Season of Death

by Christopher Lane

  Cindy was peering upriver.

  “What is it?” Ray asked.

  “The Zodiac. How are you going to get it back to camp?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe somebody here in the village will volunteer to return it for us. Or maybe a member of the dig team can pick it up.” He took her by the elbow with the intention of assisting her aboard. The sooner she was out of his hair, the sooner he could ask his twenty questions and line up another plane.

  Cindy stood fast, eyeing the raft. “Mark took a Zodiac when he left for Juneau.”

  “So?”

  “So where is it?”

  As the implication of this dawned on him, Ray had to fight the urge to swear. It would be just his luck that Cindy was right, and Mark Farrell was dead. Worse, that he had been deliberately killed. Ray physically sagged as he imagined this. That would really throw a wrench into his plans to escape from the Range. He could see himself tromping through the Bush, looking for clues to a murder.

  “I’ll check,” Ray groaned. Cindy was turning out to be a real pain in the neck.

  “If something happened …” she started to say.

  “I’ll check,” Ray insisted. “I’ll figure out where he is, okay?”

  “Okay.” From the pontoon, she asked, “How do I get to Seattle from Barrow?”

  “You can probably catch something to Anchorage this afternoon.”

  Hopping back to shore, she pecked him on the cheek. “I really appreciate this.”

  He rolled his eyes, feeling more like a sap than a Good Samaritan. When she was aboard, he shut the door and backed away. The pilot winked at him through the cockpit windshield and gave him a thumbs-up. Ray returned the hand signal without enthusiasm. The prop roared to life,and the Cessna pulled from the dock like a taxi leaving the curb.

  Two minutes later, the plane was airborne, screaming north. And Ray was alone, standing on a rotting dock, a backpack at his feet, wondering how he had come to be there, why he had let a college student talk him out of going home, and, more importantly, if the face paint was water-soluble or had to be scrubbed off with turpentine.

  When the plane had been swallowed by the dense cloud bank, Ray turned to find the red-faced, caribou-clad men still engaged in a frantic dance around the pole, the drummers pounding out a relentless beat. A dozen stragglers were observing the dance, most viewing the performance through camera lenses. Tourists. The rest of the crowd was moving up the hill. Probably for the start of the feast.

  Ray followed the trail of people. Plodding up the beach, he passed a row of kayaks and flatboats before reaching a dirt street lined with single-story frame houses. The homes needed paint and minor repairs. Fifty yards past the residential district was a large brick building. It looked like another school, but the sign in front proudly declared that it was the KANAYUT COMMUNITY CENTER. Ray almost laughed. Once upon a time, just a few decades earlier, the community center of most any village had been a crude plank or log dugout.

  He held the glass door open for a cluster of elderly men. “Good costume,” one of them grunted, noting his crimson face. He followed them into a spacious entry way decorated with children’s crayon drawings of stick-figured caribou. There was a counter straight across from the door. A trio of ladies was standing behind it, accepting money, making change, doling out tickets. Apparently this potlatch had an entrance fee.

  This ran against the grain of the ceremony itself, Ray thought as he fell into line. The purpose of such gatherings was to commemorate a significant event: a death, a birth, a marriage, a boy’s first hunt, a successful hunt, a plentiful run of salmon … And the single emphasis was giving. Often the leaders would compete to see who could give the most.

  “Five dollars each,” the woman at the counter told the men in front of Ray.

  This potlatch was a taking affair. That didn’t bother Ray as much as the fact that he didn’t have five dollars. He had no wallet, no money … As the line crawled forward, he decided that he would tell the woman his name and rank, that he was there on official business and show her his … badge. The one residing with the fish at the bottom of Shainin Lake.

  With just one patron between himself and the box office, he tried to formulate an alternative plan. A village this size, this rustic, probably had a chief.

  “Nice face paint,” the woman complimented. “Five dollars.” She was short, overweight, wearing a striped headband and a tasseled gown with caribou cuffs. Her face was round and friendly, the eyes cheerful. She reminded him of Betty.

  Betty! Wasn’t her uncle an elder? What was his name? Pilchuck? No. Polchick?

  “Five dollars, please,” she repeated. The appeal was polite but insistent.

  “I don’t have any money …” Ray said. “I’m a police officer and …”

  She chuckled at this, her eyes moving from his dirty undersized jeans to his Michael Jordan T-shirt. “And I’m Demi Moore.” Lifting her arms, her rotund figure jiggled in what vaguely resembled a stripper’s bump-and-grind routine. Several men in line clapped and whistled. “Didn’t you see me in Striptease?” More catcalls. The mirth disappeared, and she said, “If you can’t afford the cover charge, fill out a benevolence form.” She handed him a two-page document. “The council will spring for your ticket.”

  ‘I know someone on the council. Uh … Betty Reed. Her uncle.”

  The woman frowned, then offered a pen. “Step out of line and fill out the form …”

  “Betty said to mention her name and we’d be taken care of.”

  “Is that right?” Her eyes darted to the far side of the room.

  “She said if we needed anything in the village, just to let her uncle know.”

  “We?”

  “Me and the guys I’m hunting with.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder.

  The cashier leaned to glance around him. Ray turned to follow her gaze. Two old women with canes smiled back at them.

  “Hunting, huh?” She nodded, eyes shifting again. “For what? Dentures?”

  “Dentures? Uh … No. Oh! Not with them, with …” Ray felt more than saw the approach of a large object, a body that seemed to create its own gravitational field.

  The woman’s head tilted back and she addressed the ceiling above Ray’s head. “Reuben, would you please assist …” Her voice trailed off. “What was your name?”

  “Attla. Ray Attla.”

  “Would you assist Mr. Attla here to our security office.”

  A large hand clamped onto Ray’s shoulder, and he was suddenly moving toward a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Following the arm up from the hand, he found khaki: bulging sleeve, skintight fabric at the shoulder, buttons straining over an expansive chest. The uniform was burdened with the task of covering a six-eight, 350-pound mass of muscle and bone.

  “That’s Officer Attla,” Ray pointed out with a smile. “Barrow PD.”

  The dark face looming above the gargantuan physique remained impassive. The man was either deaf or terribly unimpressed with Ray’s rank and position. Possibly both.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “REUBEN, HUH? THAT’S Jewish, isn’t it?”

  They were walking down a deserted hallway, into the bowels of the community center, Ray’s escort directing their progress by adjusting the vise grip on his shoulder.

  When Reuben didn’t respond, Ray said, “You don’t look Jewish.”

  Reuben sniffed, clearly bored with the chore of policing the potlatch.

  They passed an empty basketball court with a glossy hardwood floor and eight backboards that reached down from the high roof on tubular, hinged arms.

  “Ever had a Reuben sandwich?” Ray asked. The silent walk to the security office was making him a little nervous. What if they didn’t have a security office? What if that was code for “get rid of this nut’’ and Reuben was going to take him into the alley behind the center, crumple him into a ball, and deposit him in a Dumpster like yesterday’s trash?

  “Rye bread … corned beef … mustard … sauerkra
ut … My wife loves them.”

  They arrived at another hallway, turned the corner, and faced a door marked SECURITY. Reuben opened this with a key and pushed Ray through, into a tiny waiting area: three people seated in metal folding chairs, a window of reinforced Plexiglas. The room reeked of body odor and cheap alcohol.

  Reuben forced Ray into a chair and tapped on the window. When a woman appeared, he said, “Got another troublemaker.”

  As they conversed, Ray examined the other occupants of the waiting room. A thin, frail-looking woman wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt and a pair of threadbare Levis’ was stretched awkwardly across two seats. She appeared to have lost consciousness. Probably drunk. Kanayut was legally dry, but that didn’t mean it was without booze. A young man was seated to the woman’s right, his head tilted back against the wall. On the other side of the room, a tiny, elflike man was babbling quietly, engaged in an in-depth conversation with a blank wall. He was wearing an ill-fitting gown and a ragged shawl. Springing from his seat, he glared at Ray with the eyes of a man possessed. “You take my dogs?!”

  “No,” Ray answered, offering a thin smile. “Haven’t seen them.”

  “You take my dogs!” the man accused. He proceeded to denounce Ray with a long stream of abusive language. “I teach you take my dogs.” With that, he rushed Ray like a wild animal loosed from its cage. Thankfully, Reuben stepped between them. “This guy took your dogs, Mary,” Reuben cajoled, directing the man’s attention to the blank wall.

  His rage renewed, the man began assailing the wall with profanities.

  “Thanks,” Ray grunted.

  Reuben shrugged. “Poor guy thinks he’s Horse Creek Mary.”

  Ray nodded. This single bit of information was genuinely helpful. It not only told him that he wanted to steer clear of the little troll, but that Reuben was warming up. Ray was about to ask Reuben why he was being held and what he would have to do to get out when the security guard ambled out the door. The woman at the window disappeared.

  Rising, Ray tried the door. Locked. He tapped on the window.

  When the woman returned, it was to berate him. “Don’t touch the glass!”

  “I need to talk with someone,” he told her through the Plexiglas.

  She nodded, frowning. “Sit down.”

  “I’m a friend of Betty Reed’s.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she replied. “Sit down or I’ll call Reuben.”

  “I work with her.”

  “Right. And I work with Betty Crocker,” the woman said sarcastically. “Betty Reed has been dead for forty-seven years.”

  Ray opened his mouth to argue, but was speechless. Dead? Finally, he blurted, “I’m talking about Betty Reed. Lives in Barrow. I spoke to her yesterday.”

  A wave of relief swept over the woman. “Oh. Barbara Colchuck Reed.”

  “Huh?”

  “After she moved away, she started going by the name of Betty.” The door next to the window buzzed and swung open. Ray slipped through and the woman waved him down a short hall. Her head twisted and she examined Ray curiously. “You’re a tall one!”

  “Yeah,” Ray grunted.

  “Inupiat?”

  He nodded. “Tareumiut.”

  She led him along a corridor, smirking over her shoulder. “Nice face paint.” A beat later, “Maybe she did it to honor her great-grandmother.”

  “Who? Did what?”

  “Barbara. Maybe that’s why she started going by Betty. Betty Reed Colchuck was a very noble woman, highly respected.”

  Ray shook his head. Whatever. Barbara “Betty” Colchuck Reed and Betty Reed Colchuck … Talk about confusing. “She told me her uncle would be able to help us.”

  “Us?” The woman hesitated at an open doorway. A placard behind her read: COMMUNITY CENTER ADMINISTRATION.

  “My hunting buddies. They flew out a little while ago.”

  “Ah …” She entered a cramped office and gestured to a chair, the only one in front of her desk. It held a stack of file folders.

  “What’s going on?” Ray asked, moving the folders. “Why am I here?”

  “The folks out front thought you were going to be a problem, you know, make a scene. We get a lot of people in here for potlatches, especially the Coming of the Nomads. Most of them are nice enough. But there’s always a few fights, some drinking …”

  “Mental patients wandering loose?”

  She laughed. “You met Horse Creek Mary.”

  “Interesting guy.”

  “Totally out of his mind. More of a distraction than anything else though. Gets in the way. Wanders into the dance area. Pesters tourists. He’s harmless enough.” She leafed through a stack of forms lying on her desk. Extracting one, she scanned it quickly, then said, “When you started throwing Betty Reed’s name around, they thought you were in Mary’s league.” She paused to twirl a finger at her temple, indicating crazy. “Sorry.” She deposited the form in the trash can. “Jackie Miller, Center manager.”

  “Ray Attla,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Why didn’t you fly out with your friends? Sticking around for the festival?”

  “Not exactly.” He paused, trying to decide how to inquire about the missing archaeologist. “Ever hear of a Dr. Farrell?”

  “Mark or Janice?”

  “Mark.”

  Nodding. “Nice guy. Knowledgeable, respectful of the ways of the People.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “He’s in and out of the village every couple of weeks.” Lifting the phone, she punched in a number. “Picks up supplies, ships out the artifacts he digs up.”

  “When was he here last?”

  “Oh … about …” She paused, turning her attention to the phone. “Hello, Emma? Jackie. How are yo …? Is that right …? Why aren’t you at the feast?” She chuckled.“Same here. Listen, Emma, I have a guy here who says he’s friends with Barbara Reed …. Yeah …” Covering the receiver with a palm, she asked, “How is it you know Barbara?”

  “She’s our dispatcher at the Barrow Police Department.”

  “You’re a cop??”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I tried.”

  She told Emma, “He’s a police officer out of Barrow. Barbara’s the dispatcher up there.” She listened for a beat. “Yeah …. Uh-huh. They got married … No. I never met him either From the sounds of it … I have no idea …” she lamented.

  Ray surmised that they were discussing Betty’s husband, Eddie Reed. After several years of working with Betty, he’d seen her significant other on only a handful of occasions. Eddie was a ghost husband, always off hunting or fishing or trapping.

  “Yeah …? Really …?” She leaned back in her chair. Thirty seconds later she shifted forward again. “Okay … Sure … I’ll send him right over … Bye.” After replacing the phone, she raised her eyebrows at Ray. “You’re invited to lunch at the Colchucks.”

  “Betty’s uncle?”

  “Barbara’s uncle. Try to refer to her as Barbara. It’ll be safer.”

  “Safer?”

  “Trust me.”

  “If he’s head of the council …” Ray thought aloud, “why isn’t he at the potlatch?”

  “He’s Chief Emeritus. Doesn’t usually attend the festivals anymore.”

  “Not into tradition?”

  “He’s very into tradition,” she assured him. “Just wait and see. But he’s old and handicapped. Or I guess the word nowadays is ‘disabled.’ Either way, he can’t walk without all sorts of braces and crutches. Usually he’s in a wheelchair. And he’s such a proud man that he doesn’t like to go out in public like that. At least, not at these celebrations.” She ripped a piece of blank paper from a pad and scribbled something on it. “Go north, to the end of town. Take a left. Walk toward the mountains for about … oh, maybe a quarter mile. His place is on the right, back in the trees along the cliffside.

  Ray reached for the note. “Is that the address?”


  She shook her head, pulling the note out of his reach. “It’s a list of food I’m going to ask the cooks to save for me and Emma. She’s his daughter and his nurse. She doesn’t make the festivals either. Me, I wind up working through them.”

  “About Dr. Farrell …”

  “Oh, right. When did I see him last?” She screwed her features as she struggled to reconsider the question. “Probably … ten days ago. Give or take a day.”

  “He didn’t come in here on Friday?”

  “He could have, but I didn’t see him.” The phone rang. “Excuse me.” Answering it, she told the caller that she would be right over. “The soda dispenser is on the blink. No carbonation.” She shook her head. “Imagine if we didn’t have Coke at our potlatch.”

  Jackie rose, indicating that the meeting was over. “You’d better get to Uncle’s. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” She showed him to the exit. “Good luck.”

  Ray started to ask why he would need it, but said, “Give my regards to Reuben.”

  Hitting the exit bar, he stepped out of the cool building into the bleached light of midday. The cloud cover had departed, and the glaring sun was chasing the last smoky remnants of fog away. The air was stiflingly warm and still, the village quiet, except for the thumping beat of the stick-dance drummers and the buzz of late-season mosquitoes.

  After locating the main drag, the only dirt roadway that qualified as a street, Ray followed Jackie’s directions, walking north. The end of town proved to be just a long block away. Turning left, Ray set out on what appeared to be a caribou trail. It rose, climbing away from the river for a hundred yards.

  Ray smelled his destination before he spotted it: wood burning, salmon being grilled … Following the aroma through a bank of alders, he was rewarded with his first sight of the Colchuck house.

  THIRTY

  FIT INTO A depression at the bottom of a limestone cliff, the house was framed by willows and the overhanging rock.

  As Ray started up the twisting path, a pack of dogs hurried out of the brush to greet him. Blue-eyed malamutes. Thin, mangy … Probably sled dogs. Yipping in chorus, they jumped against his legs and trotted in tight circles, celebrating his arrival. Ray massaged the ears of an especially excited one, then turned his attention to a runt nuzzling his calf.