The young man was an experienced hunter and knew what to do. Unfortunately, he had gone out lightly dressed. When the weather became impassable, he had stopped and built a snow cave. He was found frozen to death a few feet from the cave he built. He had taken off his mittens, socks and mukluks in the mysterious warm delusion that accompanied freezing to death.
When the body was discovered, he was brought to Togiak in a sled pulled behind a snow machine. A family member asked Snow if they could put the body in the police station garage to store until the funeral or “sing-spiration,” as it was called. Snow, of course, agreed. He did not know it, but a tradition was started that day. After that, all bodies were brought to the police station, where they were held for several days in the garage.
The days bodies were in the garage were busy with visitors. Snow kept coffee pots full and sodas in the fridge. Women brought baskets of food of all manner—mostly Native foods, though there was potato salad and other Western dishes to complement the dried fish, smoked salmon, seal oil, various types of muktuk and other Native delicacies. Half the town would gather at the station to talk, cry, laugh and grieve. Snow was happy he could help the people, though it was weird to have a dead body laid out on two rickety tables in the garage.
Rose Stone came to the garage to see the young hunter. She asked the family to bring the clothing they wished the man to be buried in. The body had thawed to the point of being pliable. Stone asked Snow for warm, soapy water and towels. He got them for her. Everyone left Stone alone with the body to do her business. When Snow came back, he saw with amazement that Stone was on top of the body, working one of the arms back and forth. It was a bizarre scene, and the chief understood why everyone else had left her to work alone.
Later, Rose asked Snow for his help. She told him in broken English that there was air in the body that needed to be released. He saw that she had the body totally undressed. He helped roll the body on its side. Rose stepped up to the naked backside. Snow did not see what she did, but suddenly a putrid, sickening smell filled the garage. He quickly left, not wanting to know what she had done to release the gases from the body.
As the village people grew comfortable with Snow, they became more open about the secret and sacred traditions of the village. He knew that people went to the shaman often for various ailments, though the clinic also was used. Snow had never heard of the shaman coming to the clinic. But here she was.
At the clinic, Rose walked right past Snow and back toward the sounds of labor. Snow heard raised voices and edged closer to the door but did not enter. The medic came out. He was clearly upset and even stamped his foot like a petulant child.
“I want you to take that . . . woman . . . that witch doctor out of my clinic!”
“Is the family here?” Snow asked. “What does the family say? I mean, what do they want? Do they want Rose to stay?”
Snow sought out the mother and father and pulled them aside while Lilly stayed with the expectant mother.
Snow asked the mother what she wanted. The father looked away.
“The gussok does not know what he’s doing,” the mother said. “Rose Stone has been midwife to lots of babies in this village. I trust her and want her here. The gussok can stay, if he’s nice.”
Snow walked back to the medic, thinking on what to say.
“The family wants Shaman Rose to stay. They said she is a comfort to them and their daughter. But they need you too. I know it is a burden, but it may help if she is there to calm everyone. By the way, did you know old Rose is a midwife? I heard she delivered lots of babies. She might be helpful to you while we wait for the medevac plane to arrive.”
“She can stay, but she better stay out of the way,” the PA fumed, though Snow thought he looked unsure of himself.
“Be respectful, or they may ask you to leave. We don’t want that to happen. Just help her,” Snow said.
Snow left to check on the flight. Snow had a VHF radio in his office. He talked to Chubby.
“What’s going on with the patient, Chief?” Chubby asked on the radio.
“Last I checked, still in labor. I’ll go check and meet you at the airport.”
“Roger.”
When Snow got back to the clinic, the baby had come. The newborn girl was already suckling at her momma’s breast. Lilly told Snow that Rose had saved the situation. The baby was apparently tangled in the umbilical cord. Rose was able to somehow unwrap the baby, and the delivery was routine after that.
Snow left to meet Chubby. On his way out, he passed the PA, still in the waiting room of the clinic. Snow was torn. He did not care much for this gangly PA from down below. He was haughty and a general pain in the ass. But his intentions were good despite his self-importance. And he was sorely needed. He looked to be having a human moment of self-doubt, which was endearing to Snow. This was a hard place to live. He empathized with the man.
Snow stopped, went back and stood next to the PA.
“Everyone is okay. Good job.”
“I did nothing. She could have died—the baby could have died, if it was left in my hands.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it. I think you would have done what you needed to do. Rose Stone has delivered a lot of babies; she has practical experience you need. You have education that she will never have. You could be a good team. You could see this as an opportunity.”
Snow wondered if he was going too far.
“She believes in things. She is a shaman. I don’t think I can do that.”
“You can think about it. I know the people need you here,” Snow said and left.
At the airport, Snow met with Chubby and let him know about the baby.
“Hot damn! I got a couple cigars. Ya want one?”
They smoked a cigar. If he had not been a cop in a dry village, Snow would have suggested they have a snort to celebrate. Chubby would surely have obliged him. Soon, Chubby taxied off in a roar and a cloud of dust and was up into the sky.
CHAPTER 13
UPRIVER
Charlie Johnson went into town to find a jug. But had come up empty. He was back in his skiff and heading upriver, back to his set-net cabin. He was hung over and hurting. And he was angry. That damn Snow was making it hard to get booze. In the past, the booze was almost always available. But now Charlie was also worried about the frigging troopers and Chief Snow serving that damn warrant. He had no idea whose blood was on his pants. Shit. I should have gotten rid of them. But he was busy getting drunk. Besides, he never really thought he could have killed Bullshit Bob, no matter if he was in a blackout or not.
Alcohol was complicating his life. He loved to get drunk, but the consequences had gotten worse. It wasn’t just the severe hangovers. He had gotten in trouble with the cops. He usually blamed the police, but at this moment he was having a rare moment of clarity; the alcohol was causing him problems.
He was distracted and did not immediately notice that the skiff was taking on water.
“What the fuck,” he said, looking at the water around his feet.
Water was pouring in where the two plugs at the stern were supposed to be. He hit the throttle and got the skiff up on step, which got the water flowing the other way, out the rear. He would have to do something—fashion some plugs out of wood or see if he had any extra. So he steered toward the shore. There was some light fog on the river, but he could clearly see someone waving their arms at him from the bank. He adjusted his course and slid up on the beach below whoever was waving.
Charlie killed the motor, pulled it up and snapped it in place up out the water.
He saw that the plugs were indeed gone below the motor, but he was shallow enough that not much water would come in. He turned to see who was waving at him and froze. It was not a normal person. In fact, he was not sure it was even a person.
“Charlie. Ye be needing these?” Kinka asked as he deftly tossed the boat plugs to Charlie.
It was a perfect toss, and the two rubber-and-metal plugs floated through the
air right to Charlie, who caught them.
Charlie was at a loss. I’m looking at an apparition or spirit, he thought. One of the Little People.
“Did you take the plugs from my boat? Why’d you do that?” Charlie asked Kinka.
“I needed ye to stop,” Kinka ordered.
Charlie stared at him, still holding the boat plugs. Kinka wore the same impressive homemade clothing that Snow had seen the night of the bear attack. In the mist hanging on the river, Kinka looked from another world.
“Charlie, you need to head up to the big gussok’s cabin. Snow is heading there and he is going to need your help.”
“What? Who are you? Why would I want to help that little gussok, Chief Snow?”
“My name is Kinka. I am of the Enukins. And Snow is your brother. He’s half gussok just like you. You have the same father.”
Charlie looked at Kinka for a minute before responding.
“My brother? That cop?”
“Aye. He’s your brother. And he’s going to need your help. He’s going to confront the big gussok for killing that man,” Kinka said.
“Buck Nelson? He killed Bullshit Bob? Are you sure, Kinka?”
“Aye. Shot and killed him. Snow is going to need your help. It’s up to you. I can’t do this. You either help him or not; it’s your choice,” Kinka said. “It’s going to happen today.”
“Why? Why tell me? I’m not . . . I don’t know. Why should I take a chance to save Snow?” Charlie said.
“It’s not just for him. It’s for you.”
“Wait!” Charlie called out, but Kinka turned and waved and was gone.
Snow steered the fourteen-foot metal Lund skiff around an old tree snag on the side of the fast-moving channel. The skiff was battered and dented up both sides of the bow, the red paint scraped clean in spots with plenty of scratches, reminders of past collisions with other boats, docks and anything else in the way. This skiff had been well used.
Two small, dark-stained wood benches ran crossways inside the skiff. In the V-shaped bow of the boat was an old anchor with black sand on the flukes, a tangle of bright-yellow poly rope connecting the anchor to a small cleat on the starboard bow.
He was past the point of the river where the fresh water mixed with the muddy, tidal salt water. This water was clean and green, running through cut banks garnished with alder bushes. He rounded a bend. Ahead, the river widened and opened up, offering him a nice view upriver a ways. This country was beautiful but also forbidding, even in summer.
Snow was alone in his thoughts, the outboard motor providing a hypnotic background blanket of noise. He stood in the back, as was his habit, tiller in hand. He liked to lean back on the motor, absorbing some heat and vibration, which felt pleasant. He had decided to go upriver and find Buck Nelson.
It was a gut call on his part, and not one he was all that comfortable with, to be honest. He tended to be impatient at times, and he knew this. He could wait for Nelson to make a mistake; he had done it many times with other people in the past. But he also had good luck acting on his instincts. He did not want to wait on Nelson. He thought Nelson might just move away or get more careful. Also, he was certain Nelson had killed Bullshit Bob. It was not like waiting for someone to drive drunk or make some other mistake. Waiting this time might carry a heavy price.
He was only conflicted because Lilly had said not to do it. She had a point; he could simply wait.
Buck Nelson was job security; he would break the law until he was caught. Snow had seen enough to know that this was a fact. Some guys were destined for jail or the grave, and Nelson was one of those, he was absolutely sure.
Snow was confident that he could get an admission out of Nelson. He had experience talking to people and knew that they would often talk if you simply took time to let them. Maybe Nelson was too street smart; maybe not. Snow felt a sudden flush of heat in his face. Maybe I am being stupid. No doubt Buck Nelson had taken a shot at him before. He could still turn back and wait.
Things are set in motion now, Snow thought. May as well ride it out.
He had a game plan of questions to pose to Nelson. He felt prepared if Nelson tried to clam up, lawyer up, or deflect the questions. He gave little thought to Nelson’s violent nature and instead worried about getting him to talk. This oversight would cost Snow.
Snow guided the boat around a bend in the river and saw a camp up ahead. Bullshit Bob’s camp. Despite the distance, he recognized Nelson’s burly frame silhouetted against the sun on a bench where he sat working on his nets.
Snow nosed up to the riverbank, scrambled forward and grabbed the bowline from the forepeak of the skiff. He climbed off the boat and tied the line around a small alder. He took a well-worn dirt path leading up the bank to the top. Once there, he saw the mound of gear Nelson had stacked.
Nelson was now hanging gear and did not look up at Snow.
Snow looked around the camp. Neat, he thought. Though there were piles of gear and clutter, there was orderliness to it. Snow looked at the small, plywood hunting shack that served as Nelson’s base. The shack was small but also had an orderly appearance. Clean.
The view was good here. The camp was on the bank of the river but also sat on a rise above the surrounding tidal flats. The small rise actually represented the humble beginnings of the foothills of the mountains to the north. But Snow’s eyes were directed southeast, past Nelson, who worked his arms and hands back and forth with a nice rhythm. Snow saw the river winding toward town, the flats spread out to the south and east, the visible memory of the flooding of the river.
Snow looked with interest at the four-wheeler trail that wound away from camp in the same direction. He could envision the area where he had been shot at.
Snow kept Nelson in his peripheral view as he approached and stood about ten feet from where Nelson worked. He stood sideways to Nelson, as was custom among men out here, and did not speak immediately—also customary.
“Nice view; you can see a long ways,” said Snow eventually, opening the conversation, but there was not a flicker of recognition from Nelson. Snow knew this was a kind of posturing meant to show disinterest or thoughtfulness. It could also be a sign of disrespect.
“Good-looking camp. Looks like Bullshit Bob had things pretty squared away up here,” Snow said after waiting for a long minute or so.
Nelson continued to work his gear and said, “Bullshit Bob never did an honest day’s work in his life. He was a fall-down drunk and you know that. What do you want?” Nelson glanced up at Snow briefly. Nelson spoke calmly and without any hostility; he was just stating facts. The dance had begun.
“Bullshit Bob taught you a lot about fishing, though. How to set the gear, how to hang it. How to pick the nets, get the fish to market, get a good price. Everything, really, didn’t he?” Snow said.
Nelson stopped hanging gear for a minute, like he was thinking. Or maybe just taking a little break. Snow waited and watched.
Nelson was surely stiff from sitting, hanging the gear; it was long tedious work—hard on the back and hands. He was stocky but did not appear fat or soft at all. He was wearing black jeans that had been worn almost gray. The jeans had been cut off above the ankles and were frayed at the bottom, the easier to slip into a pair of rubber boots. Nelson was wearing a gray wool fisherman’s coat with the sleeves cut off about halfway between the wrist and elbow. This, too, was common for fishermen in these parts. The coat was unzipped, revealing a grungy white T-shirt underneath. He had on well-worn and comfy-looking leather deck slippers and gray wool socks. When he stretched, Snow saw that he was a well-built young man.
Nelson had a short, reddish blond beard working. Snow saw that he was not wearing the cut-off gloves often employed when folks were hanging gear, but a pair sat on the bench like Nelson had been using them and recently took them off.
While Nelson was stretching, Snow checked his own gear. He had done it so many times it was almost an unconscious act. He felt over his gun belt and touched t
he gun to see if it was where it was supposed to be, pushed the butt of the pistol down, which was one of the holster safety releases, and worked the heavy belt up his waist a little bit. He checked the snaps to the gun and on the rest of the belt to see if they were secured. Those motions, although rooted in officer safety, were done with such outward casualness as to appear like a fellow just hitching up his pants.
Finally, Nelson spoke. “That much is true. Bullshit Bob knew a lot about fishing and taught me. But I’m the one who put in all the work. It’s hard work, not that you probably know anything about fishing.”
Snow turned away from Nelson and began to talk about how he did, in fact, know a little about fishing. Talking about fishing might relax Nelson, perhaps build trust before the chief bore in with serious questions about the homicide.
“I commercial fished on a gill-netter for a few years, did some set-netting too. I did a little bit of fishing; enough to know there’s a helluva lot to know. And that it’s hard work,” said Snow.
He paused, gauging Nelson’s now more relaxed demeanor.
“I figured that’s why this thing happened with Bullshit Bob. You were doing all the work, Bob was drunk all the time. Maybe you had enough. Or maybe he was going to cut you out. Maybe he had enough. What did he do to provoke you?”
“What makes you think I killed Bullshit Bob?” Nelson asked.
Kinda funny how he said killed, even though I was careful to avoid it.
“Well, I don’t think you did this thing to Bob. I know you did. The question is why. Were you guys both drunk and got into a fight? Did he threaten you? Bullshit Bob could be a real pain in the ass, sometimes.”
Nelson stood up slowly. He rubbed his hands though his hair and stretched again.
“Nah, none of that is true at all,” Nelson said calmly. “I guess you do have some experience on the water, because you’re sure fishing, Chief.”
Snow turned away momentarily and did not see Buck Nelson moving toward him until it was too late. Nelson slammed into him to, driving him the ground. Nelson had blood in his eyes. It was like a good football tackle; Snow was caught off guard and stunned. All his old injuries suddenly hurt at once. His mind was slow to jump into the heightened awareness that he was used to when shit hit the fan.
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