Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  “Down,” Ray ordered, as if they were movers carrying in a sofa. They placed their load, as delicately as possible, on the floor. It clanked on the tile.

  “We can’t leave him here. We need something to put him on.”

  “How about this?” Billy Bob tapped one end of a long table that had been folded and was leaning against a row of shelves. Ray took the other end and they swung the legs down.

  “We should cover it. When this guy thaws …” Ray made a face. Turning to inspect the shelves, he saw paper bags, toilet paper, a box of plastic garbage sacks, kitchen supplies … No tarps.

  “This’ll have to do for now.” He spread three garbage sacks on the table. “Okay, on three,” Ray said, bending to hoist the corpse. “One, two, three …”

  The compact body rose into the air, sank to the table and slid halfway down the sacks, spinning slightly—a human hockey puck. Ray nudged it back to the center.

  From behind them Simpson announced, “Jorge’s on the rig, finishing up his shift.”

  “We’ll need to speak with the men who found the body,” Ray said.

  Simpson examined his watch. “The crew will be off in … three hours.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Simpson explained with a thin smile, “you can talk to them then.”

  “Mr. Simpson,” Ray said, unzipping his coat and pulling at his mittens. “A man is dead. In your camp. We need to figure out what happened.”

  “I realize that,” Simpson replied with a nod. “But we can’t just shut everything down.”

  “You can if I tell you to,” Ray threatened.

  “Listen,” Simpson argued, “I’m not trying to be difficult. You have our full cooperation. It’s just that we can’t stop in the middle of an operation. Aside from losing me my job, it would be a disaster, financially speaking. We’re talking thousands of dollars down the drain. Maybe more—if the hole is compromised.

  “This has been a problem rig from the start. More problems and slowdowns than you can shake a stick at. I’ve been getting my butt chewed, long-distance, for three weeks. As of yesterday, we finally got things squared away. We’re at a critical stage. We gotta get the pipe in, past the permafrost as quickly as possible. If we don’t, it melts, and the hole goes soft on us. Might even soften the platform base.”

  Ray was about to debate the issue, to assert his authority, when Billy Bob stepped in. “He’s right. It would really screw things up to just up and stop drillin’. They have to finish.”

  Great, Ray thought. Just great. Bronco Billy is on Simpson’s side. Ray glared at the deputy, then at the supervisor. He was exhausted, in no mood to play games with a couple of good old boys. “What are we supposed to do until the shift is up?”

  Simpson adopted a victorious grin. “We’ve got beds right down the hall. You can get a little shut-eye. Cafeteria’s open twenty-four hours. Drop in there, get some coffee and grub. Watch a little TV in the rec room …” His arms flailed in a gesture of unbridled hospitality. “Make yourselves at home.”

  Ray had to admit, the bed sounded good. He studied his watch: 5:43. Still too early to check in with Barrow. “Okay. We’ll wait.”

  The smile grew. “Right this way, fellas.” Simpson led them back toward the cafeteria, to a door directly across from the office. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he unlocked it “Here we go.”

  The room looked like something you would find in a college dorm: 15 ? 15 with short-nap beige carpet. A bookshelf, a narrow desk, and two chairs were arranged near the center. A pair of single beds was pushed up against the far wall. Another wall was taken up by a small window and a closet. Next to the entrance was a door connecting to a bathroom.

  “It’s occupied,” Simpson explained, waving at the manuals on the desk and the poster of Shania Twain hanging over one of the beds. “But both of the men are off right now. One went back home to Tulsa. The other’s … in Seattle, I think.”

  “Do the men usually leave the state on their days off?” Billy Bob asked.

  “These guys work hard,” Simpson explained. “Three seven-day weeks, twelve hours on. Some of them pull five weeks. Then they get a week off. With the money they make, and believe me, they earn it, they can afford to go where they please.

  “Now, you fellas just relax. Catch a few Zs. Get a bite to eat. I’ll be back when the crew is off-rig.” Simpson wiggled his eyebrows at them before closing the door.

  “You get the feeling he’s giving us the bum’s rush?” Ray asked. He stepped to the bed and tested the mattress with his fingers.

  “Naw. He’s just tryin’ to do his job,” Billy Bob replied. After dumping his parka, and boots, he pulled off his insulated jacket and hopped onto the bed.

  “I’m dead tired,” Ray mumbled, sliding off his own gear.

  “Me too.” The deputy’s eyes were already closed, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t usually work nights. eight to five. That’s me.”

  Ray flipped off the light and crawled under the blanket.

  “I’m a morning person, really,” Billy Bob continued. “Not much fun in the evenings. Kinda a party pooper. After dinner, I don’t waste much time afore hittin’ the sack. Little music, a little readin’, and I’m out.”

  “Uh-huh …” Ray felt his muscles relaxing. His breathing slowed, becoming deep and regular.

  “I ‘member when I was a boy … back in Pecos … before we moved to Monahans … I loved gettin’ up in the mornin’. Sunshine. Birds singin’ …”

  “Mmm …”

  The account went on and on, Billy Bob’s lyrical southern drawl fading, wavering, growing distant. His words floated and dove in the darkness—night birds soaring gracefully on a warm summer evening down in Dixie. Under this spell, Ray’s tired mind released his body and raced toward the horizon, toward the world of dreams.

  FIVE

  IT WAS LIKE a scene from a movie: vivid, convincing, disturbing—full-color action set to a quirky, tangential script. A command performance, and Ray was the star of the show. The boy on the screen was him.

  It was autumn. They were in a dingy sod house. He and a woman. His mother. Except that it wasn’t his mother. Not really, and somehow he knew that.

  He was playing with an Eskimo yo-yo. Flinging it into the air, he lost his grip on the string and the two walrus-skin balls hurtled across the tiny room, knocking a pot from the fire. The woman swore at him and began kicking at the ground. Whirling, she reached down, took two handfuls of dirt, and pressed them into his eyes.

  The boy cried out and began scratching at his face, drawing blood.

  The scene dissolved like a mirage and it was winter. The house was cold. Their breath issued like smoke, gliding and then curling into the air. The woman looked angry, weary, a harsh expression on her haggard face. The boy sat in the corner, still and quiet. His eyes no longer seeing, his world black.

  There was a noise outside, snow crunching beneath heavy feet. Suddenly an arm thrust through the door: white fur bearing a fan of black four-inch claws. There was a tremendous roar, a deep voice shaking the walls. The woman gasped and picked up the boy’s bow and arrow. Handing it to him, she demanded that he kill the intruder.

  Terrified, he aimed it blindly, with trembling hands. The mother assisted him, pointing the arrow toward the bear—at its heart. She shouted something at him and he let the gut string go. The missile took flight, striking the bull’s-eye, entering the animal with a sickening whisk. The bear wobbled, then retreated, disappearing through the doorway with a groan.

  Outside, it stumbled only a few feet before collapsing, life escaping from its lungs in a final, throaty sigh. The woman cautiously pulled back the skin that formed the door and studied the bear motionless, blood flowing from its chest.

  “You missed it,” she lied to her son. She punctuated this with a curse, then kicked the boy in the stomach.

  He felt the blow, bent in half, fought for breath. From his vantage point, Ray studied the woman, suddenly realizing that it was
not the face of his mother or any mother. It was the face of … Margaret?

  Ray woke with a start. He was panting, heart thumping in his chest, his hair damp with sweat. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat up and rubbed his forehead, trying to calm himself. A stingy witch … a blind kid … a bear … Margaret … What a weird dream. What a nightmare! And somehow, it all seemed vaguely familiar. Had he dreamed it before?

  Toggling the Indiglo button on his watch, he squinted at the face: SAT 6:41. He had been asleep for almost an hour, and he felt worse than when he lay down. Dripping with perspiration, the blanket still tangled around him like a serpent, he felt winded, as if he had just completed a ten-mile run.

  A shower, he decided, would cure his ailment. Rising, he tiptoed to the bathroom, shut the door, and ran the water. It was hot right out of the faucet.

  As the steam rose, spray massaging his skin, he realized why the dream had caused a sensation of déjà vu. He hadn’t dreamed it before, but he had heard it. Many times. The storyline: the boy, the wicked mother, the polar bear … It was the first half of an old Eskimo fable Grandfather used to tell him.

  The tale went on to describe how the mother used the bear for food all winter, refusing to share the abundance of the catch with her son. When spring came, an enchanted loon spoke to the boy, calling him to a nearby lake. He told the boy to climb on his back, and then dove into the water four times. After that, the boy was healed. He could see!

  Returning home, the youngster saw the carcass of the polar bear. He also found that he had been sleeping in a squalor. He pretended that his eyes were still blind until his mother tried to serve him a bowl of rotten berries and fat. Throwing it down, he told her that he could see. In order to punish the woman for her selfishness, the boy took her out in their umiak. When a white whale surfaced, he threw a harpoon into its back and fastened the end of the line to his mother. The whale quickly pulled her into the icy water.

  In the days to come, the boy, now a youth, spent much of his time hunting seals. And every so often, he would see his evil mother, still tied to the whale’s back. He felt sorry for her and wished that she had not been so greedy and unkind.

  It was a depressing story. Ray had never liked it. Having lost his mama at birth, he had always cringed at the idea of a boy seeking revenge on his own mother, no matter how cruel she was.

  Stepping out of the shower, he considered the fable as he toweled off. Why had he dreamed about it? Better yet, why had Margaret shown up in it as the wicked mother, no less? Was his subconscious trying to tell him something? Did marrying Margaret represent the end of his freedom? Of his sight?

  He dismissed the ridiculous ideas with a shake of his head. Having taken Psych 101 in college, he had just enough insight into dream interpretation to be dangerous. In actuality, it was probably nothing more than a combination of stress and fatigue.

  He was in love with Margaret. He wanted to marry her. Didn’t he?

  After slipping into his clothes, Ray sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. It was going on seven. Margaret would be up, getting ready to go to the office. She was a social worker with the Alaska Native Assistance Association.

  Ray had met her in Anchorage, at the U. of A. It was clear from day one that they were soul mates. Both valued their heritage yet knew that the Inupiat must adapt to the rapidly evolving, modern world around them. To that end, they had returned to Barrow with the idealistic intention of leading the People into the new age. Ray’s contribution was law enforcement: keeping the People from self-destructing, teaching them to observe white laws. Margaret’s was economic: keeping the People from wasting away, making them aware of the vast resources of the Borough, State, and U.S. Government.

  They were laudable, even altruistic goals, and they offered financial rewards. As a rookie cop, Ray’s starting salary had been almost six figures. Margaret’s position with the ANAA was even more lucrative. Of course, the cost of living in Barrow was astronomical. Housing was outrageous, the cost of fuel, clothing, and food almost prohibitive. Still, thanks to their education and degrees, they were comfortable, stable enough to get married without living in poverty. And yet, Ray had been putting off the union for the past five years, hem-hawing, stalling, making up excuses, wavering on the brink of the great abyss: a lifetime commitment to one woman.

  Two weeks earlier, he had finally taken leave of his senses and stepped off the ledge, asking for Margaret’s hand in marriage. Since then, he had been doing a free fall: weightless, a man without a parachute watching as the ground raced toward him.

  He dialed the number and waited. It rang twice, then, “Hello?”

  Her voice had the curious effect of making him feel fully alive and hopelessly trapped at the same time. “Margaret?”

  “Ray? Are you back already?”

  “No. I’m on the Slope.”

  “The Slope? I thought you were going to your Grandfather’s.”

  “Yeah. Well, I was there last night, for a little while.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “They had a problem up here. A popsicle. The captain wanted me to check it out.”

  “That’s crummy. When are you coming back? You’ll be here for the shower tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “Shower?” Ray swallowed hard. “Oh … yeah. Sure.”

  “You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “Uh … No. Of course not.”

  “Raymond Attla!” she admonished, pretending to be angry

  Plans for the wedding shower had begun the very evening that Ray had proposed. All of Margaret’s family would be there: mother, sisters, aunts. It was going to be a gala affair, Barrow’s answer to the society scene. Ray’s attendance was non-negotiable.

  “I can’t believe you forgot.”

  “I didn’t forget.”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “I didn’t forget,” Ray argued.

  After a long pause, she sighed. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” he agreed. “I was thinking of you last night, while I was shivering in Grandfather’s old ivrulik. You’re the only reason I didn’t freeze to death.”

  She chuckled softly.

  “I’m serious.” This drew another laugh. It was a magical sound that made Ray’s chest tingle. “Don’t worry. Unless we hit a snag or something, I’ll be back in plenty of time. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you,” he told her.

  “Not as much as I love you.”

  “Wanna bet? See you tomorrow evening.”

  “Be careful.” she said.

  “I will.” He replaced the phone.

  “I didn’t know you was married.”

  Ray glared at Billy Bob. The cowboy was sitting upright in the bunk. “That was a private conversation.”

  Billy Bob shrugged. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  Ray picked the phone back up and dialed Barrow PD.

  “Got a picture?”

  “Huh?”

  “Of your wife.”

  “I’m not married … yet.”

  “Aw … engaged, huh? Well, congratulations.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” he muttered. “Betty? Ray here. The captain in yet?” He cursed her answer under his breath. “Tell him I need to talk to him … No … Looks like a popsicle … No … But the problem is, I need to get back to Barrow. Because Sunday,” he paused, glanced at Billy Bob, then whispered, “there’s a shower for Margaret and me … a shower.” When Betty insisted that he speak up, he nearly shouted, “A wedding shower!”

  Billy Bob chuckled at this as he made his way to the bathroom. “Ain’t women a hoot?”

  “Any news about the Anchorage PD? … Great … What’s the weatherman say?” Ray paused to swear. “Have the captain call as soon as he … Wait. He can’t call me. The radio’s out in the sled and I don’t know exactly where I am—or what number I can be reached at. I’ll just call him. Tell him I’m looking for him, though. Okay? … And Betty, this is im
portant.” He replaced the phone and stepped to the window. Outside the wind was blowing ferociously, driving powder pellets sideways. Snow devils churned away into the darkness. Even under the powerful halogens, it was a whiteout. They could have been aboard a ship or on an airliner and not known it.

  Ray heard the toilet flush. The water ran for a few seconds, then the bathroom door swung open and yellow light glared across the room.

  “I’m rarin’ to get some vittles,” Billy Bob declared with a lopsided smile. “How ‘bout you, partner?”

  Vittles? Ray thought. Was this guy for real? “Sure. Maybe by the time we finish eating, the crew will show up.”

  Ray slipped on his boots and they went down the hall, following the smell of eggs and bacon to the cafeteria. Despite the simple surroundings, the selection approached that of a Sunday brunch at a fine hotel: fried eggs, scrambled eggs, ham and mushroom omelets, bacon, sausage links, hash browns, toast, muffins, pancakes, juice, coffee. They fell into line behind a dozen hungry men in stained blue coveralls, and began inching their way along, filling their plates from the steaming chrome platters.

  Billy Bob took a seat at the end of one of the folding tables and dove in, a blur of silver as utensils cut, pierced, and stabbed at his breakfast. Ray sat across from him, suddenly feeling as though he hadn’t eaten in a week and was about to faint from starvation.

  The room was quiet, jaws working steadily, forks and knives clinking on china. It was five minutes before Billy Bob spoke.

  “Tell me about yer sweetie,” he asked between bites. Ray took a long swig of coffee. “My sweetie!”

  “Yer fiancée. What’s she like?”

  Ray shrugged and picked up his muffin. What was Margaret like? A kitten? A tornado? A child? A wildfire? “She’s … quite a lady,” he finally answered.

  Billy Bob nodded. “I’m gonna meet me somebody like that one a these days, yes sirree. There’s a woman out there for me. Just gotta find her, that’s all.” He inhaled a mouthful of eggs. “When you gettin’ hitched?”

  “Next month.”

  “What day?”

  Ray sighed. “The fourteenth.” He was trying to think of a way to change the subject when Billy Bob sat up straight, his eyebrows reaching for the roof.