“There’s nothing to tell,” Ray objected. “All we know is that he’s not in camp. He’s not in Juneau. At least, he hasn’t been to the State Historic Preservation Office.” He took a deep breath before telling them, without conviction, “He could be anywhere.”
“There was a bomb in his plane,” Keera announced. “It was going to explode when he started it up.”
“But he obviously didn’t start it up,” Ray countered.
“Because he couldn’t. Because he’s dead,” Keera observed.
Ray decided not to debate the issue. Keera was convinced that she had seen Farrell murdered in a vision. How could you argue with the supernatural? “What’s in the box?”
Reuben shrugged. “I didn’t look. I just stuck it in here. He said he would come back for it. And if he didn’t, to give it to the authorities.”
Ray reached for it but Reuben leaned back. “It’s okay. I’m the authorities. I’m a cop. I work for the Barrow Police Department.”
The embrace on the box became an arm lock. “Let’s see some ID.”
“I don’t have any … remember?”
“He’s a Lightwalker,” Keera said. “Even Uncle says so.”
This seemed to strike a nerve. Reuben relaxed and reluctantly offered the box. Balancing it on one of the carpet rolls, Ray pulled the top open and found a yellow legal pad. It was covered with indecipherable notes. Ray lifted a page, a second, a third … The pad was full, fronts, backs, margins … every sheet overflowing with scribbles.
Lifting the pad, Ray studied the collection of sloppy, winding sentences, trying to make sense of it.
“What’s ASTT?” Reuben asked, peering over Ray’s shoulder.
“Arctic Small Tool Tradition,” Ray answered without looking up.
“What about T-n-n-1 … o??”
Ray stared at the designation. “It’s supposed to be Th-u-l-e. I think. Thule.”
“Never heard of it,” Reuben admitted.
“Me either,” Keera said. She reached into the box and produced a device the size and shape of a calculator. “Wow!” She fingered the power button and there was a chime as the three-by-three-inch screen blinked to life.
“Let me have that.” Ray snatched it from her. “Don’t touch anything else.” If there was something important in the box, he didn’t want a ten-year-old fouling it up. “Newton,” he read. He lifted the wand attached to the side of the device and moved it across the screen in a series of random strokes. The Newton beeped at him and a message appeared: FILE DELETED. “Huh?” He looked to the bank of icons in distress. One looked like a tiny trash can. He touched it with the wand and a message box read: TRASH EMPTY.
“What did you do?” Reuben asked.
“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Probably screwed the thing up.” Handing it back to Keera, he returned his attention to the box. There were three more legal pads, all bearing the same chicken-scratch handwriting. Beneath them were a pair of spiral bound reports on ASTT and a thin paperback booklet entitled, Mystery of the Thule Culture. On the bottom of the box was a PowerBook. Ray folded open the computer and stared at it. It looked user-friendly enough: standard keyboard, screen … Still, if he could delete files in a Newton with the swipe of a wand, what damage could he do to a PowerBook?
“Know anything about compu …?” Before he could finish, Keera pressed a button just above the keyboard. There was a tone and the screen flickered to life.
“We use Apples at school,” Keera explained, fiddling with the contrast. “Macintosh stations. This is what I’d want though. PowerBooks are cool.”
Cool. Now there was a word that you would expect to hear from the lips of a ten-year-old. Infinitely more acceptable than talk of Nahani, voices, and spirit help. He watched her roll the ball at the bottom of the keyboard, selecting functions with clicks. A desktop materialized: a rectangular window filled with miniature file folders.
“What are those?” he asked, pointing at the files.
“Don’t know yet.” More clicking. The desktop disintegrated, replaced by a billboard announcing to the world that Dr. Farrell was a licensed user of Microsoft Word. A second later, another rectangle demanded a pass code.
“Uh-oh,” Keera groaned. “He’s got some kind of security stuff on here.”
“Security stuff?”
“Yeah. Like at school. You have to know the right secret codes to get into certain places. Like the Net. It keeps kids from accessing chat rooms and pornography.”
“You sure you’re just ten?” Ray remarked. Kids nowadays … Though he occasionally used the PC at the office in Barrow, he had no idea how it worked, whether or not it was hooked to “the Net,” and had never so much as hit the power switch on Margaret’s PC at home. “So can you look at his files or not?’’
Keera shrugged. “I’m not a hacker or anything. I could try a few passwords, but …” She tapped something in and hit Enter. The PowerBook buzzed rudely. “Nope.” Another attempt brought the same response.
Ray waited a minute before asking, “Is there a phone around here?”
The security guard was leaning over Keera, squinting at the PowerBook. “Try … archaeologist,” Reuben suggested.
“Too long,” Keera told him.
“I need to use the phone.”
“How about Kanayut?”
Keera punched this in and frowned as the security program buzzed at her.
“A phone?”
Reuben looked up, as if offended. “Down the hall.” He gestured with a thumb.
“Let me know if you get in.”
“What do you think we’ll find if we do?” Keera asked, rolling the trackball.
“I don’t know. A surly note from Farrell to his wife, telling her that he’s left her, that he’s run off to the Bahamas …”
Keera’s head bobbed up. “But how could he do that if he’s dead?”
“Just keep trying,” Ray muttered.
Leaving them to the task, he backed into the corridor and checked his watch: 1:37. This Farrell business was really dragging itself out. Maybe Betty would have good news, information concerning Farrell’s whereabouts. This thought carried him to the next door. Locked. The next pair bore names. He was about to return to the storeroom for something more specific than “down the hall,” when Diane Flatbush’s door opened.
“Hi,” she said, slightly startled. Ms. Flatbush was a small, middle-aged woman.
“Hi. I’m looking for a telephone.”
Her eyes darted up and down Ray, then up and down the corridor. “There’s a pay phone in the hall between the rec room and the locker room.”
“I’m a police officer, and I need a phone for official business,” he said, hoping this would have some effect. When it didn’t, he added, “Reuben said it was okay.”
“Reuben did?” She stepped aside and ushered him into her office. Pointing, she said, “It’s right there on the desk. Lock up when you’re finished.”
“Thanks.” Ray waited until the woman was gone before sinking into her chair and dialing. Thirty seconds later, he had Betty on the line. “Tell me you found Farrell,” he begged.
“I wish I could, Ray.”
“No luck in Seattle?”
“No. He was supposed to check in with the university on Friday. But didn’t.”
“Maybe he forgot.”
“Maybe. Except he’s been calling in every Friday all summer long and apparently hasn’t ever forgotten before. Never missed a call in fifteen weeks.”
Ray glared at the semicircle of happy, framed faces on Diane Flatbush’s desk: two toddlers, the same kids as teenagers, a family portrait. “Did you try Juneau again.”
“Yep. Nothing. No one seems to know where your Dr. Mark Farrell is.”
My Dr. Mark Farrell, he thought gloomily. Why does it have to be my problem? “What about Hunan? What did you turn up on them?”
“Not much. Big conglomerate. Based in Beijing. Offices in …” She rustled papers before continuing. “Pa
ris, London, New York, Bangkok, and San Francisco.”
“What do they do? Manufacture something? Sell something?”
“They make lots of things and sell lots of things. They’re into real estate, construction … they manufacture electronics components … they’re involved in mining, aerospace, forestry … They even do contract work for the Chinese government.”
“And they fund American research?” This struck Ray as odd.
“They do a lot of business with and in the United States,” Betty reported. “These people own property in Los Angeles, Honolulu, Miami … They have a lab in Houston. According to the PR rep at their headquarters, Hunan has issued grants to Stanford, Princeton, the University of Chicago, Yale, Cornell …”
“Sounds like quite an operation.” He tried to think of something else to ask but couldn’t. “So Farrell is nowhere to be found and Hunan is a big mama,” he reviewed.
“That’s about the size of it.” After a pause, she said, “Incidentally, the captain wants to know what you’re up to.”
“The captain?” Ray groaned. He had been hoping to keep his superior out of this.
“He got a call from the sheriff’s office in Kanayut,” Betty told him. “The sheriff was peeved. Said something about you crashing a traditional ceremony.”
“Traditional ceremony? It was a kegger. And I didn’t crash it. I just asked him a few questions. The idiot was drunk.”
“Maybe that’s why he said you assaulted him.”
“Assaulted him?”
Betty burst into laughter. “Raymond … You go into the Bush for a couple of days, and the next thing we know, you’re on a rampage.”
“The captain didn’t believe that baloney, did he?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. But he did ask me what you were doing out there.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were investigating a missing person. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Any idea when you’ll be coming home?”
“As soon as I can. This afternoon … tomorrow at the very latest.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“No. Oh, could you call Margaret and tell her … Tell her … Geez …”
After twenty seconds of silence, Betty chortled, “I’ll give her the message.”
Ray hung up and cursed into the bright eyes of the Flatbush family before returning to the storeroom. Reuben and Keera had cleared a space on the floor and were hunkered over the glowing PowerBook.
“Did you get in?”
“No,” Keera sighed. “The password could be just about anything.”
“Try Thule,” Reuben said.
Ray bent to examine the Apple box. Pads and binders … What was so important about them that Farrell had asked Reuben to stash them away? He leafed through a pad, glancing at the chicken scratch. Opening a binder, his eyes ran down a list of dates. There was a hand-drawn map at the bottom of the first page. They were field notes, Ray decided. But that didn’t answer his question. Wouldn’t Farrell keep his notes at the site? If not, why not? Because he was afraid of … what?
“Try … Huskies,” Reuben suggested.
Picking up the book on Thule culture, Ray glanced at the title page and table of contents before fanning forward. He stopped when his thumb caught on something. A picture. A Polaroid attached by a paper clip to a page in the middle of the slim text. The snapshot was poorly exposed, the colors washed out. It showed Farrell standing in a shallow trench, holding a shard of pottery. Behind him the surface of the hillside had been peeled away. In the right corner of the photo, higher up the mountainside, a barnlike structure was perched on a ledge. It bore a mural: the face of a smiling wolf.
Across from the Polaroid, page 79 of the book displayed a photograph of a woman on hands and knees, brushing dirt from a pot. Farrell’s artifact was the same mushroom shape, the same texture as the woman’s. The only difference was the decorative pattern.
A section of text below the inset photo had been highlighted. It used scientific jargon to expound on the wonders of rare proto-Eskimo pottery.
Ready to close the book and put it back into the box, Ray curled the Polaroid up and examined the underside. On the slick paper backing, someone—presumably Farrell—had written a note: “Artifacts inconsistent with Thule site. Earlier period. Siberian? Check research. Until then—Red Wolf suspect.” The last three words were underlined.
Slipping the Polaroid out, Ray tossed the text into the box and stood up. “Get in?”
Keera and Reuben shook their heads in unison like mismatched dolls.
“I have to go somewhere,” Ray said.
“Where?” they asked simultaneously, voices nearly identical in pitch.
Ray flashed them the picture. Keera leaned to inspect it. “That’s Red Wolf. We’re going to Red Wolf?”
He frowned at her. “No. I’m going to Red Wolf.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“YOU CAN’T GO alone.”
Reuben shook his head soberly, agreeing with the ten-year-old.
“You’re a Lightwalker, but not a seer,” Keera explained in a patronizing tone, implying that everyone should be aware of the distinction.
Reuben’s head changed direction, nodding his support.
“A Lightwalker needs a seer,” she stipulated patiently.
“Yeah,” Reuben chirped, head bobbing.
Ray blew air. What a bunch of garbage.
“Besides,” Keera added, “I know the way.”
“So do I,” Ray shot back.
“I know the Bush better than you do.”
“She does,” Reuben testified. “She knows Anaktuvuk to the Colville like the back of her hand. And she knows the locals that live on the river. Everybody knows Keera.”
Ray believed him. Keera seemed like the kind of girl who went around befriending people. She was innocent enough, cute enough to worm her way into the coldest heart. And she had connections: an uncle on the council. Keera was probably privy to every happening, every bit of gossip in the region. This without the added benefit of the Voice.
Taking her along was a dumb idea. What he was doing constituted a police investigation. And you didn’t take kids on police investigations. It was too dangerous. Too unpredictable.Almost anything could happen. Even on a missing-person case.
On the other hand, if she knew the area and the people … It never hurt to have a liaison along, a familiar face to help break the ice. Especially since he was a cop from out of town who had conveniently lost his ID.
“I’m good on the water,” she boasted. “I don’t get sick or anything.”
Ray raised an eyebrow, still not convinced. “What would your uncle say?”
“He’d say go. He already told me to stay with you and help you find Dr. Farrell.”
Sniffing at this, Ray sighed wearily. “Okay. But … These are the ground rules. First, you do what I say while we’re out there.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered with a salute.
“Second, we hop in a Zodiac, go straight to the mine, and come straight back. No side trips. No detours.” He tapped his watch. “It’s 3:10. What is it … forty-five minutes to Red Wolf? If we leave now, we can be back in time for dinner. How’s that sound?”
“Tight,” she said, seeming more like an adult again.
“What should I do with this?” Reuben frowned at the notes, then at the computer.
“Turn off the PowerBook,” Ray told Keera. “Let’s put it back for now.”
When the computer had been turned off and folded shut, the box repacked, Reuben stuffed it into a hiding place on one of the shelving units.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Ray instructed. “Don’t give it to anybody.”
“It’s that important, huh?”
“Beats me. But until we figure out what’s going on, it needs to be our little secret.”
Reuben touched a finger to his lips. “I won’t say a word
.”
“Okay. Let’s meet you back here around six or so. We can decide what to do with the box then. I might need to take it to Barrow with me.”
“See you at six,” Reuben said.
Retrieving his pack from the hall, Ray led Keera out of the Center, questioning the wisdom of his decision with every step. Taking a kid into the Bush … It sounded like something Lewis would do. If anything happened to her, if she was harmed in any way, he would be responsible. Maybe this was a mistake.
Outside, the afternoon sun was severe. Beating down from a cloudless sky, its heedless rays were electrifying the willows and poplars, transforming them into swaying, luminescent torches. It was a beautiful day, Ray realized, perfect for hunting, hiking, kayaking … almost anything except motoring upriver with a preteen to visit a mining operation and quiz the employees on the whereabouts of a researcher from Seattle.
Tourists bearing cameras and locals risking heat stroke in their ceremonial outfits wandered the main street, migrating between the Community Center and the stick-dance area. When they reached the latter, Ray noticed that the dancers were visibly haggard.
“How much longer do they have?” he asked.
“They dance until the caribou arrive, until the first bull reaches the village.”
“How far out is the herd?”
“At lunch, someone said it was on the move, about six or eight hours away. They’ll be here by morning for sure.”
Ray doubted if even half of the marathon participants would last that long. They all seemed to be performing in slow motion, their movements lethargic, their limbs heavy. “Is that just a guess or did the Voice tell you that?”
“Just a guess.” When they reached the Zodiac, she hopped in, and said, “It’s not like a trick.”
Ray loaded his pack, untied the boat, and pushed it into the river. Wet to the thighs, he rolled into the raft with a grunt.
“My gift. The Voice. Visions. Spirit help. It’s not magic or something I do whenever I feel like it. I can’t see everything. Just what He chooses to show me.”
“He? He who?” Ray asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.
Season of Death Page 24