Broken Angels by

Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Alatna Work
Published: 2015-06-09T04:00:00+00:00

The sun had set when she got back in the Subaru, but the light was still a dusty gray. It was probably between one and two p.m.. She ripped the bag of chips open with her teeth while she drove back up Cushman. She followed the tanner’s directions and found Willy’s stuck between a tire store and a machine shop. She parked in front and pushed her way through the door, unzipping her parka as she entered. Miller clock, moose rack, dead TV, a pool table, a few tables and chairs; she’d never been here before, but she’d been in a lot of bars like it. It was empty; not even anyone behind the bar. She lifted herself on top of one of the stools and looked through a line of whiskey bottles at her face reflected in the mirror wall behind them.

A door at the back of the room opened and a scrawny man came out holding a pad and pencil.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was doing my ordering. What can I get you?” he asked, walking behind the bar and pushing up his sleeves.

“I’m looking for Jake Ash. I was told I could find him here.”

“He does his drinking here. But not till after eight or nine.”

Kris glanced up at the Miller clock. A little after two.

“How about Ezekiel Damon? Does he come by?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back around eight.”

Kris zipped up the parka outside the bar, zipping in cold air. She flinched at its bite but left her hood down and lit a cigarette, smoking it squeezed between her lips, her hands balled in her pockets. This was the Fairbanks she remembered. Gray twilight trapping the city’s lights, dirty snow pushed against the sides of buildings, roads cracked and warped, cars and trucks pounding up and down them, banging into the potholes and over black bumps of ice, spewing huge clouds of exhaust that hung in the air until another vehicle plowed through them shredding them into cold, visible whirls.

No one turned to look at her.

__________

“No. I’m working.”

“I’ll come up then.”

The line was quiet.

“OK,” Justin said without enthusiasm. “Let me see if the conference room is available.”

The State’s hold music jangled in Barrett’s ear. A minute later, Justin came back on and said, flatly, “It’s free.”

“I’m on my way.” Barrett hung up. He stuck a notebook into his blazer pocket and grabbed his raincoat and hat on his way out of his office. Justin had sounded guarded, even a little belligerent. Good signs. He’s hiding something, and he’s scared.

Barrett stepped into the rain and cut across the small parking lot on the channel side of the station, kicking through the gray-white slop the rain had made of Monday’s snow. It had started last night and already the snow line on the mountainsides had retreated up to eight-hundred feet or so. He leapt over a puddle of rainwater backed up over a storm sewer clogged by mushy snow washing down Main Street. Rain spattered against his hat and shoulders as he walked up the hill.

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