But last night something had snapped in Beans. Frank had picked up a shotgun, staggered next door and shot his neighbor’s dog, which was chained in front of the house. Double-aught buckshot speckled the front of the house. He then got on a snow machine and roared off. The police chief was called to keep the peace. It was dark and snowing as Chief Snow drove to that side of town. He got flagged down by Johnny Ahnaungatogurauk—or “Johnny A-through-K,” as everyone called him.
Johnny A-through-K was pretty shook up as he described how Beans had tipped his snow machine over by the post office. When A through K stooped to check on Beans’s condition, he looked down the barrel of the shotgun. Beans did not shoot him, but clearly A through K felt like he had dodged death. Frank N Beans had mumbled something and lurched off to the east, toward his house.
Chief Snow followed Beans’s trail to his house easy enough. Snow could have called the troopers in, but they wouldn’t have made it until at least the next day, by which time either someone would be dead, or Frank would be passed out and sobering up. Snow had parked his junkie Ford F250 pickup back by the post office. He approached the house to see if he could talk to Frank. He stood off to the side of the entry, where he could peek around the corner and see the front windows.
Chief Snow banged on the side of the house. The windows were dark and there was no sound from within. He was already getting chilly; it was probably twenty below or so. The snow crunched underfoot, a nuisance, bad for trying to be sneaky. The bright snow made it seem lighter out.
He kicked the house, scattering snow and making enough noise to be sure it could be heard or felt. The snowflakes swirled prettily around Chief Snow’s face. He was glad he paid the extra money for the Danner steel-toe boots, which were excellent for kicking on doors. It was usually too cold to knock with your bare hand, and pounding on the door wearing heavy gloves just made muffled thumps. The boot was the thing.
Snow peered around the corner and hollered, “Frank, it’s Chief Snow. I need to talk to you.”
Snow was surprised to see Beans crank open the large window in the kitchen. Beans had no shirt on as he said, “Sheef Shnow! What cher doing?”
There was no sign of the violence described by Johnny earlier. That did not surprise Snow much. This was the great alcohol enigma. Anyway, it seemed like Beans was back to normal, though drunk.
Chief Snow tried to convince Beans to come to the door. As drunk as he was, Beans seemed to understand that if he came to the door it might not be a good thing for him. But Snow gently coaxed him out, mostly by simply not going away. Beans came out barefoot, wearing only loose black denim jeans. Snow talked to him about what happened. Beans seemed clueless and unable to understand what was going on.
When Snow gave him the bad news that he was going to have to accompany Snow, Beans said, “Eee! Sheef.”
Snow helped him slip on a parka, some white bunny boots, and some handcuffs, which all took a little time because Beans wanted to hug Snow and was now crying about something. Everything was fine until right at the jail cell door. Beans realized where he was and suddenly began to fight. Snow had to wrestle him down to the floor. Beans was surprisingly strong for his size, slobbering and slurring. Snow had learned the hard way in the past not to underestimate a drunk. Snow got him prone, made a dash for the cell door, and got it shut before Beans banged into it. Snow was so relieved to have everyone safe he did not even mind that Beans hollered, wailed, cursed, and sobbed for a couple hours before passing out.
In the morning Frank was sober and very apologetic. Chief Snow explained the sorry events of the night before, including the tussle they had in the cell.
“You know, I am kind of sore after rolling around on the ground with you, Frank. Surprised, too. We never had any problems in the past, you and me.”
Beans said he was sorry and seemed to mean it. He told Snow that he had a couple jugs of booze and did not remember what had happened. Snow explained to him the charges and opened the cell. Snow and Beans ate microwave sausage-and-cheese muffins, which were actually pretty good. Not as good as McDonald’s, thought Snow, but almost. Frank had never had an Egg McMuffin in his life, and he thought it was good. Snow made some fresh coffee and they sat at his desk drinking out of chipped, off-white ceramic cups.
Snow explained the charges again, and Beans’s rights. Beans worried about what was going to happen with the judge or magistrate at the arraignment. Usually arraignments were held right there at Snow’s beat-up metal desk, over the speakerphone with the ancient Magistrate Sadie Neakok. This could be a real problem at times, what with the crappy connection and echoes bouncing off the satellite phone links. Magistrate Neakok was known not to mince words but also for being tough but fair.
But this was a felony, and Beans had to appear in person at the courthouse in Dillingham. Snow told Beans that he would explain to the magistrate how the incident was out of character for Beans. The chief would see if he could get Beans released on the condition that Frank refrained from drinking.
In the courtroom, old Sadie shamed Beans to the point where it looked like he might cry. The magistrate sternly said, “Mr. Frank N Beans, I am ashamed of you! Your father was a whaling captain, God rest his soul. He would be ashamed of you, too!”
Even though Beans had it coming, Snow felt sorry for him. Neakok was tougher than walrus meat. She was seventy-something, knew everyone, and had seen it all. She knew the problems associated with the demon rum but did not tolerate fools or drunks.
Magistrate Neakok was respected and feared, though she was all of five foot nothing and maybe 120 pounds with her parkie and mukluks. She was sharp as a tack and had bright, bouncing eyes in her wrinkled brown face. She wore a nice set of dentures in court, but she was not shy about going without when she was at home. She was spry and would talk your leg off if you ran into her at the house. When she was done talking, she would get up and walk away. If you did not know any better, you might think she was coming back, but she had already dismissed you and would be surprised if you were still sitting there when and if she did return.
Magistrate Neakok asked Chief Snow for his recommendations, which was the ritual. She listened to Snow despite his being a relative cheechako, or “newcomer,” to Togiak. Snow knew the history of the folks in town, tried to work with the people he arrested if he could, and he did not needlessly stack charges.
“Frank N Beans does not normally behave like this,” Snow told the magistrate. “He has no history of violent crime. His mother, Lima Beans, has a bad leg. She depends on Frank and his brother to care for her. Normally, I would not recommend an OR release for a crime this serious, but I am this time. I recommend Frank N Beans be released to the third-party custody of his mother, Lima, or his brother, Stanley, and that he check in every morning for a breath test.”
Frank was sobbing now, which was about to get Chief Snow going too. He knew that old Lima Beans needed Frank. As long as he stayed sober, Snow figured it would be all right. The daily morning breath test had worked pretty well in the past. And so it went. Neakok released Beans on felony gun charges based on the recommendation of the chief of police. What the hell, thought Snow. I must be stupid or crazy. I hope the Dillingham cops or troopers don’t hear about this. In his heart, he felt he had done the right thing—a good thing.
The engine sputtered, pulling Snow back from his reverie. Or maybe he imagined the engine sputter. It was better not to think about it, Snow had learned. You’re dead meat, anyway, if you do go down, so why worry?
Everyone who lived out in the bush flew all the time. You could tough it out on a snow machine for a dozen or more bone-jarring hours, which was exhausting and dangerous. In the summer, you could take a boat around the coast, but people seldom did unless to get some major work done to their boat in Dillingham. No, flying was the only real way to get around out here.
When Snow was younger, he thought crashing was a one-in-a-million shot, so the odds were high. Problem was the odds seemed to get whittled down
after years of flying.
He heard the plane sputter for sure and looked intently at Chubby, who was suddenly deadly serious. Chubby talked into the mouthpiece of the pea-green headphones he wore over his blue captain’s hat. Chubby did not look back at the passengers. Best not to make eye contact in these situations. It was beginning to snow, and flakes peeled off above and below the wing. They were gradually descending from the thousand or so feet that Chubby had climbed after buzzing the big brown bear.
The engine sputtered and stopped.
Shocked surprise.
Silence.
Wind whistling through the cracks around the cabin doors.
Chubby tried to restart the engines. No luck. While he worked at the controls, he was also busy peering over the high dash of the Cherokee. Snow’s mind was suddenly racing. He thought stupidly that he always wondered why they had such a shitty design that the pilot could barely see over the dash. What kind of fucked up engineering was that? Then Snow saw what Chubby saw: a frozen lake ahead of them. Chubby was apparently going to try and make the lake and put her down there before they hit the ground.
Chubby hollered around his cigar, “Hang on, boys!” His voice boomed in the quiet cabin. “We’re going down!”
Chubby was chewing the cigar like mad, eyes moving rapidly back and forth like a dog looking for scraps, his skinny butt barely touching the seat as he leaned over the dash of the little plane. We’re not going to make it, thought Snow. We’re goners if we hit the tundra.
Planes that crashed in the tundra usually cracked up. The tundra was not flat and rolling like it looked from the air, like the plains of the Midwest. It was very rough in spots, with what the locals called muskeg. Such it looked to be here, which meant it would be lucky if they did not flip or simply crash into one of the soft-looking crags stuck five feet in the air. Snow thought they would never make it—but then hope. Crazy, wild hope! He began to think Chubby might pull it off. If anyone can, it’s Chubby, all right; he had the luck of the Irish! He certainly looked the part.
The plane was eerily quiet as it dropped lower and lower. Suddenly they were over the ice and the wheels touched down. The plane hopped and touched down again. The wheels hit a snowdrift and the plane lurched forward, causing the propeller to hit the ice. The plane bobbed back on its wheels but had gotten off line and went into a slow spin, sliding through the drifts. Everyone on board waited for the plane to crash or flip. But it didn’t; it just stopped.
And then there was quiet.
CHAPTER 2
THE BEAR
“Goddamn it! That was a new prop!” Chubby huffed.
“Not anymore,” remarked Frank N Beans with such clarity that Chubby and the chief turned to see if it was really Frank N Beans who made that remark. Beans’s eyebrows bobbed under his heavy black bangs. He had a grin stuck on his mouth.
“Huh?” said Chubby.
We made it. We’re alive, ya crazy fuckers! Snow thought.
Chubby knew they were lucky to be alive but was already moving onto the next thing. He still had his cigar in his mouth, which suddenly seemed hilarious to Snow. But Beans felt the need to commemorate their good fortune with a loud, garbled pronouncement and a fist pump.
Chubby muttered and scrambled forward, crawling out of the plane onto the wing and down onto the ice. He slipped but caught himself on the aileron, remaining upright.
There were drifts and patches of snow on the unnamed lake, which was about two miles across and fairly round.
An estimated three million lakes were in the Alaskan wilderness, scattered like raindrops by a reckless God. But only about three thousand of those lakes had been named, mostly the very big or remarkable ones. They were primarily known only by their longitude and latitude numbers. They were a spot on a map, a reference point for some other destination.
Clean spots on the surface of the lake were so windswept that they could see the smooth ice. Chief Snow crawled out of the plane through the pilot’s door right behind Beans, who was mumbling.
Once on the ice, Snow looked down at his boots. Great for kicking doors, but not good for extended time out of doors. Frank N Beans wore a white, canvas over-parka with a wolf ruff around the hood and hands, typical attire for locals who hunted, which was most of the men and boys. Beans also had some mittens and the same white bunny boots he wore when he was arrested the night before. He looked perfectly natural and comfortable in the snow and dying light. Snow slipped and slid back to the rear of the plane, ready for Chubby to hand things out.
The light faded ominously. The snow came down harder, though at least the wind was not blowing much. Chubby assessed the situation.
“I activated the emergency locator transmitter. That means they will know we had a problem right quick like. I’ve got some survival gear and first aid kit back here.”
Snow peeked around Chubby and saw a jug of whiskey and a five-pound bag of dog food that apparently constituted the survival gear. There were also matches, black plastic trash bags, a can opener and a few other small assorted items in the canvas sack. Snow had seen the bag of puppy chow before, several times, and now asked Chubby about it.
“You got a puppy, Chubby?” Snow said, pointing at the bag.
“Nah, that’s my survival food. I used to always throw some food like candy bars and jerky in the tail, but it seemed like it would always disappear. Kids got to it, I suppose,” said Chubby. “Anyways, I got the idea of the dog food. It’s actually supposed to be good for you, and nobody’s gonna eat it lest they’re really starving.”
Snow wasn’t so sure about it being good for you but agreed no one would be eager to dig into it.
As if reading his mind, Frank grumbled, “Eee, I’m not eating that shit.”
Better hide that whiskey, Chubby, thought Snow. Frank does not need the temptation.
“You’ll eat it if you get hungry enough, Frank. Trust me,” Chubby said.
Snow took a personal inventory. He had his sidearm. And he had a Leatherman tool. He also had his radio, but they were out of range of anywhere and everybody. No cell phone, but no coverage anyway. He had no food or water, of course.
Snow always figured that he would die if he were ever in a crash, so he never bothered packing a survival kit. It was only by chance that he was dressed as warmly as he was. He wore blue overalls and a blue parka with a nice wolf ruff. This was Snow’s normal attire when on duty, and neither he or his prisoner had packed anything extra for the trip.
Snow considered whether to stay with the downed plane. But there was no heat on a dead plane and they would freeze. The better bet was to find shelter on land.
The emergency locator transmitter (ELT) had its own battery, so it was able to send out a distress signal. But it was an older model without precise GPS coordinates to transmit, so searchers would only have a general idea of where to look. The weather was less than ideal for a search effort as dark descended and the snow picked up. I wonder if they will even launch until morning, he thought. But even the Coast Guard ought to be able to find us on a frozen lake.
“What do you think, Chubby? Stay with the plane?” he asked.
“We’ll freeze out here. There’s a hunting cabin on the south side of this lake. I’ve seen it from the air. I ain’t that sure exactly where it is, but we outta be able to find her. If we stay here we’ll freeze harder than dog turds most likely!”
Beans started walking—sliding, really—bowlegged, to the south.
“Find a cabin. Easy shit,” he said. “Follow me.”
“Frank! You sure you know the way?” Snow hollered. He slipped and fell on the ice as he started after Beans, who looked back at Chubby and Snow like they were stupid, waving his arm for them to follow.
“Well shit, Chief! Looks like Frank’s our guide. Good thing you arrested him! Ha ha!” Chubby said, apparently looking on the bright side of things.
Frank N Beans was no guide, but he had lived and hunted in the bush his entire life. Neither Chubby nor Snow
questioned him; they simply followed and hoped he knew what he was doing.
If Frank had not gotten shit-faced drunk and done a bunch of idiotic violent things to get arrested for, would have never had to make this trip in the first place, Snow thought.
Chubby shouldered the canvas bag and set out after Beans, heading into the unknown. If we live through this, I’ll be even more famous, thought Chubby. They will talk about us at the Sea Inn Bar in Dillingham for a long time, because there is not that much to talk about in the wintertime at the bar—at least not in bush Alaska, anyway.
Chief Snow put his hood up and fell in behind as they slide-walked single file toward the south side of the unnamed lake about forty air miles from the nearest town. It was the tail end of winter as early night fell.
They made the side of the lake about the time it was getting dark. The snow was still coming down, but it did not seem to be getting any colder. They said snow could actually warm air temperatures in Alaska.
Snow looked ahead at his mates. Beans appeared in his element; Chubby was too indomitable to get cold. Only I am cold, thought Snow. I am the weak one. He resolved that the words “I am cold” would never come out of his mouth, even if his lips were frozen blue.
Suddenly, the chief felt a push from behind, a forceful shove that knocked him down. What the hell? Before he could turn he heard the snort and growl. A massive brown bear stood leering.
Snow hoped that they had startled the bear and it would simply run off into the night. That’s what bears usually did, after all. They didn’t want anything to do with humans, but they could be unpredictable beasts. Sometimes they charged for no apparent reason.
Snow watched in horror as the bear wheeled with awful majesty, snow swirling up like a tempest and partially obscuring the beautiful but lethal beast. The big brown behemoth charged, grunting and huffing and making unworldly noises, its eyes fixed on the chief. Snow thought he heard the bear’s claws scrape the lake ice. He lay frozen, and then the bear was on top of him.
Bush Blues Page 2