Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

Ray shook off the preposterous line of thinking. Lack of sleep, a possible concussion, and hunger were wreaking havoc with his logic. Why would Billy Bob kill a man and cut him up, Eskimo-style? Answer: he wouldn’t. And even if he did, which he didn’t, how could he manage to coordinate a cover-up like this? Answer: he couldn’t. He probably wasn’t smart enough. And moving the body … That would require assistance—a partner. Sure. Why not a gang? Why not a host of conspirators? All of Davis Oil was probably caught up in this. The government too, even the CIA. It was no doubt a huge conspiracy, a plot against Ray personally. An attempt to drive him crazy.

  The last sentiment was at least feasible. This whole mess was starting to make him crazy.

  In the absence of bloody footprints leading to the murderer or arrows in the snow pointing toward the missing body, Ray returned to the camp. He found Billy Bob in the security office with Reynolds and Leeland. Reynolds was on the phone.

  Billy Bob looked up at him expectantly. “Any-thang?”

  Ray shook his head. “What about Weinhart?”

  “He was on the plane,” Reynolds answered glumly. He seemed disappointed.

  Leeland handed Ray a list of the passengers, pointing out Weinhart’s name helpfully.

  “You talk to him?”

  “No,” Reynolds grunted. “He’s on vacation. Skiing in Colorado.”

  Before Ray could ask his next question, Reynolds answered it. “Condo. No phone. We’re trying to get a message to him.”

  “Is he married?”

  Reynolds shook his head at this. “Divorced. His ex didn’t know where he was—didn’t care. I’m guessing they’re not friends.”

  “What about the pilot?”

  “What about him?”

  “He see Weinhart get on?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “I haven’t talked to him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think about it. Besides, Houston has about a half dozen or so pilots. They rotate. I’m not even sure who was flying the jet on this trip.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I guess. But whoever it was, they aren’t going to remember who was on board.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re pilots. Not stewardesses. They don’t greet the passengers personally.”

  “Can you just check?”

  “Yeah …” Reynolds nodded to Leeland, silently delegating the chore. Leeland picked up the phone and started dialing.

  “What else can we do for you?” Reynolds asked rather sarcastically.

  “Now that you ask …” Ray fell into a chair next to Reynolds’s desk. He was exhausted, his head pounding again. It took effort just to think. “Send someone out to look for the corpse.”

  Reynolds stared at him. “You serious?” He chuckled, revealing a mouthful of gleaming teeth—a jolly barracuda.

  “Maybe it fell out on our way in,” Ray suggested halfheartedly.

  “Fell out?” Reynolds’s thin features contorted.

  “The only other alternative is that someone here in camp took it.”

  This had a sobering effect on Reynolds.

  “Can you send a truck out to check the road?”

  “You’re asking me to deploy my people … in this?” Here he aimed a thumb at the window. “To scan snowdrifts for a wayward corpse?”

  “Right.”

  He rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, then picked up the phone. “Okay. But chances of finding it are—”

  “Slim. I know. But I’d hate to start accusing Davis Oil workers of stealing it, if the thing just bounced out of the sled.”

  Reynolds began making the arrangements, barking orders to Pilgrim II. As Ray waited, he glanced over at Billy Bob. The deputy was leaning against the wall, eyes drooping. He looked as tired as Ray felt. He was also a little pale. Probably from hunger. Ray tried to find guilt or duplicity in the young man’s face. It either wasn’t there, or Billy Bob was one heck of a poker player. Was the country hick coldhearted enough to snuff out a human life and then implement a calculated strategy for avoiding detection? Was it all an act—the drawl, the naiveté, the stupidity? Was Bugs Bunny actually an unconscionable sociopath? Ray didn’t think so. Maybe Yosemite Sam. But not Bugs.

  “There.” Reynolds replaced the phone and looked at Ray. He seemed resigned to the role of support person. “Now what?”

  “I could use some parts for my machine,” Ray said. “If you don’t mind, I could cannibalize one of the Yamahas out in that shed.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Reynolds mumbled. Phone in hand again, he punched buttons. “Al? There a snow machine in Bam two. It’s a … What kind?”

  “Polaris.”

  “Polaris. See if you can get it running. Priority. Thanks.”

  “Anything else on your wish list, Officer Attla?”

  Ray smiled at him. “A phone and a meal.”

  “Probably want a room too, huh? Bet you two are beat.” He pointed across the office. “There’s your phone. Hit nine to get out of camp. Cafeteria’s that way,” he gestured. “Turn right at the end of the hall. Go past the gym and the theater. Can’t miss it. I’ll arrange a place for you to bunk down.”

  “Thanks.” Ray stood and faced Billy Bob. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria. I have a couple of calls to make.”

  The deputy nodded slowly, sleepily, and staggered for the door—a member of the walking dead.

  Ray took up the phone and tried to decide who to call first: the captain or Margaret. Neither one would be fun. The captain would chew him out for losing the body. Margaret would be concerned that he wasn’t en route to Barrow yet. If he told her about the incident with the winch she would be worried, and might even start crying. He weighed the choice: get chewed, or be cried at.

  He decided on the latter and placed the call. As it beeped through, he checked his watch. 1:52. The line rang once, twice, three times … On the fourth ring, Ray breathed a sigh of relief. He heard the click, then Margaret’s recorded voice telling him to leave a message.

  “Hi, honey. I’m still in Prudhoe. Everything’s fine. I’m trying to get this thing flanged up soon and get back home. I love you and I miss you.”

  Hanging up, he reflected on the truthfulness of his words. Yes, indeed he loved and missed her. Yes, he honestly hoped to get the case closed soon. He hadn’t lied. Not exactly. But everything wasn’t fine and making the party was looking more and more like a long shot.

  He dialed again and was gloomily considering the repercussions of missing the shower, when Betty answered.

  “Barrow Police.”

  “Betty? Ray.”

  “Hey there. What’s shaking?” “Not much. The captain around?”

  “No. He’s still at lunch.” Her voice shifted, taking on a regal tone. “Dining with the mayor.”

  Another bullet dodged. “Tell him I’m in Prudhoe. And …” Ray considered the missing corpse. Not the sort of thing you told someone via phone message: I lost the dead man. “That’s it. I’ll call him later.”

  “Okay. Say, the weather report says that this storm is gonna get worse. So you take care of yourself, all right?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I will.”

  Ray replaced the receiver, nodded to Reynolds and Leeland, both of whom were involved in their own phone conversations, and set out for the cafeteria. He was feeling good, better at least, buoyed by two near misses. There was something slightly sick about that, about getting a rush out of avoiding conflict and confrontation. But at the moment, he didn’t really care. He was merely relieved. A good meal, a few hours rest, and he might feel almost human again.

  Ray took a right at the end of the corridor, as instructed. He passed an Olympic-sized pool and watched as two human fish gasped, gulped, and splashed their way from one end to the other. One was overweight by a good fifty pounds, the other rail-thin: a beluga whale and a sea snake with goggles.

  Just past the pool was the gymnasium. A dozen men were playing basketball, grunting
and sweating as if they were engaged in an NBA Championship Final. The skins scored a backdoor layup and the shirts were regrouping, when Ray spotted the racquetball courts. Beyond these was the weight room. Separated from the hall by clear plexiglass, it displayed bodybuilders like animals in a zoo exhibit. Aside from a few skinny runts that seemed determined to become the next Charles Atlas, there were some who rivaled Leeland in size and sculpture. The scene reminded Ray of something out of a prison movie: men intent upon inflating their bodies to almost cartoonish proportions.

  The clatter of silverware signaled his arrival at the cafeteria. It was twice the size of the modest one at the rig, three times as elegant. For starters, the floor was covered in low-pile gray carpet. A score of men were in various stages of eating, moccasins and polar fleece slippers padding from the meal line to the polished wood tables. The plates were ceramic, the glasses real, not plastic. Inset studio lights and a forest of potted ferns in gleaming brass pots gave the room a warm, comfortable feel. It was almost like a bona fide restaurant.

  A gangly arm waved at Ray. He followed it to a table on the farside of the room.

  “Have a seat,” Billy Bob offered, smiling. His face had color now. In front of him was a half-empty plate and an empty mug. “Talk about hittin’ the spot …” He whistled at the food. “I’m gonna live.” “Where’s the line start?”

  The deputy grinned and pushed a nearby plate at Ray. “Already took care of that.”

  Ray gazed hungrily down at the selection: club sandwich, pickle, steak fries, potato salad, coleslaw, roll, baked beans … It looked delicious.

  Billy Bob hopped up just as Ray sat down, hurrying toward the serving line. Ray ignored him, turning his attention to lunch. By the time the deputy returned, two minutes later, Ray had confirmed that it did, in fact, hit the spot. The sandwich was one of the best he had ever tasted, the surrounding side dishes worthy of a gourmet feast.

  “Here.” Billy Bob set a steaming mug in front of Ray. “Wait till you sample that. We’re talkin’ some decent joe.”

  Ray set his fork aside and took up the mug. He sniffed it critically, then sipped. It was hot. It was strong. It was heaven. “Man, these people know how to do lunch.”

  “I’ll say.” Billy Bob dove back into his meal.

  “Once we eat ourselves into a new pant size, let’s hit the sack. I think we’ll both perform better after …”

  Billy Bob was shaking his head. “Cain’t.”

  “Huh?”

  “The two men responsible for checkin’ the pipes? They’re goin’ back on shift at three—headin’ to a rig about fifteen miles out. If we’re gonna talk to ‘em, we gotta do it now.”

  Ray sighed at this, frowned, took another long draw of coffee.

  “Maybe they can help us figure out who it was that got himself kilt,” Billy Bob added.

  “Maybe.” He spooned in a mound of beans and washed it down with more coffee. “Who are they?”

  “Frank McMillian and Eric Ford. Roustabouts. They’re in their rooms right now. Leeland said he’d let ‘em know we was comin’.”

  Ray glanced at his watch and sighed again. “All right. But after we talk to them, murder or no murder, missing corpse or no missing corpse, I’ve got to lie down … before I fall down.”

  “I’m with you, partner,” Billy Bob replied between bites. “I’m with you.”

  FIFTEEN

  “LEELAND SAID BOTH of ‘em was on the second floor,” Billy Bob reported, starting up the steps. “Room 232. Supposed to be down at the end of the hallway.” The cowboy aimed a thumb in the air like a disinterested hitchhiker.

  Ray followed him up the stairs, silently hoping this wouldn’t take long. Despite the meal, or perhaps because of it, he was about ready to collapse. The coffee had served only to make his head pound with greater vigor. He felt heavy, his legs aching. The latter happened whenever he allowed himself to become totally depleted. It was a signal warning him that he needed to seek out a dark, quiet place and assume a horizontal position for an extended period of time before he keeled over—or made some grievous error of judgment.

  When they reached the top of the stairwell, they found themselves in a lounge area. It was comfortable, overstuffed couches and chairs forming a semicircle around a big-screen television. Ten or so men were present, eyes glued to the 4 ? 4 square of electric light as uniformed warriors streaked down the ice.

  Ray glanced left, then right. The hall stretched in both directions, the closest door marked MAINTENANCE.

  “Which way to room 232?” Billy Bob asked.

  It was bad timing. His words fell on deaf ears, the men leaning forward in their seats, shouting their encouragement as one team, apparently the team of choice, launched a fast break. A slap shot made it past the defensemen and struck the post, sending the goalie into a frenzy of arm and leg flailing maneuvers. Curses arose from the audience.

  The puck was ringing the boards, a half dozen players converging on it like angry bees, assaulting each other with punishing checks when Ray repeated the question. “Which way to room 232?”

  Only two men even bothered to look away from the game. One of them nodded to the left before returning his attention to the screen. The other gave them a suspicious glance, as if he wasn’t sure they were worthy of the information. Finally he grunted, “Down at the end.”

  As they walked along the hall, inspecting door numbers, the noise of the game fell away, replaced by another sound. It was random, irritating, like static issuing from a demon-possessed radio, one with no hope of ever finding a station. It was only when they were nearing the final foursome of doors that the noise took on a semblance of order: individual screeches forming an electric, distorted whole. It reminded Ray of tomcats fighting in a chimney.

  Billy Bob stopped in front of room 232, stared at the door thoughtfully. “Stevie Ray Vaughn,” he announced, eyebrows raised.

  “Huh?”

  “Stevie Ray Vaughn.”

  Ray blinked at him, then tapped the number on the door. “232. It should be Ford and McMillian.”

  “No. The music. It’s ‘Pride and Joy.’”

  “Music?” He listened, his ears straining to make music out of the discordant shrieks. A single note hummed into a feedback squeal. Silence reigned for a second or two. Without warning the song began again, from the top.

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, what?” Ray asked.

  “Listen. No drums. No bass. No backup.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s not a CD. Somebody’s playin’. And whoever it is, they’re darn good.”

  Why would anyone intentionally play that? Ray felt like asking. Instead, he rapped on the door.

  The cats continued their frantic battle.

  He knocked again, harder.

  There was an abrupt ceasefire, and after one final clunk of fuzz the door swung open.

  “Yeah?” The voice was annoyed, the face that went with it clearly offended by the interruption. Both belonged to a man in his mid-thirties. He was average height and build with neatly cut hair, a well kept beard and round, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked almost scholarly, not the wild rocker Ray had envisioned to be responsible for the cacophony.

  “We’re looking for Eric Ford and Frank McMillian.”

  “Well, you found ‘em.” The door opened wider and the man deserted them, returning to a gleaming brown guitar perched on a stand. Picking it up, he strapped it to his chest and began fiddling with the knobs of a suitcase-sized amplifier. Satisfied, he toggled a control board on the floor with a shoeless foot. The man plucked a string, twisted a machine head, tuning his instrument as if Ray and Billy didn’t even exist.

  Without warning he struck out on another barn burner. Ray could actually feel the notes impacting his chest, shaking his heart. He watched as the man’s fingers performed a manic dance on the fingerboard, bending the strings and notes out of shape.

  “‘Voodoo Chile,’” Billy Bob shouted into Ray’s ear.
r />   Ray shrugged. Whatever. He reached a hand up, attempting to pacify the cats.

  The man looked at him, played another roller coaster rift and silenced the guitar with a tap of his foot.

  “Are you Ford or McMillian?” Ray asked.

  “Ford,” he said, eyes on his instrument. His foot pressed a new button and a pair of harmonic notes rang out. Another tap and they faded away. He nodded toward a lump in one of the bunks. “That’s Frank over there.”

  Ray stared incredulously, amazed that anyone could sleep through Ford’s six-stringed barrage. “Don’t you get complaints about the noise?”

  Ford looked at him like he was insane. “Noise?”

  “How can people sleep?”

  “I play through my amp from two to three. Everyone knows that. The rest of the time, I use headphones.”

  “What about your buddy here?”

  “Earplugs,” Ford told him. “The kind they use on airport tarmacs. I bought them for him for Christmas.”

  “You’re good,” Billy Bob blurted out. “Real good.” He was obviously in awe of this guy, his expression one of admiration. “Where’d you ever learn to play like that?”

  “Austin,” Ford replied. “I’m not that good, though. My chops are okay. I can do some machine-gun blues, mimic a few of ol’ Stevie’s tunes.” He lifted a book of tablature toward them. “But I’m not original. Don’t have my own sound. Haven’t written any music. I just like to play. It’s the way I get through these long tours.”

  “How long you up for?”

  “This time it’s twelve weeks.” He paused, then added, “I need the money. Got alimony payments, child support. And this gear isn’t cheap.” He patted the guitar affectionately. “Plus I’m saving to go to music school. Maybe. Just an idea. Figure I might study music theory and jazz for while. See if I have any real talent.”

  Ray dug the sketch out of his pocket. “This face familiar?”

  Ford leaned on his guitar and studied it. “Don’t think so. Should it be?”

  “This man was found dead in a piece of casing up at rig seventeen.”

  “Hmph.” The mustache turned down. His left hand began to tap the strings.