by Stan Jones
Active gave a mental whistle at the thought of Kathy Childs unscrambling the schematic in her tent on the Isignaq. Evidently the brain behind the blue eyes was as sharp as he had always suspected. He forced his attention back to Jermain's story.
"So, they call Werner from the mine just before they get off shift last Monday," the engineer was saying. "They tell him about the leach field and how they think it's the cause of the fish kills in the Nuliakuk. He tells them not to worry, he'll take care of it. He says they should come and talk to him when they get back to Chukchi."
"If Aaron was so worried about the leach field, why would he stop at Katy Creek to hunt caribou?"
"I guess he trusted Tom Werner," Jermain said. "What Eskimo doesn't? Plus the ice was still soft from the thaw and probably even Aaron couldn't get across the bay. Anyway, when I see George coming out of the office last Monday, Werner tells me what's up but that he's got the boy under control and he's going to deal with Aaron too, as soon as he gets back to town."
"I need to point something out here," Fortune said. He was strolling around the office, examining the trophies on Jermain's wall. "Up to now, we've been telling you what we know. From here on, it will be our best guesses because nobody except Tom Werner, as we reconstruct it, knows for sure what happened. Nobody alive."
Active nodded. "Go ahead."
"We think Werner must have gotten nervous about the schematic," Fortune said. "So he decided to go see if he could get it from Aaron. We do know that he went up to the mine Tuesday and checked out a GeoNord snowmachine."
"That didn't make anybody suspicious?"
"No, it was somewhat routine," Fortune said. "It seems Tom Werner has a girlfriend in Nuliakuk and this is how he gets away from Mrs. Werner to visit her. Anyway, that's what our motorpool manager says."
"Have you talked to the girlfriend?"
"No, but we do log the mileage on our snowmachines," Fortune said. "That one traveled about a hundred and fifteen miles Tuesday night, roughly the distance to Katy Creek and back. The round trip to Nuliakuk is about a hundred and seventy."
"So you think he caught up with Aaron on the trail and shot him?"
"It's the only thing that fits." Fortune dropped back into his chair at the table. "Aaron must have balked at handing over the schematic and Werner killed him on the spot."
He paused and looked at Active. "Where, if I may ask, did you get that schematic? I confess I'd assumed Werner took it from Stone's body and destroyed it."
"It was in the mail. With Aaron's paycheck."
"Ah." The lawyer nodded, then returned to his story. "So, as we reconstruct it, Werner figured he had to kill George Clinton too, because of what George would do when Aaron turned up dead."
"You think Tom Werner killed his own cousin ?"
"I started to get nervous when they found George Clinton out by the Dreamland the other morning," Jermain said. "Then when I heard Aaron Stone was dead too, I knew it couldn't be suicide. So I called the company and told them I thought our partner had gone over the edge and they asked Mr. Fortune to step in. I called him Friday after you were here and he decided to come up himself."
"Dodging pollution laws is one thing, but you draw the line at killing Eskimos, is that it?" Active asked.
Fortune sighed. "There you go being melodramatic again, Trooper Active," he said. "But you do have a point. It's not in the longterm interest of GeoNord shareholders for the company to be seen as party to a plot to murder Native Americans. We anticipate that many, if not all, of our future profits will derive from areas controlled by, ah, indigenous peoples."
"And if murder increased your profits instead of threatening them?" Active asked.
Fortune sighed again, but said nothing.
"Let me ask you something," Active said. "If we subtract from this case everything that allegedly passed between Tom Werner and your client last Monday, doesn't the evidence point to Michael Jermain, not Tom Werner?"
Fortune rubbed his forehead and stared reflectively at his yellow pad. "Except for the snowmachine logs," he said finally. "There's no way Tom Werner could have ridden that snowmachine to Nuliakuk to see his girlfriend and only put a hundred and fifteen miles on the odometer."
"Unless he got partway there and changed his mind," Active said.
"Tom Werner is not a man to change his mind," Fortune said.
"Or somebody turned back the odometer. You did fake a leach-field schematic, after all."
Fortune shook his head. "What can I tell you? Sometimes you just have to take evidence at face value."
"You said you had a proposal to resolve all this?"
"That's correct," Fortune said. "GeoNord and Michael Jermain get immunity from criminal prosecution for the deaths of George Clinton and Aaron Stone. In return, we cooperate in every way in the prosecution of Tom Werner for murder."
"What about the pollution?"
"We get criminal immunity there too," Fortune said. "But the pollution stops anyway, because we close the mine and wait for better prices. As for regulatory action from your environmental protection department . . . well, we'll take our chances. We think Shotwell will have sufficient incentive to keep the lid on."
"So it's 'Multinational Corporation Stands by Helpless as Native Dictator Pollutes River'?" Active began to gather up his things. "Tom Werner gets the blame for the murders and you guys are off the hook."
"The facts speak for themselves," Fortune said with a smile. "Do we have a deal?"
"I'll let you know."
"When?"
"When I know."
CHAPTER 17
Tuesday Evening, Werners Camp
ACTIVE DROVE TO THE public safety building, rushed in, and took the stairs two at a time. He collided with Evelyn O'Brien halfway up. Her glasses flew off, but he caught them before they hit the steps.
"Sorry." He handed her the glasses. "You should get one of those cords that goes around behind your neck."
"And you should get a clue. Cords are for ninety-year-old librarians." She examined the glasses for smears from his fingers, then put them on. "What I need is contacts. Maybe the next time I'm in Anchorage."
"What I need is Dickie Nelson," Active said. "To go out with me on something. Is he up there?"
"Nope," she said. "I just locked up for the night. There's nobody there but the goldfish."
"Well, do you know where he is?"
"Of course," she said. "He's in Isignaq on the bingo burglary. Just like it says on the in-out board."
"The bingo burglary?"
"Yep. Somebody stole seventy-four hundred dollars from the Isignaq Assembly of God bingo fund," she said. "They kept it in a Tupperware dish in the refrigerator."
"The refrigerator? Why not a bank?"
"Apparently they don't trust banks," O'Brien said. "They just keep the cash around till they need it. Like when a house burns or they have to medevac somebody out."
"So does Dickie have any leads?"
"In Isignaq? Of course not," O'Brien said. "If you ask me, all he needs to do is hang out at the Dreamland till somebody from Isignaq comes in and buys a round for the whole bar. But nobody ever asks me."
"It's probably because you don't have one of those cords for your glasses," Active said. "You don't look serious enough."
The secretary gave him the finger and started down the stairs. "How about Mathers?" he asked her back. "Is he still..."
"Yes, he's still out caribou hunting and Carnaby is still in Anchorage," O'Brien said. "You're the. only trooper in Chukchi right now. Don't let it go to your head."
Active went upstairs and flipped to the W's in the telephone book. Like all the houses in Chukchi, the one he wanted didn't have a street address, just a number: 917. But the low numbers were at the south end of town, near the airport. He climbed into the Suburban and headed north.
Nine seventeen was the biggest house around. Two stories, with a separate building to one side that looked like a garage and workshop,
Mae W
erner answered his knock in Levi's, sneakers, and a plaid flannel shirt. She had a TV remote in her hand. Behind her, a talk show blared from a big-screen set. Active heard the hostess say, "... three women who slept with their priests..." before she clicked the remote and the TV went silent. The word "MUTE" appeared on the screen.
He took off his hat. "I'm Nathan Active."
"I know who you are," she said.
"I'm. looking for Tom."
She flinched as if he had drawn back a fist.
"He's at our camp," she said. "He'll be back tomorrow. You could talk to him then."
"Maybe I could ride up and see him tonight," he said. Casually, he hoped. "Can you tell me how to get there?"
"What's wrong?" she asked. Her voice was sharp and strained, her mouth and eyes pinched into wary slits. "He's been so worried lately. I'm afraid he might be drinking again."
He looked at her a long time. How much did she know? How much did she have a right to know? "I just need to talk to him about some Gray Wolf business," he said finally. "Can you tell me how to get there?"
She pointed north. "It's that way, almost to Hanson Point. Right where that big gully comes down from the tundra."
Hanson Point was about ten miles up the beach from Chukchi, directly across the bay from the mouth of the Katonak River. He tried to visualize the area as he had seen it from Cowboy Decker's Super Cub. He remembered cabins and wall tents scattered along the beach all the way from town to the point. But he couldn't picture a gully.
"Is it the only gully?"
"It's the only big one. The camp is a cabin and a tent and an outhouse. And we have a sign that says Werners. You'll know it if you get close."
"Can I drive to it?" He jerked a thumb toward the Suburban, rumbling at idle in the driveway.
Mae Werner looked at him with pity. "Of course not, nalauqmiiyaaq. You have to take a snowgo."
Active got in the Suburban, started back to the south end of town, and tried to think where he had seen the trooper snowmachine. Finally he remembered and drove back to his own house. There beside the building was the troopers' ancient Evinrude under a faded canvas cover.
He pulled off the cover and studied the relic by the amber glow of a streetlight. Rust freckled the chrome handlebars and the blue-painted metal body. Weeds had grown up between the skis. But the fuel gauge showed three-fourths of a tank and the key was in the ignition. He lifted the cowling to check the engine. Both spark plugs had wires running to them. There wasn't enough light to check anything else.
He closed the cowling, turned the key, and pulled the starter cord. Nothing. He pulled again and again. His breath came in freezing gasps that seared his lungs. His armpits itched. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his spine.
He threw off his parka and gloves and collapsed onto the Evinrude's vinyl seat, panting heavily. Would Carnaby fire him or just dock his pay if he pulled out his .357 and put a couple of rounds through the engine?
He told himself to go over to Martha's and borrow Leroy's Arctic Cat. He returned to the Suburban with every intention of doing so, but instead found himself trudging back to the Evinrude with a flashlight.
He studied the machine's dash. One of the knobs was labeled PRIMER. Another said CHOKE. He pumped the primer three times and pulled out the choke. Then he yanked the starter several times.
Nothing.
He pumped the primer six times and pulled again. On the third try, the Evinrude popped once.
He primed it three more times and pulled the rope as rapidly as he could. One pop, then three, then the old machine coughed to life. He tickled the throttle and gradually eased in the choke as the engine warmed up.
The rear of the machine rested on wooden blocks, so that the cleated rubber track was clear of the ground. He revved the engine. The clutch squealed and the track began to turn. He squeezed harder on the throttle and soon the speedometer indicated twenty miles per hour.
He let the engine slow back to idle and pulled on his parka and gloves. He pushed a button on the dash and the headlight came on. Who said a nalauqmiiyaaq couldn't run a snowgo? He pushed the machine off its blocks.
He climbed on and drove north on Second Avenue. Sparks flew from the skis when he hit bare patches in the snowcovered road. He came to an intersection and turned west. The Evinrude crossed Beach Street, plunged down a ten-yard slope, and he was out on the sea ice.
He turned north, paralleling the beach, and the lights of Chukchi soon fell away behind him. The Evinrude bounced over the shallow drifts and hollows in the snow, humming as if happy to be in its element again.
He rose and stood with his left foot on the running board as he had seen the men of the village do, his right knee resting on the Evinrude's padded seat. He found his body took the jolts of the trail better and he could see more over the windscreen. The moon was just climbing out of the tundra to the east and pale veils of aurora danced lazily in the northern sky ahead. He thought of Lucy Generous and their talk on the bluff above the lagoon, and of her face. Why did the countryside always bring her to mind?
A half-mile out of town, the wind started to burn his throat. He realized he had left his parka open to cool down from his struggle with the snowmachine. He stopped and let the Evinrude idle while he zipped up to his chin. He pulled the hood over his head and flipped the wolf ruff forward into a warm, snoutlike cave to keep out the wind. He moved off again.
So close to town, heavy traffic had made the snowmachine trail as wide as a highway. Its right edge was marked with cut willow saplings thrust into the snow at fifty-yard intervals. Following it north along the shoreline was easy, but finding Werner's place was not.
From the trail, half the camps on the beach looked as if they might fit Mae Werner's description. He pulled in, swept them with his headlight, then kept going when he didn't see the right combination of cabin, tent, and outhouse.
Finally he found one that had all three. He turned toward it and his headlight picked out a mass of dark brush in back that could have been a gully coming down from the tundra. He stopped in front and played his flashlight across the wall of the cabin. The light hit a sign, but it said Joseph. And the snow in front was unmarked. He drove on.
Thirty minutes later, he found another camp that fit the description. Stars glittered through a big gap in the bluff behind it. Several sets of tracks left the trail and curved toward it in graceful arcs. But there was no snowmachine in front and all the buildings were dark. He pulled in anyway and pointed his flashlight at the cabin. A board over the door said Werners in red paint.
He shut off the Evinrude and drew the .357.
"Tom," he called. "Is Tom Werner here?" No answer. Werner might have lied to his wife about where he was going. Maybe he was visiting the girlfriend in Nuliakuk.
The door was padlocked. Active walked around the cabin, shining the flashlight under the eaves. He found the key hanging from a nail in a rafter on the south wall.
He went in and played his flashlight around the interior. The usualcamp furnishings. A metal cot and two sets of bunk beds, with stacked caribou hides for mattresses and old sleeping bags for bedding. A gas stove for cooking and an oil burner at the back wall for heat. A three-year-old calendar on the wall. A metal table with a box of Sailor Boy pilot bread on it and a portable radio and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. A gas lamp hanging from the ceiling over the table.
Uneasily, he holstered the .357 and propped the flashlight on the table. Something was wrong. But what?
As he reached up to light the lamp, he bumped the table and noticed with a corner of his mind that the Jack Daniel's sloshed in the bottle. How cold did it have to be to freeze whiskey? Then he burned his fingers on the wire handle of the lamp and knew what was wrong. Werner's camp was warm.
He had his fingers on the grip of the .357 when the door crashed open and Tom Werner's voice said, "Drop the gun and raise your hands, Nathan."
"So it was you."
He heard a click, then a blast. Fiery gnats st
ung the back of his neck and his right ear. With only his left ear to rely on, he thought he heard an empty cartridge rattle across the floor. A hole appeared in a Folgers can sitting on a shelf and a clear liquid trickled out. He smelled seal oil and dropped the .357.
"Kih ih oh sway," Werner said.
"I can't hear you," Active said. "Can I turn my left ear toward you?"
"Stay still," Werner shouted. "Just kick the gun over this way."
Active did as he was told.
"Now drop your handcuff keys and kick them over here too," Werner shouted.
Werner picked up the keys and dropped them on the table.
"Now handcuff yourself to the cot."
He walked to the bed, shackled his left wrist to the steel frame, and turned. Werner stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. His face was flushed and Active smelled liquor. But the rifle never left Active's chest.
"Went out to piss," Werner said, loudly but not shouting. Active could make out most of the words, and fill in the rest. "Saw your headlight and something told me it was trouble coming. So I turned everything off and drove my snowgo into the gully back there and waited."
Active put a hand to his ringing right ear and watched as Werner laid the rifle across the table, then pumped the lantern's pressurizer a few times and turned a knob on the side. Active knew the lantern must be hissing but he couldn't hear it yet, even with his left ear turned that way. Werner struck a match and touched it to the mantle of the lamp. It lit with a soft pop that Active remembered, but couldn't hear.
Werner switched off the flashlight, pulled a paper towel from a roll on one of the shelves, and opened a door on the front of the oil stove. He turned a knob at the back, lit the paper, and threw it into the burner, which began to emit a soft orange light. Werner closed the burner door and sat down at the table, the rifle still pointed at Active.
"We'll listen to the election returns, then we'll finish here," Werner said. He turned on the portable radio. ". . . request from Marvin at the Gray Wolf to Mom in Chukchi because it's her favorite song," said the KSNO announcer, a young woman. It was loud enough that Active heard it over the ringing in his ears.