side of the head with a mittened hand. “I musta been out ’n the cold too long. Come to think of it, I did give it to Lemuel. It’s an old heirloom from my wife’s family. She gave it to me when we first got married. Supposed to keep me safe on the trail, I guess, and it’s worked pretty good all these years. So I just kinda decided it was time to pass it on to Lemuel.”
    Active shook his head. “Your wife told us she never saw it before. Would she lie about that?”
    “Well, I thought it was her give it to me. I was dating a lot of those pretty Chukchi girls before I got married. Maybe it was one of them.”
    Long had eased around behind Bass during the conversation. Now he crowded up against Bass’s shoulder and spoke loudly into his ear, almost shouting. “You’re rapidly testing positive for bullshit here, Johnny.”
    Bass jumped and Active glanced at Long with a sneaking sense of admiration. Had he gotten the line from some video or cop show, or could it possibly be an original?
    “Where were you night before last, Mr. Bass?” Active asked.
    “I ain’t answering no more questions,” Bass said. “I want a lawyer.”
    “Then you’re coming with us,” Active said.
    Long stepped behind Bass and handcuffed him as Active began the litany: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”

    AT FIRST glance, Gail Boxrud looked as out of place in Chukchi as a palm tree or beach umbrella would have. Light gray eyes, fair skin, square, businesslike face, sandy hair done up in braids like a Swiss milkmaid.
    Once you got away from the face, though, the public defender started to fit in. Red plaid shirt, Carhartt jeans, Sorels, a Carhartt jacket, a beaver hat with earflaps.
    Just now, Boxrud was suffering a classic attack of public defender apoplexy in the office of Charlie Hughes, Chukchi’s district attorney.
    “Murder?” Boxrud said. “Don’t be ridiculous! So he’s out on the trail and he finds the amulet from your museum burglary. So what? That doesn’t tie him to Victor Solomon’s death.”
    Hughes smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in what Active suspected was appreciation of Boxrud’s performance. On the other hand, Hughes’s eyes always twinkled.
    “Is that Johnny’s story now?” Hughes turned to Active. “What is this, Nathan, version four, version five, what?
    “In that ballpark,” Active said.
    “Counselor, it is a fact,” the district attorney said, “that your client has been lying to us from the moment he opened his mouth. It’s also a fact that the harpoon used to kill Victor Solomon was taken in the same burglary with the amulet. I’d say he’s tied to the murder. Nathan?”
    Active nodded with a grin matching that of Hughes. He grinned partly so that their side would present a unified front to Boxrud, and partly because he was happy to be working the case from a nice warm office for a change, not out on the ice in the wind.
    “So your theory is,