Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  “You could have hidden it. And you could have rigged my snow machine.”

  “Just as easy as anybody else, I s’pose. But I didn’t.”

  “And Honey …” Ray paused, thinking. “You could have killed her.”

  “Nah. You cain’t fit me into that one.”

  “But you see what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

  “Huh-uh.” He shook his head, bunny teeth displayed prominently.

  “You can frame just about anybody if you glue together enough circumstantial evidence.”

  “Frame?” This seemed to perplex the deputy.

  Ray sipped his coffee. It was blistering hot, incredibly weak: amber, boiled water. “Yeah. When I didn’t freeze to death after my breakdown, whoever it is that’s running this show decided to frame me.”

  Billy Bob made a face at this. “Wouldn’t that mean that a whole buncha people are involved?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Some sorta conspiracy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Against you?”

  Ray shrugged. Spoken aloud it sounded ludicrous. Who would care enough to frame an Inupiat cop from Barrow? “What if we were getting close and we spooked the murderer?”

  “So he frames ya?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “If they got rid of you, there’s still me to deal with,” Billy Bob protested.

  “That’s the beauty of the frame,” Ray suggested. “It takes me out, supplies a perp, so you’ll stop looking.”

  Billy Bob weighed this, then retreated, relocking the outer door.

  “It’s possible. Don’t you think?”

  “I think you should try to get some sleep,” the deputy advised. Seconds later a radio came to life, country music making its way through the static.

  “Makintanz has something to do with it,” Ray thought aloud. “I’m not sure what, but … And Salome. Whoever she is, she fits in, somehow.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Ray groaned. Then, “I don’t have a motive.”

  “Yeah, I heard ya before.”

  “But I don’t.”

  “Sure ya do,” Billy Bob called back.

  “Oh, yeah? What?”

  “I don’t know. But ever-body’s got a motive.”

  “What?”

  Billy Bob showed up at the bars again. “Just about everbody has got somethin’ that really gets their goat.”

  “Is that right? And watching police shows on TV makes you an expert in these matters?”

  “Nah. I ain’t no expert, but I know people. Ever-one’s got things that bother ‘em.”

  “Such as?”

  “Ah … I don’t know. Could be any number a things. In yer case, maybe ya hate white fellas. Let’s say yer gosh awful tired of the way we been treatin’ yer folks and ya finally had a snoot full. Now yer gonna get us back.”

  “Uh-huh … sure. That’s it. How’d you know?”

  “There’s lotsa white folks back in Texas that got problems with black folks. Some of ‘em downright hate ‘em, just cause of the color of their skin. My great granddaddy was a Klansman.”

  “KKK?”

  “Shore-ly. He thought the blacks deserved to be taught a lesson, on account of the Civil War and all.”

  “The Civil War?”

  “Hey, now, the South’s gonna rise again. Or so a buncha them rednecks would like to think. They’re hopin’ slavery makes a comeback.” He shook his head at this, indicating that it was truly barbaric.

  “How do you feel about blacks?”

  “My Mama’s a Baptist. She raised me up to respect folks. Taught me that people deserved to be treated fairly, no matter what they look like or where they’re from. We’re all God’s children.”

  “Including Ezkeemos?” Ray asked sarcastically.

  “Yep.” Billy Bob sighed. “I hope you didn’t do it, Ray. And I’m gonna make sure you get a fair hearin’.”

  “Thanks,” Ray offered without enthusiasm.

  The deputy returned to the office area, leaving Ray to contemplate his fate. He finished his coffee, hoping the caffeine would somehow jump-start his brain and help him think of a way out of the mess. Setting the cup on the floor next to the bed, he called out, “What about the ulu I found in back of the roadhouse?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you think I’m stupid enough to keep that thing in my pocket? If I used it to kill someone, wouldn’t I hide it?”

  “Don’t know,” Billy Bob replied. There was a minute of silence before he added, “Course, if you did do it, pretendin’ to find the weapon would be the perfect cover-up.”

  Ray considered arguing with this warped line of thinking, but decided against it. Instead he asked, “Okay, then what about the gun?”

  “They found it with your stuff.”

  “No. The one I supposedly used on Honey?”

  “You musta hid it.”

  “I hid the gun, but not the ulu?. That doesn’t make sense.”

  There was no response.

  “It seems obvious that I didn’t do it.”

  Billy Bob failed to argue with this.

  “Don’t you think?”

  Travis Tritt was plunking out a tune, yodeling something about a cheatin’ heart.

  “I’m no more guilty than you are, Billy Bob.”

  More music.

  “I need to make a couple of phone calls,” Ray grumbled. “The captain will be thrilled to hear that we’ve made progress, that a suspect has been apprehended.” He punctuated this with a curse. “And coincidentally, I’m it.”

  Out in the office the front door opened, icy air hurrying back to Ray’s cell. He heard it slam shut. Billy Bob said, “Hey …” Then there was a dull thud, a clunk—something heavy hitting the floor. This was followed by a metallic click.

  The hair on Ray’s neck stood at attention. “Billy Bob?”

  Travis Tritt finished his song and Reba McIntire took over, describing her man in less than favorable terms. A drawer opened, shut. The floor creaked.

  “Billy Bob?”

  Someone groaned. There was another thump, the jangle of keys, then steps … wet boots on tile, coming in Ray’s direction.

  THIRTY-SIX

  RELAX. THERES PROBABLY a simple explanation. Billy Bob must have opened the front door to toss the last of the coffee out into the snow. Then he must have come back in and started doing something at the desk. Now he’s walking back here to … Go to the can again? He isn’t responding because … he’s tired of talking. Billy Bob tired of talking? The “hey” wasn’t a greeting. It was just … in response to a song on the radio, a song he really likes. The metallic click was only … a filing cabinet shutting, not a gun being cocked.

  The thoughts flashed through Ray’s head in the fraction of a second, moving like lightning from his brain to his heart in an attempt to squelch the panic that was already setting in. It was too late. Adrenaline was flowing freely, urged on by an irrational voice that was ordering him to act, to get out, to get away. From what or whom he didn’t know. It was instinct, a primitive drive for survival.

  He leapt from the bed and made a break for the bathroom. He was halfway down the short hall before his training ordered him to stop. The bathroom was a dead end. If there was someone out there, and if they had a gun, and if they were going to harm him, the bathroom would only make things easier for them. Spinning on his heels, he sprinted back into the cell. He was shaking, sweat streaming from his brow. He bent and rolled under the bunk, pulling the blanket down to cover his hiding place.

  This wasn’t much better, he decided, struggling to keep his breathing quiet and even. It might take slightly longer to be discovered, but would lead to the same result. If someone wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be in much of a position to prevent it.

  He heard boots approaching, heard the keys again. The bolt on the outer door slid back and it creaked open. He caught
a glimpse of the boots as they started forward. Sorrels. Like Billy Bob’s. Maybe he was suffering an anxiety attack. Maybe there was nothing wrong. Maybe …

  The series of calming conjectures ended when he saw the barrel of the gun. A rifle pointed at the floor. It bobbed as the boots addressed the cell, turned and began squeaking down the hall, toward the bathroom.

  The boots and the gun would return in a moment, Ray knew. They would find him cowering under the bed. And he would die.

  Do something! the voice inside commanded with rising authority. Ray could think of nothing to do, other than hold his breath and accept his destiny. According to Grandfather, death was a natural part of the ongoing circle of life, something to be embraced, even welcomed as a transition into another state of existence. But Ray wasn’t ready to enter another state of existence, especially not if the vehicle for the spiritual excursion was a slug of lead.

  Lifting the blanket, he eyed the outer gate. It was ajar. Though he couldn’t see the office area, he knew the front door was just a dozen yards past the bars.

  The plan hadn’t fully materialized, when he began to roll. An instant later he was on his feet, out of the cell, passing through the gate.

  A deep voice yelled. “Stop!”

  Ray ignored it, refusing even to look in the direction of the speaker for fear that it might slow his escape. He was halfway across the office, eyes fixed on the doorknob, when the first shot rang out. It sounded like a grenade in the small, confined space, thunder echoing from the hall, to the office, back to the cell. Behind him, on the opposite wall, the carafe of coffee shattered.

  “Stop!” the voice ordered again.

  Grasping the knob, Ray jerked the door back. There was another explosion, this one accompanied by a flash. Wood leapt from the door frame, chips and dust lifting into the air to form a miniature cloud. Ray caught a glimpse of the office as he launched himself sideways through the door: empty chair at the desk, figure standing wide-legged in the hall, rifle at the shoulder.

  A bullet sang past as he flattened himself against the plank porch. Another sought him out as he somersaulted awkwardly into a snow bank bordering the street.

  The voice in the office cursed vigorously. The boots began to run, the rifle no doubt accompanying them.

  Ray struggled out of the drift and took off at a sprint, directionless. It was dark, the surrounding buildings indistinct. He had run two blocks before the question of where he was going surfaced. Where did someone in trouble go in Deadhorse? The sheriff’s office, of course. Where did someone in trouble go when the sheriff’s office was out of the question?

  Dancing and sliding into a narrow alleyway, he gripped the edge of a featureless building and peered up the street. There was a dull sheen on the road, dim lights reflecting from the compacted ice. But no boots. No movement. Not even any sound, save the rising wind. An engine revved in the distance and a moment later a pickup lumbered around the corner a few blocks north, headlights rudely intruding upon the solemn night. It roared past, pistons chugging against the cold. Patrons from the roadhouse, Ray decided. Driving too fast for the conditions. But whether or not the drunks made it back to camp safely was the least of Ray’s worries at the moment.

  Ray resisted the urge to make another dash. The rifle was out there somewhere, probably waiting for him to expose himself. Until he could locate his opponent, Ray would stay put. As Grandfather had once taught him, knowing the enemy was half the victory. His eyes darted along the buildings, up and down the street, night vision improving to the point that he could make out signs: barbershop, grocer, bank …

  Across the road there was a crunch of snow compacting beneath a hard rubber sole. Ray squinted toward it. Purposefully looking away, he thought he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. A moment later a piece of the wall stepped forward like a statue coming to life. Dark parka, boots, mask, goggles … gun. Whoever it was, he had dressed for the occasion, ready and seemingly willing to spend some time in the elements in pursuit of his quarry.

  Ray, on the other hand, was already terribly cold. Without his parka and gear he wouldn’t last a quarter of an hour. He was shivering, the skin of his hands and face burning. The first order of business, he decided, other than to avoid getting shot, was to find shelter or to procure a parka.

  Turning, he gazed into the alley. It was like looking into deep space. There was no way to tell if it led anywhere. Jaw trembling, Ray debated his next move. Try the alley and get trapped? Break into the open and get shot? Stay hidden and become an Eskimo Pie? None of the choices seemed particularly attractive. Exploring the alley, however, was the least dangerous of the three.

  He took a few halting steps. A Dumpster materialized. Maybe he could hide in that. Sure. And freeze to death in a heap of ice-hard trash. What a way to go. Continuing on, he managed another dozen steps before kicking a garbage can. The resulting noise seemed obscenely loud, as if he were actually trying to signal his foe to come and get him. He hurried forward and found a gate. It was locked. There was a sound behind him: boots on snow. His numb fingers found the top of the fence and as he sent a leg up over it, the night erupted in bullets. Pellets of supersonic steel ricocheted off of the Dumpster and trash cans, others eating away at the fence. Ray fell over it and thudded to the ground.

  Surely someone would hear the gunfire and investigate, he thought as he braced himself for another lethal barrage. When it didn’t come, he felt his way into some sort of enclosure. Behind him the voice was cursing again. He could hear empty shells hitting the ground, the rifle being reloaded.

  His hands found a door. It was locked. He kicked it once, twice … It refused to budge. There was another sound. Close and guttural. A growl. Ray swore. Something got up, a tag jingled. The thing panted, then growled again.

  “Nice doggy,” he tried.

  This seemed to make it angry. It started barking at him.

  “It’s okay, doggy. It’s okay.” Ray backed away from the fanged phantom and felt something jab him in the back. Another doorknob. He tried it. Locked. Swearing, he kicked it.

  The dog lurched forward. A chain jangled against the side of the building.

  “Nice doggy.” He kicked the door again, again …

  Fido sounded rabid now, and Ray imagined that the creature was foaming at the mouth, delirious that some idiot had blundered into its domain. He aimed a kick in the dog’s direction and felt teeth catch his boot. Cursing, he fought to get it back. When the jaws released their grip, Ray leaned back and propelled himself into the door with his full weight. His shoulder met the wood and for an instant, the pain eclipsed the fact that the door gave. He sprawled to the ground, groaning.

  The gunman reached the end of the alley and started over the fence. Fido went ballistic. Turning its attention to the second visitor, the dog began barking as if it hadn’t eaten in weeks and a two-legged steak dinner was stopping by for a visit.

  Ray slammed the door shut and felt for a light switch. There wasn’t one. He wondered at the stench. It smelled like raw meat. He bumped against something heavy. It swung and bumped back at him. He suddenly realized that it was almost as cold in the building as it had been outside. A string tickled his cheek. He pulled it, and a single bulb flicked on, bathing the small room in a yellow glow. Ray found himself standing amidst a small herd of cattle, dressed out and hanging from ceiling hooks. A butcher’s freezer.

  Approaching a large metal door, he tried the handle. Locked. This was getting to be a little irritating. The handle had a place for a key. He glanced around, thinking that if he were a butcher, he would hide a key in there somewhere, just in case some bonehead locked himself in.

  Behind him, the dog continued its growling assault on the gunman. The voice cursed at the animal. A shot rang out. Silence followed. So much for Fido.

  Ray ran his hand along the top of the door. “Please let there be a key,” he whispered. The door to the outside creaked. Ray’s fingers met something, cold, hard, with a sharp edge: th
e key. He tried to pick it up, but fumbled it. The key hit the floor, bounced, hit the floor again, slid to the far side of the cramped room.

  The door creaked as the man attempted to force it open. Ray reached for the key. His hands were without feeling now. He used them like paws, lifting the key with both of them and aiming it at the lock.

  The alley door cracked loudly behind him. Ray clumsily fed the key into the lock. There was another crack as the gunman’s body hit the outer door. It seemed ready to give. Ray turned the key and pushed the chrome freezer door open. Behind him the alley door flew off of its hinges, setting the meat swinging in rhythmic waves.

  Ray removed the key, slid out of the freezer, and slammed it shut. His pursuer cursed and opened fire on the door. The bullets ricocheted repeatedly, but the lock held. The man swore again before clomping away, back into the alley.

  Ray tried to breathe, lungs incapable of processing the air he was gulping down.

  He flipped the light switch and stared at the shop’s workroom: chrome tables, sinks, an array of knives. He selected a knife, knowing that it would be of little use against a rifle, and started for the door. That’s when he noticed the coats. They were hung in a neat row on a series of pegs next to the freezer: thigh length, neon-green, down-filled, with hoods. They weren’t Eddie Bauer Arctic Circle parkas, but in a pinch … Beneath them two buckets offered canvas gloves, rubber gloves, down-filled nylon mittens. Ray pulled on a coat and grabbed a pair of mittens.

  Things were looking up, he decided. Given the appropriate shelter, he might not freeze to death. Now if he could just keep from getting blown apart by a bullet.

  The front of the shop was dark, and Ray left it that way. He snuck to the windows and peeked out. There was main street Deadhorse, still deserted despite the gunplay. Perhaps because of the gunplay.

  Ray glanced toward the sheriff’s office. The door was still standing open. What had happened to Billy Bob? He checked the other direction before unlocking the front door. After a deep breath and a mock prayer to whatever God might be listening, he pulled the door open. It was tempting to hole up in the warmth and relative security of the butcher shop. Relative was the key word, however. The bad guy was on his way to finish the job he had started. As soon as he made it around the block, he would rush the shop.