Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  He felt his body rise and squinted at his assailant. The masked face offered no expression. The hands that held his shirt were mechanical, void of mercy or care. He was dragged to the snow machine and propped against it.

  The man cursed and began hunting for the rifle. When he returned thirty seconds later, Ray was still fighting for air, his body unable to offer the slightest rebuttal. The man fished a box of shells out of a tiny compartment on the snow machine and started to reload.

  As he watched, Ray wondered if there really was a God. It was a strange thought, and yet a vital one at that instant. In a matter of seconds, he would find out. He suddenly wished that he had agreed to let Margaret teach him how to pray. No matter what the truth turned out to be, you couldn’t be too careful. Maybe there was no God. Maybe it was a fable, just like Grandfather’s stories. On the other hand, if there was a Supreme Being, why not make friends with him? Just in case.

  Ray reached up and fondled his ponytail. The crucifix was still there.

  The man tossed the box aside.

  “Forgive my sins,” Ray muttered.

  The rifle snapped shut.

  Ray removed the clasp and gave the crucifix a squeeze. Even with frostbitten hands, the cross hurt. It was sharp, almost dangerous.

  The man stepped forward. At point blank range, he raised the rifle, apparently ready to end Ray’s life without further delay. Ray jerked forward and jabbed the crucifix into the man’s leg. It was impossible to tell if it had penetrated the RefrigiWear suit, until the man yelped and bent to grab at his leg. This brought his face within reach. Ray stabbed him in the cheek, the cross making a jagged gash in the neoprene and coming out tainted with blood. He swung again and caught an eye. The rifle tumbled away as the man howled in pain.

  There was a noise off to the right. Another plane? A truck? Ray couldn’t tell, and didn’t particularly care. There wasn’t time to survey the scene. The man was wounded, but would recover quickly.

  Ray managed to drag himself to the edge of the circle of light and was trying to stand when he heard the rifle hammer click into a cocked position. He looked back and saw the barrel rise to eye him. The man wavered. Ray held his breath.

  Ready or not, God. Here I come.

  There was a thunderclap, the sound of breath departing, of life leaving a human being. The body tensed, relaxed … and fell.

  Ray stared, dumbfounded. He glanced around, his mind struggling to make sense of what had happened. The throbbing in his arm told him that he was still alive. His eyes told him that the gunman was dead.

  Was he dreaming again?

  THIRTY-NINE

  “YA OKAY, PARTNER?”

  Ray smiled at the drawl. It was beautiful. Angelic. A voice from heaven.

  “Reasonably,” he responded.

  Billy Bob came crunching in from the shadows. He stepped up to the motionless body, kicked the rifle away, then attended to Ray. “You look like heck.”

  “I feel like heck,” he assured him.

  The deputy ripped the parka from the limp gunman and wrapped it around Ray. As he did, he noticed the blood on Ray’s shoulder. “Yer hit.”

  “Yeah. It’s nothing a few stitches can’t remedy, but …”

  When the hood was on and fastened, Billy Bob helped him up. “Let’s getcha in the truck, getcha warmed up.”

  Ray paused as they reached the body. Bending, he pulled up the mask.

  “Reynolds?” the deputy gasped. “Is he …?”

  After checking for a pulse, Ray nodded. “You’re a good shot.”

  Billy Bob’s shoulders heaved jerkily and he dove away. Ray heard Velcro being ripped apart, then there was the gurgling sound of the deputy expelling his lunch. When his stomach was empty, Billy Bob returned, breathing heavily, and assisted Ray to the Explorer.

  “First time you ever shot a man?”

  “Uh-huh,” Billy Bob grunted. He tweaked the heater controls to high.

  “I’ve never had to do that,” Ray confessed. “I can’t imagine that there would be any satisfaction in it.”

  “Nope … Shore ain’t.” He sighed heavily. “Should we load him up?”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Ray retorted. “The city cops will be here soon, won’t they?”

  “Supposed to be.”

  “Let them clean up the mess.”

  Billy Bob nodded and shifted into gear. The Ford’s studded tires began fighting for traction. “Reynolds …” he muttered. “Why in the world would he kill three people?”

  Ray considered this. He tried to imagine the military-style security guard using an ulu to set the spirits of his victims free. He couldn’t.

  “Musta been a real sicko.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t think he killed them.”

  “Ya don’t?”

  Ray’s limbs were starting to thaw, causing the pain level to escalate. Grimacing, he said, “He’s not our murderer.”

  “But he tried to shoot ya!”

  “I realize that. And he may have been in on the frame-up. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I think he’s just a qaspeg.”

  “A what?”

  “The shell that goes over a parka to keep it clean.”

  “Ya lost me.”

  “Someone else did the killing, and Reynolds was supposed to protect their identity. So he framed me and then decided, or was pressured into, finishing the job.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were afraid that we might track down the killer.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.” Even as the words were tumbling from his still frozen lips, a name materialized in his mind: Salome. It was followed by a phrase that Maniilaq had spoken: She betray him … The anjatkut had presumably committed the murders because Salome had betrayed him. If Salome was a prostitute, who did that make the anjatkut? Someone, a Native, according to Maniilaq, with enough clout to enlist others to help him cover it up. Makintanz? But why? Why would he kill Weinhart, Driscoll, and Honey? Why would Reynolds help him cover his tracks?

  “You all right?” Billy Bob wanted to know.

  It came again: Salome. Ray silently cursed the name. What did a phantom prostitute have to do with Chief Makintanz?

  She betray him … dishonor him … in beauty. Make much angry.

  They had just reached the haul road and Billy Bob was in the process of coaxing the Ford up onto it when everything inexplicably fell into place.

  “Go the other way!” Ray ordered.

  “But the camp is—”

  “We need to go to the airport.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Ya need medical attention, Ray,” Billy Bob reminded him.

  “I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer.”

  The deputy frowned at him, shrugged, and begrudgingly twisted the steering wheel. “Yer the boss.”

  The Explorer bumped onto the road, shocks groaning. “Faster,” Ray insisted.

  “Why? What’s the big hurry?”

  “The storm’s about over. The airport’s opening.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I could hear a jet turbine running.”

  “So?”

  “So that jet will be winging out of here any moment, if it hasn’t already.”

  “So?”

  “So I may be totally off base,” Ray thought aloud. “It wouldn’t be the first time. But I have a hunch that someone special will be on the first plane out.”

  “Who?”

  “The person who prompted the murders.”

  “Ya sure about that?”

  Ray shook his head. “No.” Grabbing the radio mike, he tried to reach the Deadhorse tower. Billy Bob stopped him. “Don’t bother. Not the right frequency. Call ‘em on the phone.” He pointed to the glove compartment. Ray fished the phone out, flipped it open, and cursed. “I don’t have any idea what the
number is.”

  “That’s okay,” the deputy drawled. “We’re here.” The Ford bounced into a tiny parking area bordering two trailers: the terminal. He slowed to park, but Ray grabbed his arm.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing through the windshield. A 737 was taxiing away, lights blinking, jet fans spinning.

  “We’re too late.”

  “No we’re not. Catch it.”

  “Catch it? We cain’t catch an airliner.”

  “Try.”

  Billy Bob sighed and shifted, pushing the pedal to the floor. The Explorer sped through an open chain-link gate and onto the ice-encrusted tarmac.

  The 737 reached the end of the runway and made a slow, ponderous turn, preparing for takeoff.

  “We’re too late,” Billy Bob repeated.

  “No we’re not.”

  “But—”

  “Cut it off.”

  “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “Do it.”

  “You wanna play chicken with a jet air-plane?”

  “Do it.”

  Billy Bob directed the truck across a shorter landing strip and turned to face the jet. The Explorer skidded, then started down the runway, aiming for the nose of the 737. Undaunted, the plane roared at them and started forward.

  “Ya sure about this, Ray?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are we doin’ it?”

  “Because we don’t have the sense God gave caribou.”

  “Cari-what?”

  Ray swallowed hard as he glanced at the speedometer, 70 mph, then up at the approaching hulk of winged steel. “Is it just me, or is it warm in here?”

  “He’s not gonna stop!”

  “Yes, he is,” Ray assured. “Eventually.” After he flattens us into a Ford pancake, he thought. “He’s not gonna stop, Ray!”

  “Yes, he is!”

  “No, he’s not!”

  The cab began to shake, the howling turbines pulsating through their bodies. The nose grew, the wings stretched.

  “Okay, you’re right, he’s not!” Ray conceded.

  Billy Bob twisted the wheel, but the Explorer merely slid sideways and continued toward the plane.

  Ray swore. Flipping his seat belt off, he yelled, “Get out!”

  Before either of them could find a door handle, the gray giant lurched and began emitting a horrid screech: brakes fighting to slow 75 tons of forward-moving mass. The plane lurched crookedly, engines screaming.

  What a way to go, Ray thought as he closed his eyes and braced for impact. He had survived a winch attack, the hostile elements, a mad gunman, only to be run down by a Boeing jetliner, under his own orders.

  Three seconds later, the opposing objects collided. To their surprise, instead of steamrolling over the Explorer, the jet’s landing gear merely tapped against it, crinkling the hood as if it were made of construction paper. The truck and the plane were face-to-face, barely touching.

  The underbelly of the Boeing stared at them through the windshield, grotesquely large, like something out of a surrealistic movie.

  Ray suddenly sensed pain in the palm of his hand. Opening his mitten he saw the crucifix. He had been squeezing it with such force that it had drawn blood through the fabric.

  “Ya shore you ain’t Cath-o-lic?” Billy Bob panted.

  “I may convert,” Ray told him.

  “That scared the bejabbers outta me. Talk about close.”

  “But he did stop. 1 told you he would,” Ray reminded as they climbed out.

  Sirens were wailing back at the terminal, a fire truck already rolling toward them, lights blinking. Above them the emergency hatches on the plane popped open and yellow, inflatable slides appeared. Harried, panicked passengers began leaping out, riding down on their backs.

  Ray watched, scrutinizing the evacuees. A paramedic appeared at their side. “What happened?”

  “Aborted takeoff,” Ray said, eyes on the slides.

  A sedan pulled up and two men hopped out. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing?” one of them demanded.

  Ray started to dig out his badge, then realized he didn’t have it with him. His parka was back in Deadhorse. “Police matter. Show him your ID, Billy Bob.”

  The deputy offered it to them.

  “I don’t care if you’re the director of the FBI,” the other man argued, “that doesn’t give you the right to endanger all these people.”

  Ray ignored this, his gaze fixed on the hatches.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  There was a lull. The rush of passengers slowed. The hatches were empty for a moment. A stewardess bailed out. A steward. Ray began to question his theory. What an idiot he would look like if she wasn’t on this plane.

  “I’ll have your badges for this!”

  And finally, there she was: well-dressed, attractive even from a distance, parka hanging open to display a curvaceous, toned body. Dark locks lifted away from her shoulders, exposing a glowingly beautiful face as she climbed into the slide.

  On cue, a Towncar pulled up and four hundred pounds of quasi-Eskimo got out.

  “You’ll be fined,” the airport supervisor was saying, “and punished, and—”

  “Shut up,” Ray told him. He walked to the bottom of the nearest slide and stood waiting to receive his charge. She landed clumsily, unladylike, legs sprawled, high heels in the air. Bending to assist her, he greeted, “Salome …”

  The woman’s eyes grew wide, pencil-thin brows rising in an expression of shock.

  “That is your … professional name. Isn’t it?”

  Her lips quivered, then formed a playful pout as she accepted his hand.

  “Isn’t it?” he prodded.

  Rising, she sniffed at him before turning her attention to the condition of her skirt. The trip down the slide had wrinkled it.

  An instant later, Makintanz was at her side, grasping an elbow, overflowing with concern. “Are you all right, darling? Were you hurt?” Out of breath, he seemed to be on the verge of hysteria. The Italian bookends took up position a few yards away, eyes scanning the area, right hands tucked inside their jackets, ready for the worst.

  “I’m fine, Daddy,” she sighed.

  “How’s it going, Chief?” Ray asked.

  The short, obese man glared at him. “How’s it going? You nearly killed my little girl! How do you think it’s going?!”

  “All of the passengers are safe,” Ray assured him. “Including your little Salome.”

  Makintanz glanced at his daughter, then at Ray. “That’s not her name.”

  “That’s what the patrons at Fanny’s call her.”

  The chief compared Ray’s mother to a half-breed malamute.

  “I don’t get it,” Billy Bob said.

  “Deputy Cleaver,” Ray said formally, “I’d like you to meet Salome, the most popular ‘lady’ at the local brothel.”

  The girl grinned at this, as if it were a compliment, dark eyes sparkling. Makintanz swore, swiveled his immense girth, and took a slow, deliberate swing at Ray.

  “Hey!” Ray said, ducking away. “That’s not the Native way, Chief.”

  “Stand still and I’ll show you the Native way,” he threatened.

  The bodyguards converged, brandishing their guns. “Back off,” Ray told them. “This is police business.”

  The men froze, but the pistols remained at their hips.

  “Put those away,” Ray ordered.

  Frick and Frack hesitated, looking at Makintanz helplessly before complying.

  “Cuff him, Billy Bob,” Ray ordered. He leaned against the fire truck, legs threatening to buckle. The exhaustion that had been chasing him for days was catching up.

  “You can’t arrest me!” Makintanz argued.

  “Just watch.”

  “What’re we arrestin’ him fer?” Billy Bob asked as he applied a pair of cuffs to the thick, beefy wrists.

  “Three counts of murder one.”

  “Murder?!” Mankintanz’s daughter
gasped.

  This announcement caused the Italians to retreat to the Towncar.

  “You don’t have a case.”

  “Sure we do. A pretty good one, actually.”

  “I can destroy you both!”

  “An anjatkut to the end,” Ray observed. He blinked at the Chief. The fat man seemed to be levitating off the tarmac. Ray rubbed his eyes. He felt wobbly, drunk.

  “A what?” Billy Bob wondered.

  There was a distant rumble and they looked up to see a mobile star blinking at them from the horizon.

  “City cops,” Ray announced with a sigh. He sank to the step on the truck and leaned his head forward to avoid fainting.

  “Mind tellin’ me what the heck’s goin’ on?” the deputy asked.

  “I haven’t figured out the details,” Ray confessed, massaging his temples. “But I think it goes something like this: The Chief’s daughter was prostituting herself. Why, 1 haven’t a clue. Maybe just to tick old pop off.”

  “Daddy?… Did you kill someone?” she asked. The cocky demeanor was gone, replaced by a mixture of horror and disbelief.

  “Adii!” Makintanz bellowed. “Silence,” he ordered, scowling at her.

  “Okay. So the chief found out and decided to make the johns pay, with their lives.”

  “Daddy?…”

  “Weinhart … Driscoll, th-they both …” Billy Bob stuttered. “With Sal-o-may?”

  “I think so.” Ray looked to the girl for confirmation. She was breathing erratically, on the verge of tears. “And that violated a number of taboos and traditions. In the old days, if a stranger showed up and took something that wasn’t his, you were justified in killing him. Tribes had established territories and kinship networks. In the chief’s warped view, Weinhart and Driscoll trespassed, failed to form a kinship pact, failed to ask permission to see his daughter, and therefore deserved to die.

  “It’s okay to disregard the traditions and be ruthless in business. But family’s different. Eh, Chief?”