Malinche. “I was a friend. I hadn’t known him long, but yes, I was a friend. What happened?”
“An accident, they say.” The woman’s lips curled in disbelief. “He was out in his kayak, hunting seal, I suppose. Although he didn’t tell anyone he was going. He got caught between two ice floes and was crushed to death.”
“Did anyone see it happen?”
“No. And he was the best hunter in the village. Not foolhardy, either.”
“Did he usually go out alone?”
The woman hesitated. “Sometimes. I’d have thought he would let someone know, though.”
She moved to put her arms around another woman who was crying noisily, and the two moved toward the retreating villagers. Malinche glanced up at Brian. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s strange that he’d be out looking for seal at this time of year—and just when he agreed to meet you,” he said slowly. “And it’s odd that an experienced hunter would get caught between two ice floes—although I suppose it could happen.”
“Especially,” Malinche said softly, “if he happened to be dead before he got crushed.”
In the circle of Brian’s arm, Malinche scanned the faces around them. Grieving faces, angry faces, good simple faces of good simple people. Was there someone hiding in that crowd who was evil? A murderer?
She shivered and pressed closer to Brian; he seemed an anchor in a tossing sea. It was chilling to think that if there was a murderer in that crowd, he knew them, and might have them next on his list.
Chapter Nine
Malinche and Brian stood apart from the villagers. They were outsiders, two people who had come upon a tragic moment in the lives of these people. To Malinche and Brian, Charlie had been a means to an end. To his friends, his relatives, he had been an integral part of their lives.
One of the men rushed to an old and weathered shed sitting alone on the shore, decrepit but still standing. He pushed in a door, allowing a glimpse of kayaks and oil barrels thrown haphazardly about, and emerged pulling a worn sled. Brian guessed the shelter was used for old and abandoned equipment
Pulling the sled, the man approached the body which still sprawled on the tundra. A woman took off her fur parka and spread it on the sled. Four men lifted the body gently and reverently and placed it on the sled on top of the fur. Someone else covered it, and everyone gazed silently at the still form.
An elderly man spoke in a language Brian didn’t understand. His comments provoked a protest from a woman and two men, and the conversation became general. The group, men and women, formed a small, constantly changing knot around the sled, oblivious to the outsiders. Several were gesticulating forcefully, others raising their voices in heated argument. A discussion was going on, and apparently everyone was not in agreement.
“What are they talking about?” Malinche whispered.
“You got me. There seems to be a disagreement about Charlie.” Brian shifted his stance, instinctively aligning his body to shelter Malinche from the wind. The damned, never-ending wind. There were times when even he, as much as he loved the northland, tired of the fierceness of the arctic weather.
But the wind had its compensations. Malinche stood with her back to Brian’s chest, pressing closely into his embrace. He tightened his arms around her waist, and lowered his head to take in the crisp, clean smell of her hair. Then he raised the hood of her jacket and tucked it warmly around her face, feeling a fierce protectiveness. How had she become so necessary to him in such a short time?
A cold foreboding gripped him, as he felt the imprint of her body against his chest, his belly, his thighs. Her soft buttocks pressed against the hardness of his body, setting off spasms of response. She was a lightning rod for trouble; could he keep her safe until he got her back to her home?
Even through layers of clothing he sensed her vitality, her pure animal aliveness. Desire shot through him like a beam of incandescent light, and he tightened his grip convulsively, even as his unease grew. He had to keep his head, not give in to the delicious undercurrent of desire. This wasn’t the time to even think about it. He could shelter Malinche from the wind, but how could he protect her from the danger that was getting closer all the time?
“What do you think?” She turned her head just enough to whisper against his ear, her breath warm against the chill of his flesh. “Was this really an accident?”
He realized that she was seeking reassurance that the world wasn’t as chaotic as she feared it to be.
Brian temporized. “It seems strange to me, but I suppose it could happen.”
“The police can find out for sure, can’t they, when they examine the body?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “if they examine the body.”
“But why wouldn’t they?” She moved away abruptly and gazed up into his face.
“Unless they know what’s been going on, there is no reason to think it anything but an accident. Men are killed in the breaking ice every year. We are the only ones who knew Charlie was going to meet you and talk about Dimitri—and the official line is still that Dimitri’s death was accidental.”
“But we can tell them he was going to meet me—”
“I’m not sure that would be wise. They haven’t listened to us up to now, have they? All they’ve been doing is trying to cover things up. And I have enough confidence in the police to believe that if they are covering something up they are under considerable pressure to do so from someone pretty high up. And anyone with that much clout isn’t going to let them do much to discover what really happened here.”
She stuck out her chin in that stubborn gesture he was beginning to know and dread. It meant more trouble for him.
“There must be something we can do to find out for sure,” she said. “He might have talked to someone here. If we could ask around—”
Gently, he turned her again until she fit into the curve of his body, tightened his grip, and rested his chin on the top of her head. She felt so natural in his arms. “I’m not sure we should do that. Asking around seems to be dangerous for the people we ask.”
The Natives seemed to have made a decision. With its macabre load, they pulled the sled in the direction of the village. The knot of Natives broke up, straggling away by twos and threes. Most followed toward the village half a mile away.
They had nothing to say to Brian and Malinche; the two would soon be alone. Alone with nothing accomplished. It was time to start back to town.
One woman hesitated, glancing first at the Natives walking away, then back at Malinche and Brian. Then, as though coming to a decision, she strode briskly toward them.
Even in her bulky clothes, she appeared slender and graceful. As she drew closer, Brian noted that her face was a delicate oval and her almond eyes, although clouded with tears, shone with intelligence and determination.
“You are the ones who were friends with Charlie,” she said.
Brian wanted the record kept straight. “We really didn’t know him,” he said. “We hoped to see him tonight. I’m terribly sorry we were too late.”
The woman gazed from one face to the other, as though seeking an answer to a question she didn’t ask. Then she nodded, making up her mind. “I’m Netta Frank, Charlie’s—wife. I would be honored if you would come to our house. We can talk there.”
“His wife?” Malinche glanced at the sled laden with Charlie’s body; it was almost to the village now, with its sorrowful escort.
The woman caught the glance. “His widow, now. They are taking him to the main lodge to arrange for burial. I should be with him. I will be soon. But there is something I must say to you first.”
She turned without waiting for a reply and set off at a fast pace toward the village. Exchanging a glance, Brian and Malinche followed.
Her house was at the edge of the permanent settlement, and appeared to be a compromise between the regular houses and the tents of the nomads. Through a low door, she entered a small structure constructed of driftwood,
stones and various types of animal bones, gesturing them to follow.
Brian surveyed the interior with interest. The inside was as primitive as the exterior. He had heard a few Natives still lived in this manner, eschewing as much as they could of civilization. With its walls covered with polar bear hides and with seal fur spread across the floor, the room was cozy and warm. Brian could easily believe they were back a century in time.
Netta Frank motioned them to a bench covered with a goose down cushion, and placed a teakettle on the oil stove—an obvious concession to “progress.”
“I know,” she said, with a rueful smile. “Charlie and I lived a little differently from some of the others. Charlie liked the old ways, although most of our people have adopted the ways of the white man. We’re no longer nomadic, and we’re on a money economy. We buy things rather than make them the way we used to do. But Charlie is—was different.” She nearly choked, but continued. “He liked the traditional ways, and tried to follow them. I like them, too—although I insisted on a few things—tea among them.”
She reached for a square tin can and removed the lid. “May I make you a cup?”
“Yes, thank you,” Malinche said, keeping her tone as even as Netta’s. She wasn’t fooled by the surface placidity. The woman was obviously in shock, and clinging to the familiar to keep from breaking down entirely. They had to let her tell them her reasons for inviting them here in her own time. In the meantime, she would make conversation.
“How long were you and Charlie married?”
“Four years.” The woman gave the teakettle her full and intense concentration, as though the familiar ritual could cast out demons.
“Any children?”
“No, not yet. I guess, not ever.”
It hadn’t been a good choice for conversation. Malinche tried to think of something else to say.
“Where did you and Charlie meet?”
At this, Netta managed a genuine smile. “You’re thinking Kotzebue? Or maybe during the Eskimo Gathering? No, I was a teacher in Anchorage. Charlie brought some furs down for the Fur Rhondy.” Seeing Malinche’s puzzled expression, she explained, “The Fur Rendezvous. It’s held annually in Anchorage. It used to be the traders came to sell furs, but now its part festival. After that—it was fated. Although it took some time to get used to this.” Her arm swung to indicate the small room. “I insisted on some conveniences, so we compromised.”
Another person caught like herself between two cultures. Malinche emphasized with her dilemma. But Netta had made her choice, and had presumably been happy in it, while she, Malinche, twisted and turned like a weather vane, unable to settle in any one culture.
Guilt flooded her, as she watched Netta carefully make the tea. Yes, Netta had made a choice, and Malinche had taken it from her. By her dogged insistence on tracking Dimitri’s killer, she had been responsible for Charlie’s death.
Silence apparently didn’t bother Netta. Perhaps she was deciding how to begin. They had sipped half a cup of hot green tea before Netta spoke.
“You saw the arguing down by the shore?”
“Yes,” Malinche replied. “We wondered what it was about.”
“There is some disagreement among the people about what to do about Charlie’s death.” She paused, swallowed, and went on “Some want to call the authorities, others say that it was clearly an accident and we can handle it ourselves.”
Brian’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think?”
“Me?” Her voice trailed away; she gazed down at her hands, fighting for control, then took a deep breath and let it out explosively. “I do not believe it was an accident.”
Although Brian agreed with her, he wanted to know her reasons for her conclusion. “Why not? I understand he was skilled in hunting, an expert with a kayak, but even a skilled person can misjudge, run into bad luck…”
“That’s true. If it were only the accident, I might not be so sure. Charlie was skilled, but it’s true any man can make a mistake. But to happen now—the timing is too much of a coincidence.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really have any facts—but something was going on, something Charlie didn’t want to tell me about. He was excited when he came home today, but frightened, too. He kept saying, he wondered if he was doing the right thing, talking to you.” She nodded at Malinche. “But then he said he owed it to Dimitri.”
“Did he say what he was going to tell us?”
“No. He said it was better if I didn’t know—it might be dangerous. That’s why I think it wasn’t an accident.”
“Can’t we find out for sure?” Malinche leaned forward and covered the woman’s hand with hers. “An autopsy would tell us…”
“No!” Netta’s head jerked up. “I don’t want him cut up! Besides, what difference does it make if the police confirm what we already know?”
“And even if the authorities confirm he was murdered, they won’t necessarily tell us,” Brian agreed. “Look at the way they’ve covered up the truth about Dimitri’s death. And it looks like Charlie was murdered, too.”
He rose and placed his mug on the table. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Frank. What can we do?”
“I want justice for Charlie,” she said simply. “If he was murdered, it must have had something to do with what he was going to tell you. And the least I can do for him is tell you as much as I know.”
Netta’s shoulders slumped and she jammed her fist to her throat, pushing back sorrow. “But I’m afraid it’s not much.”
“Just start at the beginning. Why did Charlie go to Kotzebue today?”
“He usually went in, if he didn’t plan on hunting. And today he didn’t intend to hunt—which makes it even stranger that he should be out hunting in his kayak. In town, he heard from several people about this woman who was asking questions about Dimitri. He didn’t say he had arranged to meet you—just that he might talk to you about Dimitri.”
“Were he and Dimitri friends?”
Netta glanced at the table beside her where several ivory carvings rested in a row. “I don’t think Charlie met him before he came here for the Gathering. But they became friends—they were both artists,” she said with pride, her eyes filling with tears.
Brian and Malinche examined the carvings, waiting for Netta to regain control. Brian hadn’t noticed the carvings before. They were finely done. Not in Dimitri’s league, but beautiful.
Netta had wiped her eyes; her countenance was again composed, and Brian asked gently, “Did Dimitri usually come to the Gathering?”
Netta shook her head. “No, it was the first time. He was an Aleut, you know. He hadn’t any relatives here. But he said he came this year looking for someone.”
“Who?” Malinche leaned forward, her heart pounding with excitement. This might be the key to her search. Then Netta continued, and her heart fell.
“I don’t know who he was looking for. Perhaps Charlie did. I overheard them talking about a letter Dimitri had written to the Department of the Army. He’d had a reply, and he was excited. I know he showed the letter to Charlie, but he never told me what it said.”
“Not even a hint?” Malinche’s eyes held Netta’s, every muscle tense with hope. “Perhaps he mentioned something you might not have thought important. Anything?”
“No, I have no idea. It might have been a name, because Dimitri was definitely looking for someone. I don’t know who—but I think Charlie knew.”
Charlie knew. The words echoed, sinister and threatening. Malinche swallowed; her throat was suddenly dry. Dimitri had come to Kotzebue looking for someone, and Dimitri was dead. Charlie had known who he was looking for and now Charlie was dead.
Brian turned and reached for Malinche’s hand. “Thank you for talking to us, Mrs. Frank. I know it was hard for you.”
“Will it help?”
Her eyes held such mute, bottomless sorrow that Brian would have done anything he could to ease the pain, but it still seemed to him like a dead end. “You gave u
s a lot of information we didn’t have before. Let us know what’s decided about the authorities.”
They left her staring sightlessly at nothing, a brave, stoic woman who postponed her grieving to do what she could for her husband. Brian suspected the minute the door closed behind them and she no longer had to keep up a facade she would collapse in grief.
“What do we do now?” Malinche curled her fingers tightly around Brian’s. She should have removed her hand, since she was resolved to keep things coolly friendly between them. And she would have—except that his hand felt so comforting, so warm. So right. As though her hand felt like it belonged within his. She was acutely aware of him standing beside her, a strong oak in a hurricane. She couldn’t bear to break the contact.
“Let’s talk,” Brian said, glancing around the village. No one was outside, but he suspected everyone was watching and speculating as they left Netta’s house. “Let’s go someplace where we won’t be overheard.”
Whoever was dogging their trail was taking great care to make his victims’ deaths appear accidental. It was only luck that Brian had found Dimitri before all evidence of foul play had been obliterated. And Charlie’s body could just as easily have washed out to sea where he wouldn’t have been found for months, if ever.
He took his backpack from the four-wheeler, and slung it over his shoulder, a habit so ingrained that he rarely ventured even a few yards into the bush without it. Many times the few supplies he carried had meant survival.
Without a clear destination, they walked toward the water. A few minutes later they stood on the shore of the Bering Strait, still holding hands. They were at the spot where Charlie’s body had been taken from the ice, but Brian didn’t dwell on that; you couldn’t find a place where you would be less likely to be overheard.
Gazing out in the general direction of Siberia, Brian thought it didn’t much matter which way he looked—the same flat, bleak landscape was all around them. Ice hugged the shore; a few feet farther out, the large chunks began to break into smaller pieces, leaving channels of blue water between huge floes.
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