by Craig Dirkes
I didn’t want to knock on Finn’s door before eight, so I decided to pass the time with Joanie. I walked to her house on a snow trail through the side dog yard. The dogs peeked their heads out of their houses, but they didn’t bark — Dalton had fed them. The water he’d poured in their dishes had already frozen.
Joanie’s house was near the shed in back. She peeked her head out of her house and smiled. I squatted beside the opening to her house. She shot out like a rocket and ran in circles, kicking up a mixture of snow and dog shit. Then she settled and sat down in front of me.
“Good girl!” I said, scratching the fluffy white fur on her neck.
Then I shuffled behind her doghouse for a game of Who Eats Poop? She got into position at the front of her house. I crouched down, waited a second, and sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. “Who eats poop?” I asked. Joanie barked with delight, explaining in dog language, “I do! I eat poop!”
I kneeled down and motioned for Joanie to come. She placed her front paws on my lap and licked my face. “I’ll miss you girl,” I said, grabbing her by the ears and kissing her cheek.
I left Joanie and made my way to Finn’s house. I rapped on his front door. No answer. I waited a moment and then twisted the doorknob. The door was unlocked.
“Finn?” I said through the crack before pushing the door open and going into the entryway. “Anybody home?”
I checked out the living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. The house, in all its silence and immaculate cleanliness, was empty. So I decided to wait for ten or fifteen minutes and finish my coffee. Who knows, Finn might show up, I thought. I took a seat at the kitchen table, where Finn’s popcorn bowl sat in the middle, now covered with tin foil. I snatched the bowl and peeled back the foil. Inside, the bowl still brimmed with weed. I figured Finn must have secured a fresh new batch to sell after Kusko Dry Goods denied him a job a few days ago. Finn had said the guy who interviewed him knew his former boss at the airport. He said being blacklisted was a common occurrence in Kusko — if you got fired anywhere, everybody knew why.
I glared at the bowl of weed. He’s got five or six ounces in there, I thought. That stuff must be worth…
My conscience became a battlefield.
Part of me said to take the stuff and sell it. Now. If I found a village buyer, I could dump the weed for as much as forty-five hundred, if I was right about the amount he had — and I was pretty sure I was right. I figured I could pay Finn his costs and then split the earnings with him. He could use his cut to get ahead on rent and move with me to Anchorage. I could use my cut to help me get back into classes at the university. I’d still be short of paying the entire four-thousand-dollar bill I owed, but I was almost positive my dad could scrape together the rest, assuming I swore to pay him back. And Finn might even be happy I sold his weed, I told myself. He’d have his profits in a matter of hours, not weeks.
The other part of me sounded like an overcrowded room of overbearing parents. I heard my dad say I should leave the weed alone and take responsibility for my actions. I heard Nicolai say not to get fooled into thinking that what is wrong is what is right, that I was one bad decision away from doing something monumentally stupid. I heard my mom say that despite my good intentions, taking Finn’s weed would still be stealing.
I muted the lame side of me. The biggest problem of my life could be solved in just a few hours, with minimal effort, I thought. Sure, Finn always said I couldn’t sell in villages near Kusko. But whatever. It’s one deal.
I decided to make a phone call and leave the situation to chance. If I didn’t like the answers I got, I’d scrap my idea.
I stood up from the kitchen table, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed information. The operator connected me to a gentleman in Napakiak named Cal Smeaton.
Cal answered after four rings. “Who?” he asked groggily. I must have woken him up.
I told him I was Eddie, the guy he met in October. “I was peeing. You were lighting a cigarette backward.”
“Oh, right. Why the fuck are you calling?”
“You said you can always use a whole lot of weed. Is that still true?”
“Shit yeah, it’s true.”
“I have some, but I’d need to make the delivery soon. I mean, like right now, as soon as humanly possible.”
We went back and forth about how much I had and how much I wanted for it. He tried haggling, but finally said he’d probably take it at my price but that he’d need to find a friend to go in on it with him.
“Call me back,” I said. “And please be quick.”
Then I was all action. I dashed out the front door and ran home to put on my mushing gear. If Cal called back with good news, I wanted a head start. Finn could be home at any minute. I started prepping the dog team as though it were game on. I planted the sled near the shed, at the foot of the snow trail that led to Napakiak, and anchored the ice hook. I harnessed Biff and Joanie and connected them to the gangline.
Twenty minutes passed. Just as I began harnessing Boris, my phone rang. I held Boris between my knees and put the phone to my ear. “That you, Cal?”
“Come on down,” he said.
“I’m harnessing my dogs now,” I said. “It’s eight forty-five. I should be in Napakiak just after ten.”
“Ten?” Cal said. “In that case, wait another fifteen minutes before you leave.”
“Fifteen minutes? Why?”
I looked back toward my house and Finn’s, praying that he or Dalton wouldn’t return. I doubted Dalton would be back anytime soon. But Finn was a different story.
“Just wait another fifteen fucking minutes. Let me get ready,” Cal said angrily. “You got that?”
He hung up. Waiting awhile was fine, but I’d need to do it out on the tundra, once Kusko city limits were out of view. I resumed harnessing the nine remaining dogs and finished in less than ten minutes. Next, I had to commandeer the weed. I’d saved that for last in case Finn came home while I was wrangling the team.
I clumped over to Finn’s place in my bulky winter wear. I opened the front door. “Finn?” I said.
No answer. I took off my boots in the entryway, not wanting to track snow into the house. I rummaged through the wooden chest in the living room, looking for Finn’s electronic scale. I found it, placed it on the kitchen table, and started weighing. He had just barely five ounces.
I scoured the kitchen for some one-gallon plastic baggies and found a few under the kitchen sink. I dumped the weed into three of the baggies and shoved them down my jacket.
I stopped just as I was about to walk out the door and wondered whether I should leave a note explaining the situation. Without a note, Finn would freak the moment he realized his weed was gone.
Nah, I thought. I’ll let him sweat. When he realizes how much money I made him, he’ll forgive me in a hurry.
I hustled back to the dog yard and crammed the weed into a cinch pack hanging from the handlebars of the sled. I stomped the foot brake into the ground and locked it into place. I walked ten feet behind the sled, dislodged the ice hook, and threw it into the sled before hopping back on and unlocking the foot brake.
“Hike!” I commanded the dogs.
CHAPTER 24
THE TUNDRA RUN
The dogs approached the fork in the snow trail, four miles from my house. I commanded Biff and Joanie to veer left onto the trail to Napakiak rather than take the roundabout and head back home. “Haw!” I shouted.
Joanie looked back to me, confused. She’d expected me to yell “Gee!” to steer her and Biff to the right, onto the roundabout. “Haw, Joanie! Haw!”
She and Biff merged the team onto the trail to Napakiak, leading southwest.
We cruised along as the trail unrolled into an endless straightaway. No clouds blocked the rising sun behind us. The dogs barreled toward the pink horizon atop a desolate, treeless landscape
that looked like a vast white sheet. The windless day was so quiet, the only sounds I heard were the patter of the dogs’ paws on the narrow snow trail and the whooshing runners of the sled. Once again, I’d bundled myself in my favorite red hunting coat, black snow pants, and my heaviest boots.
I saw something ahead in the distance. To my right and far off the trail stood a guy wearing a furry parka, the kind made from animal pelts. He stood knee-deep in snow and clutched a rifle at his side.
I wasn’t alarmed. I’d seen random guys with guns in the middle of nowhere plenty of times before. He must have been out for an early hunt.
I checked my watch. A little after ten a.m., I thought. If I finish this deal fast enough, I can make it to the courthouse before noon.
I turned my attention back to the trail. I squinted to get a better look at the guy up ahead. He appeared to be raising his rifle. But I didn’t see any game anywhere. It looked like he was aiming in my direction. Then I heard the bang of a gunshot.
Wait, did that dumbass just fire in my direction? I thought.
I glanced down at myself and at the dogs speeding along. We were all in one piece.
Holy balls, I thought. Close call.
“Hey!” I hollered, waiving my right arm in the air. “Are you blind? Watch where you’re shooting!”
One thing was certain: the guy wasn’t hunting small game. The rifle shot sounded way too big for rabbit or ptarmigan. It was the unmistakable crack of a .223, which sounds heftier than a .22, but lacks the bigger boom of calibers .243 and larger.
I didn’t understand why he’d be carrying a .223. That round would disintegrate a little animal. And everyone knew the caribou were long gone — the Mulchatna herd was last spotted near the Kilbuck Mountains, in the far east. I’d written a story about it. Maybe he was hunting fox?
Whatever he hunted, he was one hell of a careless shot. He had my full attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I squinted again. It looked like he was shouldering his rifle a second time. I couldn’t tell where he was aiming. To be safe, I ducked down and peeked my head above the handlebars.
I heard that crack again, and the earth exploded five feet in front of the team, splashing snow onto the faces of Joanie and Biff.
My God, he really is shooting at me.
I snapped to my feet. “Stop shooting!” I shrieked, ten times louder than before. “Stop!”
Adrenaline gushed through my system. My heart pounded in my ears. I was hyper alert, like I’d just chugged a gallon of Red Bull through a beer bong.
Why is this happening? I wondered, terrified, scanning the tundra in all directions, looking for someone who could help. Because of the weed? Is the shooter Cal? Or is the shooter just some wayward lunatic? Or is this about something I’m too rattled to even think of?
I couldn’t hide anywhere. The tundra was so flat, I could practically see the back of my head in the distance.
I couldn’t turn us around either. The snow was way too deep off of the trail. The dogs would spend an eternity trudging through that white garbage. I’d need to get off the sled and guide them on foot. We’d be fish in a barrel.
I could only keep going, and pray the shots wouldn’t scare my lead dogs. If Joanie and Biff stopped running, the team stopped running. If the team stopped, my life stopped.
By now the shooter stood one hundred fifty yards to my right at two o’clock. He’d have his easiest shots in less than twenty seconds, when he’d be perpendicular to us, cutting his shooting distance to less than one hundred yards. That’d be a layup, no matter if he aimed with a scope or iron sights.
If the dogs can speed up and get through this stretch of trail, I might just make it, I thought. The dickhead with the gun already missed me twice.
“Hike!” I commanded the dogs. “Hike!”
I felt petrified, pissed off, confused, and frustrated all at the same time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I said to myself out loud.
Stupid weed, I thought. That’s what this is about. But why would this guy want to kill me over a few measly ounces?
The three sacks of pot were tucked inside the cinch pack hanging from the handlebars. I unzipped the cinch pack, pulled out one of the sacks, and held it high in the air. “See this?” I screamed. “You can have the weed! Just stop shooting!”
I was certain he could hear me. Sound travels forever on the tundra.
And immediately I deduced that the shooter certainly could hear me. Even at that distance, I could hear him chambering another round.
BANG!
Lunchbox, the wheel dog on my right, stumbled and his snout hit the snow. Poor Lunchbox blurted out a squeal and collapsed.
“Fuck you!” I yelled at the shooter. “You killed my dog! You killed Lunchbox!”
No time to grieve. My own life was at stake. I shoved the sack of weed back into the cinch pack and gripped the handlebars tight.
Lunchbox became dead weight, dragging and bouncing behind the team. The ten dogs in front of him continued running because he ran last in line and they didn’t see him. But his running mate, Diesel, began to slow. He repeatedly jerked his head to the left, agitated by the extra weight Lunchbox’s lifeless body had added to the right side of his collar. “Shake it off, Diesel! Hike!”
I figured the next bullet would hit me. The three shots had gradually gotten closer, which meant the shooter had been using trial and error to determine how far he needed to lead me. Now that he’d killed the dog closest to me, he needed only to aim a few more clicks to his left and I’d be toast.
I crouched down to make myself a smaller target. The shooter stood at three o’clock now, so if he wanted to take me out, this was his big chance. I was practically gift-wrapped.
BANG!
He missed again.
Or did he? I was intact, but I heard a yelp. I rose to my feet to assess the damage. My right swing dog, Boris — second in line behind the lead dogs — limped, favoring his back right leg. Drops of blood spilled onto the snow behind him like a trail of bread crumbs.
Despite his injury, Boris managed to scamper on three legs, fast enough to keep up. This didn’t surprise me. He was the toughest dog in the pack.
We were still in this. We were down a dog, and our pace had slowed, but we were in it.
Now I hated the guy as much as I feared him. The fuck stick killed one of my dogs and injured another. He would kill more of them if he didn’t get me first.
He has no right to do this, I thought. I wish I had a gun to even the fight.
I eyeballed the shooter. He stood slightly behind us, at four o’clock. With every step the dogs took, we were that much farther away from him. Another seventy-five yards and we’d be home free.
BANG!
He missed. By the time he chambered his next round and got another shot off, we might be in the clear.
I took off my right mitten and twisted my body toward the shooter. “Try this on!” I howled, waving my middle finger at him.
He leveled his gun. I ducked again.
BANG!
Another miss.
I rose and turned toward the trail, filled with hope. The dogs ran strong. They were tired and panted heavily, like distance runners sprinting the final leg of a mile-long race. But they weren’t letting up. I was proud of them.
I faced the shooter one last time. He had yet to connect with a shot from so far away, or at such a crazy shooting angle.
“You can’t hit dick!” I yelled with unrestricted fury, certain we were safe.
BANG!
Joanie let out a yelp and leaped straight up into the air, like a scared cat. She went limp before she could hit the ground. She landed sideways, and her body slid to a halt.
Every dog in back of Joanie smashed into one another from behind, like a multicar pileup. I heard clanking collars and the crunch of bone-on
-bone collisions.
Then I flew headfirst off the sled and landed in the middle of a furry heap of chaos. The dogs were all around me, tangled in the gangline, snapping, growling, whimpering, choking. I covered my face to avoid being bitten.
I swam my way out of the pandemonium. I tripped and fell onto my belly at the front edge of the pile, near Joanie. I crawled up next to her.
She was alive, but barely. Every time she took a breath, a puff of steam spurted out the exit wound near her left shoulder.
Joanie and I lay on our sides, half buried in snow, with our heads next to each other. I looked into her eyes and stroked the puffy white fur on top of her head. At that moment I didn’t care about the shooter. I was too concerned about Joanie’s life to worry about my own.
Because Joanie wasn’t a dog. She was a person. Back home in the dog yard, she’d get so excited to see me that she’d shake her butt with enough force to hip-check a hockey player through Plexiglas. And that smile of hers.
“I’m so sorry, girl,” I whispered. “I love you so much, Joanie. You’re a good girl. You’re such a good girl.”
She smiled at me, but life drained from her eyes. Another wisp of steam rose from the hole in her body, then nothing more.
I was defeated. After what had just happened, and what was probably about to happen, I didn’t care anymore. If the guy wanted to kill me, so be it. I could do nothing to stop him.
I rolled over in the snow, three feet from the dogs, and found the shooter. He was lumbering in my direction, high-stepping through deep snow, less than a hundred yards away. He wasn’t in any hurry. He knew it was impossible for me to run or hide.
The tangled dogs saw the shooter too. They stopped moving and grew silent. They sensed a mortal enemy approaching.
I stumbled to my feet and locked my eyes onto the shooter as he plodded toward me. The rising sun painted the left side of his body pink. He wore a gray sealskin parka, with a bushy hood covering his head and a furry scarf wrapped around his face. He swung his left arm to keep his balance through the snow, gripping his rifle at his right side.