I would imagine so, Ray thought. When this kid dreams, she really dreams.
“But even though he was dead, the person just kept…” She paused and her cheeks lost color. “They kept swinging and swinging the shovel-thing, like they were digging a hole. Except it wasn’t the ground they were hitting. It was … a person.” She was as pale as paper now, and Ray wondered if she was going to be sick.
Ray tried to imagine someone using a pickax to destroy a human body. It would certainly do the trick, especially if swung repeatedly. Now he was in danger of getting sick. He waited a beat, then asked, “What else did you see?”
“That was all. Until the next night at sundown. The Voice told me that Dr. Farrell had gone the way of the wolves, that he was being swallowed by the Land.”
Way of the wolves …? Swallowed by the Land … Ray shook his head. He had never heard these expressions. “Do you mean he fell into a mine shaft?” he asked, trying to connect the phrases to what Keera had said about Red Wolf.
She thought about this, her face returning to a healthy olive tone. “I’m not sure.”
“Did the Voice say anything else?”
“No. Except that a Lightwalker was coming. And he would find Nahani.”
Ray yawned, suddenly weary of hearing about voices and visions and malevolent woodsmen. Being a Lightwalker was exhausting.
“I saw the head the next morning,” Keera continued. “It came out of one river and went into another.”
“All by itself?” Ray mocked.
She shook her head. “You were carrying it.”
Nodding, Ray acknowledged that this was relatively accurate. He had, in fact, carted the severed head from the glacial steam, down the Kanayut.
“Then it disappeared into the water.”
Another startling insight. How could Keera have known that the head had escaped from the backpack and bounced out of the Zodiac? Maybe she had been watching from the bank? But she couldn’t have seen Farrell bludgeoned to death with a pick and Billy Bob hooking the head with a spinner, and the mishap on the river. Either this girl was truly remarkable or she was the best guesser on the planet.
“Anything else?”
She peered up at the sky, thinking. “Uncle said you were coming and that I should wait.”
Ray followed her gaze, as if the answer to all life’s questions was written in the heavens. “You think Dr. Farrell is … That he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that maybe Red Wolf had something to do with his death?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you think I should do about it?”
The question hung as they both studied the marriage of bleach gray limestone peaks and cloudless blue.
“Did you talk to the sheriff yet?” she finally asked.
“Kanayut has a sheriff?” Ray smiled at this, relieved. He had assumed the village was run by council and was too small for formal law enforcement. A sheriff! That meant that he could hand this missing person case over to the local authority, relay what little he knew, and be done with it. “Where’s his office?”
Keera pointed up the street. Ray had already risen and was slipping on the backpack when she advised, “But he’s not there today. He’s at the festival. I saw him dancing this morning. And drinking …”
“What do you mean, drinking? Like punch or soda …?”
“Beer. It’s not an official part of the celebration. But a bunch of the men always drink beer. I think the sheriff gets barrels of it from Fairbanks or someplace.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. The sheriff of a dry village gives keggers?”
Keera squinted. “What’s a kegger?” For an instant, she was a ten-year-old again.
“Never mind. Let’s try to find him before he gets smashed.” He led her inside the Center. The lines were gone, the female ticket sellers sitting behind their tables cackling like happy hens. “Anybody seen the sheriff?”
Three heads turned in their direction. The faces examined Ray skeptically, then looked to Keera for an explanation. “We’re looking for him,” she said.
“Not since they uncorked the beer,” one of then snipped. The others shook their heads at the disgrace of this.
Ray spotted Reuben looming near the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. “Seen the sheriff?”
His expression remained passive, as if he were alone in the room.
“Hi, Reuben,” Keera chimed.
Suddenly the big man was animated, his features glowing as he grinned down at her. “What are you up to?” he asked her in a hypertenor voice.
“We think someone’s been murdered,” she blurted out.
Ray cringed. Keera may have been wise beyond her years, possibly even endowed with supernatural abilities, but she had the discretion of a prepubescent kid.
“Murdered?” Reuben squeaked. He glared at Ray, as if he were to blame.
“We’re looking for the sheriff,” he said.
Reuben ignored him, his attention focused on Keera. “Where? Who?”
“Dr. Farrell,” she told him. “Upriver.”
Ray wondered how she knew where it had happened. But then, how did she know he had been murdered? “We need to talk with the sheriff,” he repeated.
He glared at Ray, then told Keera, “Over at Jim Wood’s place.”
“Thanks,” she beamed.
Reuben chased Ray out with a sneer. Outside, walking down the main street, Ray shook his head. “I thought I was big, but man … that guy … wow!”
“His grandfather was a Russian Jew,” Keera informed.
The buildings of downtown fell away as they continued south, past the beach where the dancers were ringing the pole to the thump of drums. The crowd, having lunched and rested, was spurring them on with fresh applause.
They were a quarter mile into the scattering of frame homes before Keera pointed one out. It was one-story, like all the others, balanced on concrete blocks. The eaves were rotting, the peeling wood in desperate need of paint. There was no yard to speak of, just trampled tundra and a patch of tall weeds. A dented camper shell, and the carcass of a dead snow machine sat in the driveway. The drapes were drawn, the front door shut. It looked like no one was home.
Rounding the corner of the house, they heard the telltale signs of a drinking party in progress: a hearty belch, cursing, deep voices, boisterous laughter, the tinny noise of a portable radio. Ray saw four men sitting on a decrepit picnic table. They were all Natives, their faces painted red, each clutching an oversize plastic cup.
Ray waited to be noticed. Finally, he waved at the men and asked, “Anybody seen the sheriff?”
This was apparendy the funniest thing anyone had said in Kanayut for some time. The men began to shake, gasping for breath. When they finally recovered, Ray repeated the question. The results were the same. This time, however,one of them jabbed at the house with a hand, indicating that the sheriff was inside. Or maybe he was offering Ray a beer. Perhaps both.
Pulling back a wounded, ailing storm door, Ray ushered Keera inside the house. “Anyone here?” Silence. “Is this the sheriff’s place?” he asked Keera.
“No. His brother-in-law’s.”
“Hello!” Ray called again. “We’re looking for the sheriff.” Nothing. Ray started down a narrow, bleak hallway, following the scent of ale. He was about to issue another greeting when he reached the kitchen and found the source of the odor.
A chrome keg sat in the middle of the floor, embraced lovingly by an overweight man in a pair of faded, threadbare overalls. He was hugging the barrel, his chin balanced on the rim, eyes closed, lips curled into a smile of contentment, oblivious to the fact that he was marooned in a shallow pool of pale yellow beer. A crew cut made his chubby, flushed cheeks all the more round and jolly.
“Don’t tell me …” Ray grunted.
Keera nodded. “That’s him. That’s the sheriff.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“LET’S GET HIM up,” Ray suggested, although he wasn’t
sure how to go about the job. The sheriff was stocky, his grip on the keg ferocious. And the ale on the floor made the footing treacherous. They slipped and slid, pulling the sheriff in various directions before giving up. “Get me some water.”
Keera filled an empty coffee can and handed it to Ray.
“Sheriff,” he tried, jiggling him. When there was no response, he dumped the contents of the tin on the man’s head. The sheriff released his hold on the beer keg, gasped for air, and began flailing his arms like a swimmer going under for the third time.
“It’s okay,” Ray consoled. “You’re all right.”
“Huh?” He looked up at Ray with bleary eyes, his jaw slack. “Who’re you?”
“Officer Ray Attla, Barrow PD,” he said in a professional tone, hoping this information might generate a little interest, if not respect.
“Am I under arrethp?” he slurred. Though leaning against the wall, he was wavering, as if the entire house was adrift on a turbulent sea.
“No. I needed to ask you a few questions.”
“‘S not my beer,” he claimed, thrusting two palms into the air. “I swear.”
“I don’t care about the beer,” Ray said. “I’m looking for a Dr. Mark Farrell.”
This obviously didn’t make it through the alcohol-induced fog. “The beer’th in a marked barrel?” he wondered, blinking.
“I’m looking for a Dr. Mark Farrell,” Ray repeated.
The sheriff’s thick head bobbed up. “Farrell?”
“Dr. Mark Farrell,” Ray said slowly.
The sheriff blinked, then asked deliberately, “You from Hu … Huma … Nuhan … Huny …?” The spell was broken, and he broke down laughing. “I can’t slay it. My dongues too trunk.” More laughter.
“We were wondering if Farrell came into the village in the last day or two.”
“Where’th my beer?” he asked in slow motion. One arm was slung around the keg, his overalls soaked in ale. Yet he was apparently looking for a cup of the stuff. “There it is!” He pointed at the coffee tin in Ray’s hand. “Gimme my mug.”
Ray did, shaking his head. The sheriff was a disgrace, not only to his badge and office, but to his people. Grabbing the man by his fleshy cheeks, Ray jerked his head up and glared into the bloodshot eyes. “Have you seen Dr. Mark Farrell?”
“I thold you,” he whined. “Farrell’s upfriver.” He followed this with a swear. “Not my fault yer deafth … and dumb …” he mumbled. “I’m gettin’ tired of you peeple.”
“You people?” Ray wondered. He glanced at Keera. She shrugged back.
“Commy gangthers … that’th what you are,” he moaned grumpily. “Think you can come in here … take over the place. Goons … Just cause you mot gunney …”
Ray struggled to translate the gibberish. Mot gunney … Got money …? “Who’s got money?”
“Hus … Nus … Nuh …” he stuttered. Giving up he denounced the word soundly. “Whatever the heck your thupid company’s called.”
“Hunan?” Ray tried.
The sheriff jabbed an arm into the air, affirming this with a four-letter exclamation. “Darn right. I’ll look th’ other way, you give me enough cash … but I’m sthill a law enf … emforsh … a law emfershm … a law ociffer … the sheriff.”
“Hunan gave you money? What for?”
“To keep an eye … on th’ … crates.” His head fell forward, eyelids drooping. “And … to show ‘em … hith plane.”
Ray started to ask about the crates, but could see that the window was closing. The sheriff was slipping away. “Why did they want to see his plane?” When there was no answer, Ray repeated the question.
“Get outta my other-in-blaws kishen!” He tossed the coffee can at Ray. The can bounced and spun, rolling its way back to the sheriff. He picked it up for another try.
“Come on,” Ray told Keera. They retreated into the hallway as the can flew across the kitchen and struck the cabinet.
“What’s Hunan?” Keera wanted to know.
Ray was about to answer when he noticed the phone: a cream-colored rotary model mounted next to the back door. It was stained with fingerprints and the curlique cord had been stretched until it dragged the floor. Lifting the receiver, he smiled. A dial tone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My office.” He pulled the circular dial, entering his calling card number, then the number of the Barrow Police Department. Betty answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Betty. Ray again.”
“Are you back in town?”
“No. Still in Kanayut,” he said glumly, as if the village were some sort of gulag. “I need you to check out a company for me. Got a pencil?’’
“Shoot.”
“Hunan Enterprises.” He spelled it. “It’s Chinese, I think.”
“Where are they based?”
“I’m not sure. But they’re funding an archaeological dig here in the Range.”
There was a pause as Betty dutifully recorded this information.
“Try contacting Juneau,” Ray advised. “Hunan must have had to file something to get permission to dig. And try the University of Washington. That’s where the dig team’s from. While you’re at it, ask the U.W. if they know where Dr. Mark Farrell is.”
“Farrell? The guy who is supposed to be in Juneau, but isn’t?”
“Right. He’s missing. Or at least, he seems to be. Maybe he took an unscheduled trip back to Seattle or got waylaid in Anchorage.”
After another pause, Betty said, “So you need information on Hunan Corporation and on the whereabouts of Dr. Mark Farrell. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. And Betty, I need this ASAP. The sooner I can get this cleared up, the sooner I can come home.”
“I hear you, honey. I’ll do my best.”
Keera, who had been staring at Ray quizzically during the entire conversation, was now grimacing at him. “But Dr. Farrell isn’t in Seattle.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s dead. I told you that already.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“His head is in the Anaktuvuk.”
“What about the rest of him?” Ray asked sarcastically.
“It’s upriver.”
Ray studied her face. She was serious. “Where upriver? Can you take me to it?”
She thought about this, lips pursed. “Maybe. I would need to ask first.”
Ray sighed, wondering if he should bother with the next question. “Ask who?”
“The Voice.”
“Oh, right. The Voice. Of course.” He opened the door and stepped outside, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight. In the backyard, the four men were still enjoying the party, one sprawled on the tabletop, one passed out underneath it, the others bent over on the benches, laughing sloppily.
“Where are we going?” Keera asked.
“We aren’t going anywhere. It’s time for you to go back home.”
“I don’t want to go back home.”
“Go to the festival then. Go find your friends and do whatever it is ten-year-olds do. I have some police work to do, and I can get it done more efficiently by myself.”
He started walking, hoping she would take the hint. Leaving the houses, he returned to the beach. As they were passing the crowd at the stick-dance grounds, Keera asked, “Where are we going?”
Ray nodded at the Otter tied to the dock a hundred yards away.
“What are you going to do with Dr. Farrell’s plane?”
“Just have a look at it,” Ray replied wearily.
“What for? What are you looking for?”
Ray sighed at this. It was a fair question, one to which he had no answer. He had no idea what he was looking for or what he hoped to find. Farrell napping in the pilot’s seat? Farrell’s body slumped in the cockpit, the victim of a heart attack? A handwritten note explaining that he had hopped another plane out? The murder weapon and a signed confession from Nahani stating that he had murdered Far
rell? Shrugging, he grunted, “I don’t know.”
The dock swayed radically as Ray stepped onto it, rotten wood groaning, threatening to give. The plane had to be anchored to something else, Ray thought. Depending on the old dock to keep it from drifting downstream would be foolhardy. He examined two ropes that lashed the closest pontoon to a bleached piling before noticing a third line. This one ran away on the farside of the dock, connecting the plane to a stake that had been pounded into the tundra. He returned to the shore, arms waving to maintain his balance as the clunky dock jiggled beneath him. After slipping off his pack, he knelt and gave the stake a tug. It didn’t budge. One inch, steel, it was probably a foot long, embedded firmly in the earth. The Otter wasn’t going anywhere.
Weaving his way back across the dock, he hopped onto a float and inspected the craft. It was in good shape: relatively new, with a glossy coat of forest green paint. He reached to open the engine hood. The cavity was clean, well maintained. Slamming it, he felt the plane wobble and turned his head to see Keera climb inside the cabin.
“What are you doing?’’
“Helping you look.”
“For what? You don’t know what to look for.”
“Neither do you,” she shot back.
Ray sidestepped his way down the float and joined her in the cabin. It contained four narrow seats, two in front, two directly behind, and a cargo area. No bodies, alive, dead, or otherwise. No notes that Ray could see. Keera hopped into the pilot’s seat and took the stick, pretending to fly. Ray squeezed his way into the front passenger seat. He glanced at the instruments. The needle on the gas gauge was pointing to the E. Probably because the plane’s battery wasn’t on. He reached up and pressed the ignition button. Nothing. It probably required a key.
Opening the miniature glove compartment located at his knees, Ray rifled through a collection of flight maps. Keera was fiddling with the radio, calling the Anchorage tower.
“Doesn’t work,” she complained, replacing the mike.
“The battery’s not on,” Ray told her, shutting the compartment. He reached under the seat and withdrew an empty candy-bar wrapper and a blank legal pad. Replacing them, he motioned. “Anything under that seat?”
Season of Death Page 22