Free Whisper to the Blood by Dana Stabenow

with him, he'd have Kate on his side.
    And Greenbaugh had been so very interested, and not in a bad way, either.
He'd bought Johnny a huge and sorely needed meal in a diner at a truck stop in
Idaho
and between
mouthfuls of chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes and gravy he'd urged
Johnny to keep talking. He'd listened uncomplaining to Johnny talking about his
dad and had laughed at all the best stories and sympathized in all the right
places. He'd come across as good-hearted, with an occasional flash of temper
that faded as quickly as it sparked. He hadn't much education but he was sharp
enough to own his own rig, which was admirable, even if he had lost it in the
end.
    No, not a bosom buddy, but someone to whom Johnny owed a debt of gratitude,
so instead of turning right for the road to home he turned left and went out to
Bernie's, a fifty-mile trip that had his nose bright red and his cheeks numb by
the end of it. A helmet with a face shield would have cut down on the frostbite
but nobody ever wore a helmet in the Bush.
    The Roadhouse parking lot was crowded but it was easy enough to find a spot
for the snowmobile. He went up the steps and opened the door. Inside, the belly
dancers-one in full diaphanous regalia, one in bra and blue jeans, and a third
in what looked like an Indian sari-beat on tambourines and clanged on finger
cymbals and shook their hips at an adoring crowd consisting of the four
Grosdidier brothers and Martin Shugak and a couple other guys he didn't
recognize. Johnny watched the dancers himself for a few minutes, just to make
sure they had the steps down. He wondered if Van had ever wanted to learn to
belly dance.
    Old Sam Dementieff and the usual crowd of old farts sat around a table
watching football on ESPN on the enormous television hanging from another
corner. Leaning against the bar, Mac Devlin stood, red-faced and angry, holding
a bottle of beer. Someone else was sitting on the stool next to him, shoulders
hunched, but he had his back turned and Johnny couldn't tell who it was. At a
table in the back, Pastor Bill, his congregation a little smaller than in years
past, exhorted the righteous to be faithful, to which everyone replied with a
hearty "Amen!" and drinks were ordered all round, some of them not
sodas. It looked like the no alcohol in church rule had been waived, which once
the news got around might go far to increase the size of the congregation.
    In the center of the room stood Talia Macleod, who he recognized from the
lunchroom at school earlier that day. She was the focus of a group of Park rats
who stood in a circle facing her with a communal expression that made him feel
a little uncomfortable. Most of them were staring at her chest, currently
displayed in a soft turtleneck sweater the color of which matched her hair and
looked as inviting to the touch.
    "In the past year alone the price of gold has gone up eighty-one
percent," she said, although it sounded more like a purr, "silver a
hundred and twenty-three percent, and zinc a hundred and thirty-two
percent." She smiled at her admirers, and a collective quiver ran over the
group. "I've heard all the naysaying and the doom and gloom, but when has
Alaska
ever gone the way
of the South forty-eight when it comes to the economy? Whenever there is a
recession Outside, we get a boom."
    Howie Katelnikof, visiting with Auntie Edna and Auntie Balasha at their
corner table, scurried over to stand a step behind Macleod. "She's
right," he said, punctuating his words with a portentous nod.
    Everyone wasn't buying into it, though. "And whenever Outside gets a
boom, we go bust," Mac Devlin said loudly from the bar.
    Without looking around, Macleod said, "True, but with gold on the way
up to a thousand an ounce for the first time in history, even if we do get a
little bust it'll never fall back to what it was. Guys, I'm telling you, Global
Harvest is in it for the long haul. We won't be ripping out any railroad tracks
on our way out of the