23

Think we should have tried to find those men if they were buried?” Hope asked as they trudged back to the city.

Kane shook his head.

“What would we have dug them out with?” he asked. “Our hands?”

Hope nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, “and there’s no telling how unstable that hillside still is. We could have started another slide and gotten buried ourselves.”

Kane wondered if he was rehearsing his answer, in case some reporter asked him why he hadn’t played hero. Not that it mattered. They really had no way to be of assistance.

They walked along in silence for a while, each of them with his own thoughts. Kane was thinking about how good it was to have escaped the mixture of human stupidity, or malignity, and indifferent nature. When he reached a spot where his cell phone worked, Kane dialed emergency and reported the avalanche. He told the operator about where it was, and that he had seen two people on the hillside before the avalanche but not after. She took down the information, including his name and telephone number, and thanked him.

By the time the call was complete, the two men had reached the top of a long flight of stairs that took them past some houses to a street. The street led downhill some more, past the city cemetery, then up and around, past the governor’s mansion, a turn-of-the-twentieth-century structure complete with columns.

“So that’s where you want to live?” Kane asked.

Hope stopped and turned to look at the detective.

“Is that so unlikely?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t I want to be governor? Why shouldn’t a Native be in charge of the state that is so much more important to us than it is to most of you?”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Kane replied. “I think anybody who wants to be governor is an idiot, no matter what color he is. Politics makes no sense to me at all.”

Hope turned and started walking again.

“Politics is all we have,” he said, “the only way we have to shape what our state will become. It’s how we sort out our differences and find compromises. It’s how we try to decide who we will be as a people and what legacy we will pass on to those who come after us. It’s very damned important, and there’s no shame in wanting to use it for good ends.”

Kane shrugged.

“Everybody thinks their ends are good,” he said, “even when they are completely opposed to somebody else’s good ends. Take this civil unions bill of yours. Your side says that gays should be able to establish their relationships legally. Your opponents say recognition like that only helps them lose their souls to sin.”

“That’s just bigotry,” Hope said.

“Maybe,” Kane said, “but maybe the bigots don’t think so. They think they are protecting their own rights and trying to help those who have made a bad choice. And I don’t see how all the politics in the world will find an acceptable compromise between that position and yours.”

“Civil unions are a compromise,” Hope snapped, then walked awhile in silence. When he resumed, his voice was softer. “People have a lot of different ideas about gays, a lot of different ways to look at them. For myself, the way I look at them is as a group being discriminated against. I’m a Native in Alaska, so I know all about being discriminated against. I think discrimination is wrong, and that by allowing it against one group we encourage it against other groups. That’s why I’m trying to get the civil unions bill passed, to break people of the bad habit of discrimination.”

Kane nodded.

“Okay, fine, if that’s all there is to it,” he said. “But some people say you’re just using the issue to rally the troops for your run for governor.”

Hope laughed.

“Those people must think I’m truly stupid,” he said. “The people I’m supposedly rallying are already with me. In electoral terms, all I’m doing is rallying my opposition.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Kane asked.

They rounded a corner and the Capitol rose in front of them.

“I’m doing it,” Hope said as they crossed the street, “because it’s the right thing to do.”

They stopped in front of the building’s main doors. Hope mounted a couple of steps and turned.

“We’ve all become very cynical about politics,” he said, sweeping an arm in a gesture that seemed to take in the whole state. “We come down here and spend money and pass one bad bill after another, beating up on people who can’t fight back. But when it comes to standing up against the powerful, or trying to protect the weak, we look the other way. I’m done looking the other way. I’m going to do everything I can to give gays legal protection. I’m done looking the other way.”

Kane heard something in the other man’s voice that sounded like sincerity. Since setting foot in Juneau he’d heard and seen a lot about how the political machinery worked, and about the calculations of politicians with one eye on the main chance and the other on reelection. These were the first words he’d heard that were at all inspiring, and he found himself admiring the man who spoke them. For the first time, getting Matthew Hope out of a jam was more than just another job.

“Okay, then,” he said, “but watch yourself. A lot of people are working pretty hard to sideline you, if not put you away for murder. So be careful.”

Hope nodded at that, turned, and walked up the steps into the Capitol. Kane watched until he was out of sight, then continued toward the coffee shop.

Maybe that’s the attraction to politics, he thought, the chance to do something noble. When he’d been on the police force, he’d sometimes thought of his job that way, although he never dared say anything out loud. The other cops would have kidded him right off the force. But he knew that he yearned to be part of something bigger than himself, and lots of other people did, too. He could see that was at least part of the attraction of religion and of politics, and he supposed that’s why some people became parents, to make their mark on the world and join in the chain of family that reached backward into history and forward past their time on earth.

Religion doesn’t work for me, Kane thought. Maybe politics would. But the thought was quickly followed by doubt. Even if he decided to believe in Matthew Hope’s noble causes, there were plenty of people like Senator O. B. Potter, Governor Hiram Putnam, and even Chief of Police Tom Jeffords to make politics the soiled and unappealing process it had become. Institutions are no better than the people in them, he thought, and this cast of characters doesn’t inspire much confidence.

The coffee shop was full of hippie-looking young people working on laptop computers, playing guitars, or chattering away. He got a coffee and a big cookie and sat down at the only empty table. As he ate, he wondered what one of these youngsters would say if he asked them what claimed their allegiance. Most likely, none of them would have an answer. When you’re young, he thought, life spreads out in front of you like a long, long picnic. You’ve got your youth and your infinite possibilities. You don’t need anything bigger than that.

As he walked back to the hotel, he thought about what he needed to do next. Finding out about what Melinda Foxx had wanted to tell Hope might help. And learning whether Ralph Stansfield had been pushed. So talking with the people in Potter’s office seemed to be a good idea. And getting his hands on the rest of the autopsy. At least he had an idea about how to do that.

And then there was Dylan.

Sitting on his bed in the hotel, he looked through a little pocket legislative guide and tried Potter’s office. No answer. The same was true at Representative Duckett’s office.

I guess they knock off early for the weekend, he thought.

He didn’t have Dylan’s home number. He called Laurie to get it. No answer there, either.

If everybody had already scattered for the weekend, he wouldn’t be able to do much. But the last thing he wanted to do was waste a couple of days sitting around in a hotel room. He picked up the telephone directory, dialed the number for the troopers, and asked for Sam. The woman who answered the phone didn’t want to tell him anything, but he finally wheedled a cell phone number out of her. Sam answered on the first ring.

“It’s Nik Kane, Sam,” Kane said. “I’d like a look at Melinda Foxx’s autopsy report.” He listened. “That won’t cut it, Sam,” he said. “I know you’ve got it.” He paused. “You don’t need to know how I know. You just need to know that how you handle this request will affect whether I file a complaint against your partner.” Pause. “Now, Sam. Blackmail is such an ugly word.” Pause. “That’s up to you. I’ll meet you anywhere.” Pause. “Here? Sure.” He gave his room number, then: “Twenty minutes? See you then.”

Sam arrived with a briefcase and a sour expression.

“This is low, Nik,” he said, opening the briefcase. “When I walk out that door, we’re quits.”

“If that’s the way you want it, Sam,” Kane replied, “but I’m not the one who saddled you with a political investigation and a bad partner.”

Sam took a report from the briefcase and handed it to Kane.

“You’ve got to read it here,” the trooper said. “I’m not making any copies, and neither are you.”

Kane sat down at the table. He made a show of reading the front of the report. No sense letting Sam know he already had it. What the coroner found when he opened Melinda Foxx up was routine until he got to the last page. He read the pair of paragraphs closely, then whistled.

“Any idea who the father is?” he asked, looking at the trooper. Sam was standing stiffly with his back to the hotel room door. He hadn’t even taken off his coat.

“What you get is what’s there,” he said. “That’s the deal. Nothing more.”

Kane took out his notebook and made a few notes. Then he closed the report, got to his feet, and handed it back to Sam, who returned it to his briefcase and turned to go.

“If you’re smart, you’ll get Harry to retire,” Kane said to the trooper’s back. “He’s just an accident waiting to happen.”

“You should know all about that, Kane,” Sam said and went out the door.

Kane picked up his cell phone and punched in a number. After listening for a minute, he said, “Doyle? It’s Nik Kane. Call me back on my cell. I have something you’ll want to know.”

He broke the connection, looked at the legislative directory, and dialed Hope’s number. No answer. Probably just as well, he thought. I should talk to Doyle first.

Kane sat back down on the bed, propped some pillows behind his head, and stretched out. He tried thinking about the case, pushing the facts around in his head to see if they formed a pattern. But there were too many missing pieces. So he tried instead to think of a way to approach his son.

What was it that Montaigne wrote? Kane got off the bed to get the Frame translation that was never far from his hand. Here it was: “I would try by pleasant relations to foster in my children a lively and unfeigned affection and good will toward me, which is easily won in a wellborn nature…”

But when he lay down again to figure out just how to do that, he fell asleep instead.

The telephone brought him to. After all the walking, running, and stair climbing, his legs felt like a couple of sticks of wood. He had no idea of the time, although by the darkness it was late. Oil Can Doyle was talking a mile a minute, sounding like a gerbil on speed. Kane let him wind down and told him what the autopsy report said.

“Why, the minx,” Doyle squeaked. “Any indication of who the father was?”

“None,” Kane said, “although I think somebody had better ask our client about that. He was having secret meetings with her.”

“What do you mean?” Doyle said. “What secret meetings?”

So Kane told him about his conversation with Matthew Hope. When he finished, Doyle said, “Good work. Let me talk to Hope about this other thing. I’ve got to establish a better relationship with him somehow, and maybe this will help. I’ll call him and see what he says, and change my ticket to be back Sunday night. Maybe we should meet. In the bar there at the hotel?”

They set a time and Doyle hung up. Kane lay there for a minute, feeling hungry and slightly disoriented. He heaved himself to his feet, stripped, showered, and dressed again. His hand was on the doorknob when his phone rang again. It was Alma Atwood.

“I’ve got everything for a pretty good dinner,” she said, “if you aren’t busy.”

Kane didn’t have to think long about the offer.

“What can I bring?” he asked.

“Just yourself,” Alma said. “And maybe a toothbrush.”

“I’ll run right over,” Kane said. “I’ll be there in about thirty seconds.”

That brought a laugh from Alma.

“See you soon,” she said and broke the connection.

Kane put a few things in his coat pockets and took the elevator down to the lobby. He thought about calling Cocoa, then about all the guff he’d have to take when he revealed his destination. A cab was discharging passengers at the hotel, so he grabbed it instead.

“Where can I get flowers this time of night?” he asked.

The cabbie took him to a supermarket, where Kane picked up a couple of bunches of flowers. Then he gave Alma’s address. As they made the drive over to Douglas Island, he found himself smiling.

Careful, he thought. You can’t go around with your heart on your sleeve all the time.

Alma opened the door to his knock. She was wearing a big, white apron and had something that looked like flour on the end of her nose.

“You really did run over here, didn’t you?” she said.

He produced the flowers, and while she made appreciative noises, he looked over the little apartment. It was spotless, the table in the postage-stamp-sized eating area set for two.

They made small talk while Alma fussed with the flowers, emerging from the kitchen with the blooms arranged in a glass vase that she set in the center of the table. She told Kane to sit, returned to the kitchen, and came back with plates full of a fancy dinner: chicken cordon bleu, rice pilaf, baby asparagus, dinner rolls. They sat and ate, Alma talking almost nonstop about the situation in the Capitol.

“There’s a rumor that the oil tax increase will come to the floor soon,” she said, “although nobody knows why Potter would let it out of his committee.”

“What about the civil unions bill?” Kane asked around a mouthful of chicken.

“The word on that hasn’t changed,” she said. “Still stuck in Potter’s committee. And even if Senator Hope could pry it loose somehow, he’d still have to get it to the floor, get enough votes for passage, and shepherd it through the House. And even if he did all that, the governor would veto it. I’m afraid there just isn’t much chance.”

“If that’s true,” Kane said, “why are people trying to keep Hope away from the Capitol?”

Alma shrugged.

“It could be anything,” she said. “There are something like eight hundred bills, including some big spending bills, that are in play at the moment. But let’s not talk about business. It’s so depressing.”

Then she launched into a funny story about a fight that had erupted between two women at the legislative bowling league the week before, “over a man, of course.”

Kane found her liveliness refreshing. You’re spending way too much time in your head, he thought, and right now that’s a gloomy place to be.

They finished eating and he helped with the dishes. When they were done, she hung the towel neatly, turned, and put her arms around his neck. For a moment, Kane wasn’t sure what to do. Then he decided the hell with it and kissed her. The kiss led to another, and that led to other things. An hour later, they lay naked and pleasantly spent. Alma was pressed against him, one leg thrown over his body.

“That was great,” she said.

Kane felt a rush of satisfaction, then chuckled. Oh, vanity, thy name is man, he thought.

“You can cook dinner for me anytime,” he said.

They lay there for a while, then Alma stirred, got up, and went into the bathroom. When she returned, she said, “Can you stay?”

Kane smiled at her and said, “I can’t think of any reason I’d want to leave.”

So they dozed, awoke, and made love again, Kane marveling at how his aging body responded to her. Despite sharing a strange bed with a woman he didn’t know very well, he slept like a log. He awoke early to Alma’s touch and they spent a long time renewing their acquaintance with each other’s body before they lay still again.

“I’m sorry to have to say this,” Alma said after a while, “but I’ve got a busy day today and I’ve got to get going.”

Kane looked at the bedside clock. It read 6 a.m. Odd for her to be in such a rush on a Saturday, but he didn’t object. He wanted to get some distance, too, to examine his feelings. So he arose, put on his clothes, and brushed his teeth with the toothbrush she’d advised him to bring along. As he was putting on his shoes, Alma emerged wearing a flannel bathrobe. Without makeup, she looked her years and maybe a few more.

I’m a fine one to be making judgments, Kane thought. I probably look like Methuselah’s dad.

When he stood up, Alma walked over and kissed him.

“I had a wonderful time,” she said.

“Me, too,” Kane said.

“Will I see you again?” she asked.

“You can count on it,” he said.

Alma laughed.

“Then you won’t mind if I ask you to take out the garbage,” she said. She went into the kitchen, rustled the bag around, and handed it to Kane.

“The garbage cans are at the end of the driveway, around the other side of the house,” she said.

“Will do,” Kane said.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” Alma asked.

“You’re a cab,” they said in unison, then laughed more than the old joke warranted.

“No, thanks,” Kane said. “I’m going to walk for a while, then I’ll call one on my cell.”

They kissed again and Kane left, carrying the garbage bag in his hand. A crunching noise came from the bag, so he felt the outside. Some of the contents seemed to be take-out boxes.

I guess she’s not a gourmet cook after all, Kane thought.

He found the garbage cans sitting next to a wooden shed. A screen of bushes hid them from the road. He deposited the bag and turned to walk away.

The blond man stepped out from behind the shed, put a stun gun against Kane’s neck, and sent 300,000 volts rampaging through his body.