Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  Reynolds removed his feet when he saw them and invited them to sit with a wave of his arm. “Yeah … No … I don’t know …” he said into the phone. “Well, the police are here so … Right … Okay … Yeah … I’ll call you back … Right.” Snapping the cordless unit shut, he closed his eyes and began massaging his temples. His lips drooped into an exaggerated frown.

  “What time did they find him?” Ray asked.

  The scowl took on a pained aspect. “‘Bout half an hour ago,” he answered without opening his eyes. “Couple guys were driving out of camp to check the ice depth, saw something in the snow. Turned out to be Driscoll.”

  “Leeland mentioned blood. They have a cause of death yet?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “He was curled up in a ball, stiff as a board. There was frozen blood, but they couldn’t tell where it came from. They’re gonna thaw him out and have Jorge look him over.” He ran a hand across his short, dark hair, then leaned forward and filled his mug from a coffee maker perched on a shelf next to his desk. “I’ve been working Slope security for almost ten years, eight with Arco, the last two with Davis.” He paused to curse. “I never seen anything like this. Men get killed once in a while. Working on a rig is pretty dangerous, especially up here. My people, they cart a corpse to Deadhorse and put it on a plane maybe once a year. And of course, we get brawls on a regular basis. Guys with attitudes, pulling two or four months on, they decide they don’t like each other and wind up settling their differences with a fist fight. We break ‘em up and keep an eye on them. One time an office geek tried to sneak out confidential papers, you know, industrial espionage, but on a real small scale. And there’s always the drugs and alcohol the men smuggle in. But this … Murder just doesn’t happen. I don’t know if it ever has. And multiples …” He swore again, angrily this time.

  “What’s the weather ree-port?” Billy Bob asked. “This thang lettin’ up anytime soon?”

  Reynolds blew air at this. “I wish. The storm’s supposed to move on by tomorrow. But there are two or three lined up behind it as always. We’ll probably have a day or so of calm, then the wind’ll start in again, from the other direction, of course, bringing all the snow back with it.”

  “You sound like you need a vacation,” Ray observed.

  “Or maybe a job change,” Reynolds reflected. “A decade in Purgatory takes it’s toll on a man. I don’t know how much longer I can last.” He looked at Ray. “How do you people stand it?”

  Ray shrugged. “Home is home.”

  “I guess. Me? I get paid real good and I do my off time in Kauai. Got a condo on Poipu Beach. If it wasn’t for that, I couldn’t bring myself to come back.” He muttered something, then added, “And now we got ourselves two murders.” This was followed by a curse.

  “It looks that way,” Ray observed. “How would you and the deputy here like to go up and get the full story on Driscoll?”

  Reynolds replied with a dry chuckle. “I’d love to. A hundred below, darker than pitch, blowing snow, zero visibility … There’s nothing I’d rather do than drive to an isolated rig out on the ice and check on a human Klondike bar.”

  “We need a time of death,” Ray said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Who saw him last, where they saw him, talk to the two men who found him, that sort of thing.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” Billy Bob asked.

  Ray sighed heavily. “I have an errand to run.”

  “‘N errand?”

  “Something that may or may not have a bearing on this case. But, I don’t know. I guess I just feel like I need to do it. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Mind if I ask what it is?” Reynolds prodded.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Ray promised.

  “Try me,” Reynolds dared, brown eyes scrutinizing him.

  Ray shrugged. “I’m going to visit a shaman.”

  EIGHTEEN

  A HALF MILE out of camp, Ray veered left, aiming the Polaris west down a trackless, single lane road. Reynolds had been wrong. Visibility wasn’t zero. It was more like twenty yards. The storm seemed as vehement as ever, with no intention of subsiding.

  As he navigated, squinting through the clear goggles to ensure that he stayed on the road, Ray mentally calculated the time it would take to make the trip to Nuiqsut and back. He had left the Davis facility after four. Add a round trip travel time of 3 hours, 30 minutes to humor the old man and glean anything of value from the shaman, that would put him in camp between eight and eight-thirty. Billy Bob and Reynolds would be back from the rig by then. They could trade information, go over the case, grab some dinner, and head for bed, for some actual sleep this time.

  Going to see a shaman. Ray shook his head at the idea. Was he nuts? The captain would have a stroke when he found out. If he found out. Ray wasn’t planning to mention it. He was too embarrassed, still aghast that he was answering Grandfather’s strange request. This trip had about a one in a million chance of being even remotely beneficial. It was a goose chase, an act of complete folly. Yet here he was, plowing away into the night.

  There was a bright side, he decided. At least he had managed to avoid returning to rig seventeen to examine another cadaver. That was something. Poor Billy Bob, or rather poor Reynolds, for having to ride with the talkative cowboy.

  Ten minutes later he met another Y. A sign noted that the left branch led to the Deadhorse Airport. An arrow pointed in that direction, but no distance was provided. The right branch apparently went nowhere. At least, according to the sign. It certainly looked forsaken: a flat, drifted surface that was virtually indistinguishable from the open spaces on either side. As Ray set off into the pristine powder, breaking trail on a road less traveled, lights materialized to the north. Arco, he decided. BP would be next. After that, he would be on his own, alone in the dark.

  The Polaris purred beneath him, its skis making neat parallel grooves in the light, airy snow. Thoughts of Margaret swept through his mind as he watched wind-driven crystals twirl and spin beautifully through the beam of the headlamp. He probably should have called her again, just to check in. She would be concerned if she didn’t hear from him soon. The shower was important to her, but the idea of her fiancé blundering around the Slope in a blizzard looking for a murderer would cause her to worry. Being a worrier wasn’t a good quality for a police officer’s wife. Wife … Ray swallowed hard. Marriage, commitment, children, responsibilities … These seemingly positive ideals were haunting him with increasing regularity. They were like two-faced gods: angels that promised to fulfill his dreams one moment, demons threatening to rob him of his manhood and enslave him the next. Either way, he felt certain that the relational journey he was about to embark upon, whatever its true nature, would irreparably change him and shape, if not dictate, his ultimate destiny.

  With that sobering thought rattling through his brain, Ray noticed the lights of the BP facility shimmering through the shifting veil of white. The dim, miniature galaxy twinkled, hid behind the storm, then fell away as the road twisted and traversed a low ridge. Ray encouraged the snow machine forward with a twist of the throttle.

  It wasn’t Margaret that bothered him, he decided, eyeing the speedometer. It wasn’t even the potential for suffocation in long-term monogamy. What concerned him most was himself. What if he couldn’t handle being a husband? Though he didn’t want to admit it, Ray was frightened. Despite his age and occupation, he was scared stiff. Instead of a brave policeman, he felt like a scared little boy, like a kid facing a tough exam and wishing he could simply run away from it.

  Cold feet, he told himself as he powered along the ice, arms fighting to keep the machine from sliding out of control. It was the sense of helplessness and fear men always experienced as they contemplated marriage. It was to be expected.

  This positive self-talk seemed to slow the rising tide of emotions, and Ray made a concerted effort to build on it, to focus on the reality of the situation. He loved Margaret. Margaret loved him. They would endure good times and ba
d, like all couples. Their union would be a celebration, if they chose to make it that, full of joys, sorrows, victories, defeats, and most importantly, shared experiences. Instead of facing life alone, Ray would know the deep satisfaction, and the price, of walking alongside another human being.

  No matter his current misgivings, Ray was as certain as a bachelor could be that he would never regret investing himself in another, pouring his energy and self into a woman who had captured his heart and now held it with gentle, tender hands close to her own. With her, he would know happiness, struggle, confrontation, delight. Without her, only emptiness.

  Gazing ahead, into the vacant darkness, Ray decided that he would choose the former and never look back. He was sure, determined, suddenly and inexplicably confident that his next steps would be into the path of wisdom and light.

  Nearly ninety minutes later, still buoyed by the intoxication of Margaret’s love and the expanding hope of their future together, he reached Nuiqsut. It looked like a ghost town: a deserted, unmanicured street, wind-ravaged shanty shacks in various states of disrepair, the skeletons of old cars, pickups, and snow machines peeking out from beneath snowdrifts. The only evidence of occupation came from the windows: sour, yellow light that seemed void of warmth or life in the raging storm.

  Ray left his mark on the village, thin rails in the soft-pack, straddled by a wide-stanced skier, and motored another quarter mile, then turned south, toward Grandfather’s ivrulik. Here the drifts were deep, snow seeking refuge in the dips and gullies. It was work steering the Polaris, avoiding crevasses that were poised to swallow up the trailing sled, yet Ray found it stimulating. The physical activity and concentration this required had an energizing effect on him. With the wind at his back, visibility seemed to stretch. For an instant, he almost thought he saw the stars overhead.

  He spotted Grandfather’s house from a hundred yards away. Dull light blinked at him through the blowing snow. Abandoning the trail, he set off across a lumpy ice field.

  Pulling the Polaris close to the building, he killed the engine and activated the battery. As he made his way toward the door, slipping and plodding, he heard something: a wolf call. It came from close range, too close. He was considering going back to the sled for his rifle when the wolf signaled its presence again, a mournful cry affirmed by an entire chorus of howls. Great. A whole pack. And they sounded like they were nearly upon him, probably circling in preparation for an assault. Usually wolves were skittish, afraid of humans. But if they were hungry enough …

  Heart pumping rapidly, he stared into the surrounding darkness, eyes straining to make out shapes and movement. Behind him, the glow from the ivrulik created a dim rectangular shadow, the door. It was about twenty feet away. Run for it?

  He had already taken two hurried steps toward refuge when another howl arose. Close. A matter of yards. It was followed by a round of frenzied yelping. Ray froze. Those weren’t wolves. He listened. Dogs! Trudging to the back of the house he poked his head around the corner of the building. Six dogs were lying on their haunches in the snow, all tethered to a wooden sled. The team hopped up in unison when they saw him, tails wagging enthusiastically. They yipped a greeting, pulling at their harnesses. The sled, anchored firmly in the ice, groaned as the dogs struggled to greet Ray. He shook his head at them, reaching to pet the lead. He was scraggly, with radiant blue eyes. Dogs! Ray chided himself for being so paranoid, for mistaking malamutes for wolves. Fatigue and the nature of this case were obviously effecting his powers of observation.

  “Raymond?” a gruff voice called.

  Turning, Ray saw someone approaching with a flashlight. It was a short figure clad in a thick, hooded fur parka.

  “Grandfather.”

  “You meet dogs. Good dogs.”

  “Yeah. Great dogs,” Ray muttered. “They scared me to death.”

  The old man laughed at this, his gray, weathered face stressed by a smart-alecky grin. “Maniilaq’s team.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “He inside. Much happy you come.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m overjoyed, myself.”

  The two of them left the dogs and returned to the front of the house. As they passed Ray’s rig Grandfather gave it a cursory pass with the flashlight, then pronounced, “Sled. What mess. Tarp loose. I no teach you better?”

  Ray tried to ignore the dig as he followed the old man inside. He was having second thoughts, wishing he had gone popsicle hunting with Bugs Bunny.

  It was warmer in the ivrulik, a balmy 40 degrees. Grandfather was playing the tukkuq, the host, running the generator to support a trio of ancient space heaters. They were more fire hazards than anything else, their exposed coils glowed a threatening orange.

  A kerosene lantern on a rod iron post provided illumination for the main living area. A man was seated in the decrepit armchair that Grandfather had salvaged from the dump, along with the rest of the furniture. The visitor was about Grandfather’s age, deep wisdom lines riddling his high, sloping forehead, running away into a mat of steel-gray hair. A worn caribou parka was draped over his shoulders, his feet covered by knee-high mukluks. Gloves hid his hands and arms to the elbows, both adorned with elaborate bone beads. A labret decorated his lower lip, the ornamental plug giving his face an unbalanced appearance. A drum sat next to the chair: seal intestines stretched across a thin wooden frame. Leaning against the wall was a gruesome mask with an exaggerated, frowning lower lip, to symbolize the presence and activity of bad spirits. The old man’s eyes were closed, as if he were basking in the heat and light of the lantern.

  Ray wanted to go right back out the door and start up the Polaris. This was ludicrous. Consulting a shaman. A dog-team-driving, labret-wearing shaman. If the guys back in Barrow ever found out, he would be a laughing stock.

  “Sit.” The word came quietly, but with authority, and was accompanied by a brief wisp of vaporized breath.

  Ray glanced at Grandfather and sighed, reminding himself of his job and mission. He was there to gather information. If that meant playing this ridiculous game, well, then he would play along with at least a pretense of respect.

  Taking a seat on the couch, he removed his gear and examined Maniilaq. The man seemed to be thinking, or sleeping. His breathing was deep and regular, his head slightly bowed. Ray checked his watch and tried to be patient. He allowed the silence to stretch, listened as the wind shook the ivrulik, looked to Grandfather. The old man had his eyes closed too. Praying? To whom?

  The Inupiat didn’t have a central God, like the Christians. Their religion consisted of a network of taboos intended to appease a menagerie of animistic powers, all related to sustenance and season: the spirit of the hunt, the spirit of the fish, the spirit of the sky, the spirit of the whale, of the caribou, of the walrus, various weather gods. It was built on the idea that if you said the right things, to the right deities, at the right times, they might have pity on you and not let you starve or freeze to death. The key word was might. No matter how you attempted to humor them, there was still a good chance that they would allow you to perish. There was no rhyme or reason to their actions. They were fickle and uncaring, unmoved by human anguish. In the absence of a true religion, the People had set up a vague system of supernatural causes and effects that all hinged on one emotion: dread. That they had suffered under this sick delusion for so long amazed and angered Ray.

  At least the white man’s religion was less arbitrary. It too seemed to be fear based, revolving around the threat of going to Hell. From what little Ray had absorbed from Margaret, the Jesus church was concerned with behavior, with doing good deeds and not doing evil ones. But at least Christianity involved only one idol. It seemed more logical to tremble before a single angry God than many malevolent, unpredictable ones. Actually, in Ray’s opinion, there was little logic in religion of any variety. Whatever the label, it all came down to superstition.

  Maniilaq’s head tilted back and he moaned pitifully. It reminded Ray of a caribou that had been d
owned by a bullet and was in the process of dying. The cry soon assumed a more regular form, developed a beat, then took on a melancholy melody. Inupiat lyrics followed. Ray struggled to translate, his mind recognizing the tune, but fighting to place it. He had heard it before … at … a funeral! It was a dirge for the dead! The words said something about … the spirits descending … in the form of ravens … and whisking the deceased away to … Ray missed the punchline. Heaven or the next world. Something like that.

  As he glared at the shaman, already growing weary of the theatrics, he wondered if going to church with Margaret could be any worse than this. Church seemed relatively painless. Boring but painless. But this … As if listening to Grandfather drone on about the old ways wasn’t bad enough, here he was suffering through an ancient rite: observing an Eskimo funeral, minus the deceased, conducted by a known fake. What a waste of time.

  When the shaman’s lament subsided, Ray made the most of the opportunity. “Grandfather said you might know something about …” That was as far as he got. Both Maniilaq and Grandfather cut him off with stern looks. They appeared to be offended, insulted, their eyes raging against Ray’s insolence.

  “Adiii!” Grandfather ordered. “No talk!”

  Ray raised a palm toward them in a gesture of goodwill. The men scowled at him, then closed their eyes again. The shaman took up a new chant. It had to do with an evil hunter. That was all Ray could make out.

  He checked his watch again, sighed, leaned back and stared at the ragged ceiling. An aroma caught his attention. It was bitter, strong … coffee! Grandfather was brewing coffee. Straining, he heard the soft hiss of the propane stove. This really was a special occasion. Grandfather didn’t waste propane on just any guest.

  Leaning forward, Ray rose and took a careful step toward the kitchen. He was almost at the doorway when the old men jerked alert, scanned the room, and caught Ray red-handed. He smiled at them thinly. “Coffee?”