Season of Death

by Christopher Lane

  Chung and Chang? Capable. Yes. But Farrell was their supervisor. They had been hired to guard the site, not knock off a university professor. Janice? Maybe she had Stubby and his pal do her husband in. Why? Money? Maybe he had just taken out a humongous life-insurance policy. Jealousy? Perhaps. But if Janice had killed Mark Farrell, why would she bother making eyes at Ray, with the express purpose of torquing her husband off? It made no sense.

  What did make sense was the proposition that no one had killed anyone: there had been no foul play, the head didn’t belong to Farrell. Despite Cindy’s suspicion about the mole, Fred was most likely a hiker who had lost his head in the Bush and met with tragedy. Still … He would do some checking. At least contact Mark Farrell down in Juneau. Just to be sure. To rule out what was clearly a slim possibility.

  He decided that when they reached the village, he would make a few phone calls, just to put his mind at ease.

  “Aarigaa!” Lewis called excitedly.

  Ray looked up, expecting white water, a grizzly, something dangerous. Instead, he saw a rickety wooden rack laden with salmon. They had reached the outskirts of Kanayut.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  KANAYUT WAS THE northernmost Athabascan settlement in Alaska. Situated on a delta that saw the Kanayut River merge with two smaller tributaries to become the Anaktuvuk, the village was a visual testimony to the forced marriage of two divergent cultures.

  The edge of the community reflected its traditional history: a scattering of log houses with above-ground entrances that led to semisubterranean living areas, plank houses with tunnel entries, food caches perched on uneven legs, leaning fish racks, dome-shaped huts of caribou skin lashed to curved poles.

  As the Zodiac rushed north, primitive dwellings gave way to prefab structures: frame houses with dingy gray walls. A dogsled basket and a pair of snowshoes were leaning against one porch, dip nets and two dented aluminum canoes against another.

  The transition from old to new was completed with the appearance of a school. It materialized from the low-lying cloud bank: a cluster of brick buildings, a gravel playground, an asphalt basketball court framed by two bent goalposts.

  The place looked deserted, and Ray was about to comment on this when the first signs of life arose. Noises. Shouts. Laughter. Children giggling. Clapping. Dogs barking. The river widened, and both banks were momentarily veiled in mist.

  “Where are we?” Billy Bob lifted his head and glanced over the side of the raft.

  “Kanayut,” Ray informed him. Either that or the valley of the dead, he thought.

  “Aiiyaa …” Lewis muttered. “Don’t like dis.” He sat upright and pointed as the western shore began to materialize. “Tuungakl”

  Ray squinted into the moist air. There was something on the beach. Movement. A thumping cadence met them over the water. Deep droning voices. Slowly, people came into focus: a semicircle of still bodies watching an inner ring of agitated brown shadows.

  “Take us over there,” Ray directed.

  “Aiiyaa …” Lewis moaned. “Dis place be evil. We go downstream.”

  “No,” Ray told him. “We go over there. That’s where our taxi is picking us up.”

  Lewis swore and grudgingly directed the boat toward the frolicsome “spirits.” As he did, Ray realized that it was a ceremonial dance, the participants adorned in finely tailored traditional caribou clothing, the borders and cuffs accentuated with beadwork that sparkled and winked in the fog. Their faces were painted bright red.

  “Aarigaa …” Lewis sighed, the scowl becoming a grin. “Festival of da Nomads.”

  “They hold it twice a year,” Ray told Cindy, “to celebrate the coming of the caribou.” No wonder Lewis was happy. If the residents of Kanayut were dancing, that meant the herds were on the move, probably just a day or so north.

  “Maybe we stay round a while,” Lewis suggested. “Greet caribou.”

  “Maybe we’ll go home and have your head examined,” Ray replied. “Looks like a stick dance.” The gyrating performers were twirling and leaping around a tall pole. “Usually lasts a couple of days. Sort of a marathon.”

  “Yeah. I’ve read about them,” Cindy said.

  Ray was suddenly reminded that the coed was an anthropology student. As such, she probably knew more about Athabascan customs than he did.

  “Aren’t they usually associated with a potlatch?” she said.

  Nodding, Ray said, “That group on the beach represents at least two villages. Kanayut probably invited a sister village over to hunt caribou.”

  “We gotta stay,” Lewis said. “For da party and da hunt.”

  “Right,” Ray scoffed. “Crash the potlatch and hang around to shoot caribou …”

  “Yah!” Lewis was nodding enthusiastically.

  “While Billy Bob bleeds to death and you complain about your shoulder.”

  “Da shoulder not a problem,” Lewis promised. He gingerly rotated it to prove his words, the grimace on his face betraying the presence of intense pain.

  Ray decided that Lewis would endure just about any hardship, personal or otherwise, for the chance to bag game. “No,” he said flatly. “I don’t care if the caribou are thick as mosquitoes, we’re bugging out of here.”

  Lewis mumbled a curse and angled the Zodiac toward shore. When they were fifty yards out, the mist began to thin.

  They were almost to the bank when a floatplane presented itself. The forest green, twiNEngine Otter was tied to a ramshackle dock a quarter mile downstream from the festival grounds. Apparently it had made it in before the arrival of the fog bank. Ray smiled at this. The aircraft represented freedom. With the weather lifting, it was only a matter of minutes before they would be Barrow-bound. Ray was ready.

  When the Zodiac scraped onto the gravel, the crowd gasped as one and stared at them with shocked expressions. The drummers lost their beat, several members of the audience pointed, and a pair of the dancers, distracted, lost their step.

  Ray nodded politely at the sea of eyes and waved in a gesture of friendship, trying to hide his embarrassment. “How’s it going?”

  The dancers and a pair of old men with nose pins leaned their heads together for an impromptu conference.

  Ray and his charges were on the beach, packs in arms when the huddle broke up. Heads nodded, the old men grunted to each other, and an ambassador was sent in their direction. It was one of the dancers, the biggest of the troupe by a good hundred pounds. And he was carrying a spear. Though fashioned from wood and bone, the tip appeared to be sharp enough to pierce flesh.

  “Good morning,” Ray said. He watched the man’s painted, red face for some sort of response. Nothing. Stern glare, lips together in something of a snarl. Not a good sign.

  “We’re supposed to catch a ride here.” Ray gestured to the Otter. “I think that’s our plane over there.”

  The man’s eyes remained fixed on Ray, staring him down.

  “Sorry for … uh … interrupting your dance.”

  The nostrils flared, as if the bull was about to charge. He glanced at Lewis, Billy Bob and Cindy without moving his thick head or softening his expression. Finally, he grunted something and aimed the spear at the elders who were watching.

  Ray looked at his companions. “I think we’re supposed to go up there.”

  “Where are we?” Billy Bob wondered, wavering like a drunk.

  Ray took his arm. “In an old Tarzan movie, I think. The kind where the expedition gets captured by cannibals.”

  “I’ve read that Athabascans are a peaceful people,” Cindy said.

  “Even peaceful people can get ticked off when you foul up one of their festivals,” Ray grumbled. He began assisting Billy Bob up the beach. Cindy and Lewis followed them. Their escort brought up the rear, spear still poised to strike.

  The crowd pressed in around them as they entered the dance area. There was muffled laughter, whispering, gasps. When they reached the two old men and the rest of the dancers, Ray bowed. As far as he knew, bow
ing wasn’t part of this culture’s etiquette, but the idea was to communicate an attitude of humility.

  “Please accept our apologies,” he said, bowing again. “We didn’t intend to interrupt your ceremony.”

  The two frail, leather-faced elders appeared to be carved from stone: statues incapable of emotion. The dancers too were inanimate, the entire crowd hushed.

  “Uh … As you can see, we’ve had … uh … sort of uh … an accident,” Ray stuttered. “Um …” He aimed a thumb at the floatplane. “We’re here to meet a plane.”

  Silence. Vacant stares.

  He was tempted to ask if they spoke English, but he knew that they had to. Every village was fluent in English nowadays. “We’re really sorry.” He swallowed hard and then examined one of the dancers. “Nice stick dance. Really. Very impressive.”

  “Inupiat,” one elder grumbled, as if this explained Ray’s inappropriate behavior. The other nodded, frowning. “Big Inupiat,” he appraised.

  “How you get so big?” the first asked, fingering his nose pin.

  Ray shrugged.

  They studied Lewis. “This how Inupiat s’pose to be.” The dancers, all similar in size to Lewis, grunted their agreement.

  “Again, we’re very sorry for the intrusion. And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll just put our stuff in the plane and …”

  Both elders were shaking their heads. “Cannot show up at potlatch, then leave.” The crowd mumbled their agreement. This was something that just couldn’t be done.

  “Must dance.”

  “Dance?” Were these guys kidding? Of course, cutting the rug would be infinitely better than finding out if the spear in their escort’s hand was a working model. Dance …?

  Before he could object or even question the directive, the drummers were at it again, thumping and spinning their instruments jubilantly. The chant arose again. Members of the crowd began to clap. The dancers began to twirl around the pole.

  The man with the spear produced a tube of makeup paint and proceeded to grease Ray’s face. When he was finished, he spun Ray around and shoved him into the mix of bodies. Pulled one way, then another by the energetic performers, he lilted awkwardly, nearly did a face-plant, careened off the pole … Thirty seconds later, the song fell away, replaced by laughter—boisterous, hearty laughter, the kind that followed an especially hilarious joke.

  Dazed, Ray realized that the elders were so tickled, they were actually crying. Several of the dancers were bent in half. Lewis was cackling. Even Cindy seemed to appreciate the humor. A practical joke, he finally decided.

  “Sorry,” their escort managed between gasps. “We couldn’t resist.”

  “Very funny.” Ray’s cheeks were burning beneath the gooey face paint.

  One of the elders offered a hand. “Old tradition. Make uninvited guests dance.”

  “Nowadays,” the other old man said, his English now without accent, “most guests just tell us to stuff it. You’re a good sport.” He patted Ray on the back. “Since you’ve displayed a willingness to accommodate our customs, we invite you and your friends to join us in celebrating the approach of the caribou.”

  “We’d love to,” Ray said, no longer worried about creating a civil dispute. “But we really have to be going. That’s our plane.” He pointed at it again.

  The jovial mood waned for an instant. One of the elders shook his head. “That’s not your plane.”

  “I didn’t mean our plane. I meant it’s for us. We called ahead and had it sent.”

  Both of the old men shook their heads.

  Ray sighed. “I’m Officer Attla, Barrow PD,” he said. It was time to pull rank and move on. “This is Officer Fletcher, Officer Cleaver. We’re headed back home, to Barrow.”

  One of the drummers swung at his instrument. The others followed suit. The chanters joined in and the dancers began to jink and jive.

  “Thanks for the dance,” Ray told the elders over the din. “We’ll just …”

  The big dancer with the spear caught him by the arm. “That’s not your plane.”

  The forceful grip persuaded Ray to believe the man. “How do you know?”

  “Because it belongs to Dr. Farrell.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “DR. FARRELL?” RAY blinked at him. “Which Dr. Farrell?”

  “The archaeologist guy. He’s working upriver.” Ray considered this. “Has the plane been parked here all summer?”

  The Athabascan shrugged. “Except when he flies it.” He glanced at his fellow celebrants, clearly anxious to get back to the stick dance.

  “He’s a pilot?”

  “Yeah. Excuse me, I got a dance to do.” With that, he bounded toward the pole.

  Cindy, who had been watching the festivities, leaned over to Ray. In a raised voice, she asked, “Did he say something about Dr. Farrell?”

  “That’s his plane.”

  She twisted her head toward the Otter. “Yeah. I know.” She flinched and looked at Ray with a pained expression. “What is Mark’s plane …?”

  Doing here, Ray thought, completing the inquiry in his mind. Good question. Especially since Farrell had supposedly flown to Juneau two days earlier. “Maybe he hitched a ride with someone else,” Ray suggested. He discarded the idea even as he said it. Why would a pilot who had a specific destination and mission plane-pool with another traveler? And just how much air traffic did Kanayut get?

  “No …” Cindy took in a halting breath. Ray knew what she was thinking. That the skull had been Mark Farrell. And this was confirmation. Except that it wasn’t. The mole on the head, the presence of the plane, the fact that Farrell was supposed to be in Juneau … It was enough to make you stop and think, but didn’t prove anything.

  “There has to be some explanation,” Ray assured her.

  She sighed, and Ray thought she might begin to cry again. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll ask around. I’m sure someone saw Farrell get on a different plane.”

  “If Mark … if he’s … d … d …” she squeaked, unable to verbalize the unthinkable.

  “Hey …” He put an arm around her. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out where he is.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  After a brief whimper, Cindy said, “Sorry. I just … I’m such a sap when it comes to … to Mark. You’re right. He’s probably fine. Off filing for the permits.” She embraced him. “Thanks.”

  As Ray accepted her hug, he scanned the area for Billy Bob and Lewis. He found them on the river side of the celebration: two lumps on a long, flat piece of bleached driftwood. Lewis was watching the dance, Billy Bob either napping or swooning.

  He was about to ask one of the elders if there was a place for them to rest, when he heard the whine of deliverance. Seconds later a Cessna dropped through the low ceiling, its pontoons reaching for the Anaktuvuk like the feet of a goose.

  Ray glanced at his watch: 10:30. Perfect. He directed Cindy’s attention to the plane, and they watched as it glided gracefully toward the village. “That one’s for us. Let’s get going.”

  She froze. “What about Mark? You promised you’d find him.”

  “I will.”

  “When?” Cindy looked hurt, poised to start bawling again. “You promised …”

  “Yeah, I did … but … Don’t cry.” Ray wasn’t sure what he had agreed to, but was willing to do just about anything to stave off another bout of blubbering.

  She sniffed back her tears and followed him as he gathered up Billy Bob, Lewis, and the gear. The foursome limped to a dock a few meters north of the Otter and was standing there waiting when the pilot cut the engine and climbed out.

  “Somebody call a cab?” The glib remark came from a woman in her early forties. She was wearing a soiled denim work shirt, jeans, a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat. “Ya’ll my fare?”

  Ray nodded.

  “Motley bunch, ain’tcha?” She looked them over, surveyed their packs. “One a ya’ll ‘11 have to sit on the floor. Only g
ot four seats. Pulled the other two fer cargo space.”

  Ray felt Cindy’s eyes boring into him. Sighing he announced, “There’s only three passengers.”

  “Eh?” Lewis did a head count. “Four.”

  After another melodramatic sigh, Ray told them, “I’m not going.”

  “Not going?” Lewis was confused. “Den I not goin’. I stay for da hunt.”

  “No. I’m staying,” Ray said laboriously. “You are going.”

  “How come you get to stay?” he whined.

  “I just … I have to … to … uh …” It was difficult to find the words to describe what he was about to do: pass up a trip home to track down a wayward dirt digger. It was the icing on the cake, just the thing to make an already-intolerable outing perfectly dismal: blundering around an Athabascan village, asking questions, making a nuisance of himself in the middle of a potlatch. All to alleviate a coed’s misgivings. Yes, Ray was a public servant. But this was pushing things.

  “I have to … do something first,” he muttered. “I’ll be on the next plane out.”

  “Sure,” Lewis said through a sneer. “You bring back a bull, I gonna shoot you.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t even have a rifle.” He realized then that if he put all the gear on the plane, he would have nothing in the way of supplies or clothing. Chances were he would make it out later in the day, as soon as he could convince a bush pilot to rescue him. But just in case … He took the pack that Janice Farrell had loaned them and began cannibalizing bits and pieces from the other pack.

  “See ya back home, partner,” Billy Bob drawled. He dabbed at the paint still caked on Ray’s face. “Yer lookin’ a little sunburned, buddy.”

  “Very funny. I’ll call and check on you if I get stranded,” he said, giving the cowboy an affectionate pat on his uninjured shoulder. After helping him on board, he turned and faced Lewis.

  The little guide wagged a finger at him. “No hunting, Redman. Swear?”

  Ray raised his palm as if he were about to testify. “I swear.”

  “Good. Wait for da next trip. We hunt real good. Be real great.”

  Ray smiled and nodded, silently vowing never to enter the Bush again on so much as a picnic if it was organized and led by Lewis Fletcher.