“Partner?” the man asked suspiciously. “Whattya mean, partner?” He backed away, the rifle rising to his shoulder again. “You a couple a them fairies?”
“Hunting partner,” Ray specified.
“And partner on the force,” Billy Bob said, displaying a true lack of discernment.
“Force?”
Ray’s leg conveniently cramped again and his boot found Billy Bob’s rib cage.
The man cursed. “Ya’ll DEA?”
“DEA?” Ray almost laughed. Dressed as they were, they could have been itinerant pirates. Even gang member wannabes, but … “Do we look like DEA?”
“Nope. But they’re clever that way.”
“If we were with the Drug Enforcement Agency, we’d be armed, right?” Ray said. “And we wouldn’t be blundering along this trail making noise, alerting you to our presence. We would have dropped in from a helicopter and stormed your cabin.”
“Whattya know about my cabin?” The barrel of the rifle jabbed Ray between the shoulders, punctuating the question.
“Nothing. I just assumed that …”
“You seen it?”
“No, sir.”
The man snorted, clearing his sinuses.
There was a rustling sound, Velcro being ripped open, zippers sliding back and forth … Behind them, Headcase was searching the pack.
“Neither of ya’s got any ID?” he surmised, still rifling the backpack.
“No, sir,” Ray replied. “We had a little accident on Shainin Lake.”
“That right?” More zipping and crinkling. “What is it ya’lls huntin’?”
“Caribou,” Ray answered. “We’re floating down to meet the western Arctic herd.”
“Save yerselves a trip if you’d wait a few days. They’ll be comin’ through here.”
“Yeah. I know,” Ray agreed. “But this is sort of an experimental adventure.”
“Hmph.” Headcase was nonplussed. “Adventure …” he scoffed. “Where you boys from, Anchorage?” The inflection he placed on the last word implied a sense of disdain.
“Actually, we’re from Barrow …” Billy Bob started to say. His disclosure was drowned out by the man’s shouts of horror. Stumbling back past Ray and Billy Bob, he held the rifle at his hip, his face twisted into an expression of repulsion.
“What? What’s the matter?” Ray asked. Before the man had collected himself, Ray guessed at the answer: Fred. Headcase had met their disembodied traveling companion.
The man switched curses, choosing to take God’s name in vain a dozen or so times. When he had run down, he looked incredulously at them. “Huntin’ …?”
“Oh … uh … no,” Ray tried to explain. “That’s … uh … We caught that.”
Headcase was staring, waiting for more. “Caught it?”
“Billy Bob here, hooked it with his fishing line.”
“What’s it doin’ in there?”
It was a good question, Ray thought. Why pack a skull? “We’re taking it back to Barrow with us, for identification.”
“Geez …” The man shook his head. “I thought you two was a couple of wussies … but … man …” His voice trailed off, but the message was clear: anyone who would lug around a head ranked high on his scale of machismo.He frowned at Fred, then drawled, “So yer from Barrow, huh?” The barrel of the rifle was pointed skyward now.
“I’m not originally from there,” Billy Bob reported, in case their captor had mistaken him for an Eskimo.
“Sound like yer from the South, son,” the man said critically, gaze fixed on Fred.
“Monahans.”
Headcase swore happily. “Yer kiddin’! I’m from Big Springs!” The man visibly relaxed. “Shoot-fire! Ain’t met nobody from home in years.” He yanked Billy Bob to his feet. “When’s the last time ya saw her? Miss Texas, I mean.”
“Oh …‘bout … two years ago. Ain’t been down since I come up here to work.”
“What sort of work ya do in Barrow?” Headcase wondered.
From his place on the ground, Ray kicked and landed a blow to Billy Bob’s ankle. “Another cramp … sorry. Mind if I get up?” Two arms pulled him to a standing position.
Headcase gave Ray a cursory glance and seemed to find him suspect. Grinning at Billy Bob, he bellowed, “A fella Texan! This calls for a celebration. Come on.”
“We really have to be going,” Ray objected.
The man and his gun swung around, the barrel poised to blow a hole in the canopy of tree limbs above them. “Cain’t leave without samplin’ my produce.”
“Produce?”
“Didn’t I tell y’all?” Headcase announced proudly, “I’m a farmer. And you boys is just in time to sample the harvest.” Motioning with the rifle, he said, “Let’s go.”
“What are we gonna do?” Billy Bob whispered.
Ray watched the man march into the alders. Since the mental stability of Mr. Headcase was still a matter of some debate, and he possessed a loaded weapon, there didn’t seem to be any alternative. “It looks like we’re going to sample some vegetables.” He rewrapped Fred and returned him to his hiding place before taking up the pack.
As they tromped into the bushes, a hoarse voice somewhere ahead of them proclaimed, “The South’s gonna rise again!”
TWELVE
“WHATTYA THINK OF her?”
It was a trick question, Ray decided. Headcase was waiting for them at the end of the quarter-mile trail, rifle cradled in one arm, the other waving expansively at a small, rundown log cabin. The exterior of the crooked building was alive, grasses sprouting from every joint, dull yellow lichen giving the walls a soft, furry appearance…. The glass of the solitary window was cracked, milky with mildew. Guarding the entrance was an open screen door that had escaped from its top hinge. The roof qualified as a sod farm: healthy, foot-tall tussock grass standing at attention along the fall line.
“Nice,” Ray lied. He eyed the selection of boats leaning against the side of the cabin: a rotting wooden canoe, a forest green flat-bottom aluminum, a silver flat-bottom aluminum with an impressive dent in the bow. Thirty feet to the right, through a rank of crippled, dwarf pines, he could see the remnants of a neglected cache: stilts leaning at odd angles, rickety log walls encrusted with lichen.
“Naw,” Headcase said, reading their minds. “Not my house.” He aimed a flurry of profanity at the shack, denouncing its very existence, then waved again, this time directing their attention to the left. “My farm.”
Twenty yards away a domed structure gleamed at them through the trees, the afternoon sun glinting from a network of amber glass and steel: a greenhouse. It was huge, probably three stories high, occupying several thousand square feet of tundra. A plaacard over the door read: LA GRANGE.
“Nice,” Ray observed, this time with sincerity. As he gazed at the monstrosity, he couldn’t help but wonder how Headcase had managed to construct it out here, in the Bush. Dragging it into the Range, by floatplane and boat, would not only have been a chore, it would have been incredibly expensive.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”
Ray and Billy Bob nodded appreciatively.
He led them to the entrance, produced an oversize key ring, and unlocked the eight-foot glass door. Pushing it open, he waved them inside with an air of drama, as if they were about to enter a palace and view the crown jewels. Crossing the threshold, they were met by warm, moist air and the smell of topsoil, mulch and fertilizer.
Ray barely noticed this. He was distracted, busy studying the hundreds of neat, orderly rows that ran away toward the far end of the greenhouse, each home to ten or so healthy, waisThigh plants. Handwritten signs protruding from various sections designated the particular strain of crop in residence: Thai, Colombian, Kona …
“What is all this?” Billy Bob asked cluelessly. “Looks kinda like poison ivy.”
Headcase chortled, right eye twitching madly. “Cannabis sativa,” he confided. The Latin term rolled from his tongue lyrically, as if
it represented the name of a goddess. When this drew a puzzled look, he added, “MaryJane.”
Billy Bob’s eyes grew big, his bunny teeth making an unscheduled appearance. “This here is … is … it’s …” He seemed unwilling to verbalize the word.
“Hash, man,” Headcase declared, grinning. “Best dope this side of the Orient.”
“But … but you cain’t … you cain’t …” Billy Bob stuttered.
“Cain’t what?” Headcase wanted to know. He winked uncontrollably. “Cain’t sell this stuff?” He swore. “The heck I cain’t. Been doin’ it for about a decade now.”
“But it’s … it’s illegal,” Billy Bob exclaimed, as if the man hadn’t realized this.
“No kiddin’? Since when?” Headcase laughed, inciting a coughing fit.
As he struggled to recover, Ray nudged Billy Bob and shook his head at him. “Not now,” he mouthed, hoping the message would be received by the cowboy’s less than agile brain. This wasn’t the time or the place to make an arrest.
“Anyhow … welcome to La Grange, North. Ain’t got no girls. But I got plenty a beauties.” He reached for a straw cowboy hat that was hanging on a wooden stake and traded it for his camouflage cap. Then he flicked a wall switch. High-decibel rock music thundered through the hothouse. “ZZ!” he shouted over the chest-thumping bass and searing electric guitar. “Helps ‘em grow bigger, faster.” He gestured toward the rear. “Let me show ya my lab.”
They paraded through the crops, stepping to the bombastic beat. When they reached the rear of the greenhouse, Headcase stooped at a small, solitary boulder. Leaning it up with one hand, he used the other to punch numbers into an electronic keypad that was flush with the ground. The device chirped like a happy songbird and a four-by-four section of dirt in the corner of the building slid back with a whoosh.
“Go on,” he insisted, pointing at the square black hole with the gun.
“You want us to get in there?” Ray asked. He peered into the hole warily.
“Ain’t nothin’ in there’s gonna bitecha,” he consoled with a vicious twitch.
Ray sighed, shot a glance at the rifle, and begrudgingly lowered himself into the opening. Clinging to a fixed ladder, he began a careful, studied descent into the earth. His first thought was that this was an old mine shaft. If so, Headcase had obviously refurbished it. Even in the darkness,he could tell that the sides were aluminum, the rungs fashioned from steel rebar. As he clanked along, vibram soles gripping the rebar, the moist air of the greenhouse was replaced by a fresh, almost antiseptic smell. Odd. Mines were usually musty and damp. Thirty seconds into the climb, his eyes made a pronouncement: light! The change was barely perceptible, just a dull sense that the blackness was gradually dissipating.
Staring down between his feet, Ray noticed a dull glow: the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. After another minute, the glow swelling to a brilliant white radiance, Ray discovered a solid platform beneath his feet. Releasing his grip on the ladder, he turned around and found himself in a space the size of a studio apartment. The walls were cinder block, the floor steel-reinforced concrete, like that of a military bunker, or a bomb shelter. The room had been cordoned off into three distinct sections. The one closest to Ray contained a six-foot block of monitors, black-and-white screens linked to a control board. To one side was an elaborate stereo system. Behind it a huge Confederate flag had been nailed to the wall.
The second area contained two long chrome tables and a pair of deep, freestanding industrial sinks. The tables bore a Bunsen burner, several pair of scissors, pruning sheers, a spread of knives, a dozen clear plastic bags … Beneath one table was a stack of flat cardboard boxes, ready to be assembled. Under the other was a large crate marked HEFTY.
The far corner of the room was consumed by a wide-mouthed oven worthy of a professional bakery. It was boxed in by a set of cabinets. An appliance—a grinder?—was plugged into the wall. An aluminum shoot jutted from the wall, emptying into an oversize garbage bag. Closer to Ray two flush-mounted steel panels betrayed the presence of a mini-elevator or dumbwaiter. Two buttons, an arrow up, an arrow down, confirmed this.
It was an impressive setup. Bathed in the light of three overhead fluorescent banks it looked clean, sterile, efficient. Aside from the tables and the flag, nearly everything was white: the oven, the cabinets, the monitor console, the walls, the floor … And the surfaces were spotless.
Behind him, Billy Bob slipped and dropped the last four feet.
“Watch yer step,” Headcase encouraged. He completed the descent, rifle aimed directly at their chests.
Headcase reached to flick a switch and the music that had pummeled them up in the greenhouse instantly erupted from a pair of four-inch Bose speakers. Adjusting the volume to an acceptable level, he gestured at the monitors. “Nice, huh?”
“Great,” Ray grunted, unsure what it was Headcase was so proud of. He was ready to leave. Being underground with a gun-wielding psycho wasn’t his idea of a good time. “Thanks for showing us around.” He turned and reached for the ladder.
The rifle tapped him on the shoulder, demanding his full attention. “This here is how I knew you was comin’.” He fell into a chair and pointed at the screens. “Got cameras all over the woods. A fella cain’t get within a half mile a here without me knowin’ about it.” His hand patted a unit that looked like a VCR. “Got me some motion sensors too. If you was to somehow beat my cameras, ya couldn’t beat the sensors, no way, no how.” He rose and led them to the tables. “This is where we prepare the crop.”
Ray stared vacantly at the workspace. Nothing like a guided tour of a drug complex. Old Headcase was probably one of the biggest suppliers north of Bogotá. He was reflecting on this, ignoring the man’s glowing description of the packaging process, when it struck him: we? This is where we prepare the crop? So it wasn’t just a one-man business. That made sense. Something this big would require a support crew.
What didn’t make sense was why Headcase was sharing all of this with them. Was meeting a fellow Texan really cause for this level of hospitality? Or was he simply patronizing them, with the intention of shooting them both when the little game was over?
“The growin’ season up here above the Arctic Circle is somethin’ else,” he was saying. “Short as all get out, just a couple a months outdoors, three or four in the hothouse.But shoot-fire! Them months is the best on God’s green earth. My plants grow big as anybody’s, faster ‘n anyone’s. And healthy …!” He tried to whistle, but it got stuck in his throat. After pausing to swear, he exclaimed, “Ain’t nobody grows better hash. Alaska Bush has a rep, worldwide.”
This was absolutely ridiculous, Ray decided. Two cops, two by-the-book, straight-as-an-arrow law-enforcement officers, standing in a high-tech cellar, listening to a self-confessed felon boast of his exploits. This bozo was begging to be busted. And if he hadn’t been clutching a 30.06, Ray would have obliged him.
Headcase stepped to the cabinets and removed a thick package of dope. Using his knife he jabbed a hole in the plastic and tore a wide gap with his fingers.
“Take a whiff,” he said. “Tell me if that ain’t a beautiful aroma.”
Billy Bob sniffed and nodded. Ray did the same. “Yep. That’s dope all right.”
Headcase put it to his nose, sighed longingly, then he opened a drawer.
“We really have to be going,” Ray insisted. “We have a friend waiting to meet us.”
This statement seemed to jolt him awake. “Friend?” Back rigid, rifle gripped in two hands again, his head swung to the monitors, then to Ray. “Where is this friend?”
“Downriver.”
Headcase considered this for a moment, lips pursed, right eye twitching open.
Ray chided himself for letting the information slip. It had been a meager attempt at pushing the man’s hand. And it had failed, backfiring miserably. Now Headcase was paranoid again. His response did, however, shed light on his intentions. With all the security precautions,
why would he care if they had a friend out there? Answer: he wouldn’t. What he cared about was the fact that someone was waiting on them, someone who might come looking for them, who might notify the authorities if they didn’t show up.
“How far downriver?”
“A little way,” Ray said. “He’s expecting us.”
The moment of indecision passed and Headcase held up a quart-sized plastic bag filled with short, crooked cigarettes. Removing three of the smokes, he handed one to Ray, another to Billy Bob, and balanced one between his lips.
He produced a lighter, flicked it to life, and stared at the flame. “Well, now … That there friend will understand if y’all are a little late now, won’t he?”
THIRTEEN
“GO ON, NOW!”
Ray reluctantly accepted the joint. Thick gray smoke curled lazily from the lit end, carrying with it a pungent, sickly-sweet smell. Ray wasn’t a smoker. Never had been. As for marijuana, he had sampled a housemate’s hash in college once. Once was all it took.
“Take a toke!” Headcase insisted. He sucked on his own joint, closing his eyes and grimacing as he held the smoke in his lungs.
Ray eyed the rifle. It was cradled lovingly in both arms, like an only child. His mind began racing, struggling to come up with a way to escape from this loon.
“Take a toke!” Headcase repeated in a wheeze. “Here!” He shoved it at Billy Bob.
The cowboy looked horrified. Holding the lumoy, contraband cigarette at arm’s length, he glanced at Ray for direction.
Ray shrugged. There was little choice. He put the joint between his lips and pretended to inhale. “Mmm … Good stuff,” he lied.
Billy Bob sampled his cautiously. He made the mistake of pulling the smoke into his lungs and was rewarded with a coughing fit.
Headcase laughed at this. “Bush Thai … Best in the West,” he boasted. He took another long, enthusiastic draw, then sat like an overinflated balloon, poised to burst.
“You’re right,” Ray agreed, lifting the joint like a glass of champagne. “Best in the West. Now … we really have to be …”
Season of Death Page 8