FORTY-SIX
RAY FELT SICK, stunned by the fact that he had just blundered into a trap. Trap wasn’t exactly the right word. It implied bait and purposeful entrapment. Janice Farrell and her goons hadn’t drawn him to her tent. He had chosen to come. This was self-imposed.
“I’m sorry about Mark.” He was in full retreat, struggling to form a strategy that might get him out of the tent alive. There seemed to be only three options: hand-to-hand combat, feigning ignorance, bluffing his way out by claiming to know the entire story.
“Me too,” she sighed. Farrell proceeded to curse her husband and his penchant for young coeds. “Mark was a real jerk. Couldn’t keep his pants up. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, he couldn’t accept a good thing. He had to look a gift horse in the mouth. Mr. Ethical. Mr. Goody Two-shoes. Mr. Conscience.” She swore at his memory. “All he had to do was look the other way. Just this once.”
“You obviously loved him dearly,” Ray said, unable to resist the urge to be a smart-aleck. He spun abruptly and swung at one of the security guards, but his fist was stopped casually by a fleshy hand. A knee came back at him, striking him just below the rib cage, dislodging several major organs. So much for Plan A.
“If I were you,” Farrell advised, “I wouldn’t give these guys cause to get angry.”
Ray believed her. “Any idea who might have killed him?” he asked, returning to Plan B. He didn’t expect Farrell to confess, but conversation might string out the inevitable.
She laughed heartily. “I have my suspicions.”
“What should we do with him?” the specialist asked impatiently.
Farrell frowned as she considered the dilemma. “Did you get the body?”
Stubby nodded. “It’s in the Zodiac.”
“Then that gives you two bundles to dispose of,” she said. “Get the bomb from his pack and anything else that might be incriminating.”
“Why did you kill your husband?” Ray asked, shifting to Plan C.
“Who says I did?” She leaned forward and kissed Ray on the lips. “Do what you have to do,” she told the brutes. “Meet me in the village at dawn.”
A long finger played at Ray’s chin. “You should have gone home to Margaret.”
As his arms were yanked behind his back and he was jerked out the door, Ray decided that she was right. He should have left well enough alone and caught that floatplane to Barrow. Instead, he was about to catch an express shuttle to the Beaufort Sea.
Short of an earthquake, alien invasion, or the Second Coming, he would not see the morning, much less Margaret. The reason, he thought as the two Chinese half carried him across the digging area, was simple: he knew that Mark Farrell was dead. And they knew that he knew. Obviously these people were responsible for his demise.
Chung and Chang pushed and kicked him along, each with a firm grip on an arm. Ray wondered if he would be conscious by the time they reached the river. That was saying they were headed for the river. Maybe the idea was to give him that good beating and leave him in some ravine until wolves found him and finished the job.
“Did Janice kill her husband, or did you guys?”
The question drew an especially painfiil shot to the kidney.
He coughed. “At least tell me why you’re going to kill me.
“Because it’s fun,” Two fists pounded his lower back like a drummer’s paradiddle.
Ray had envisioned himself dying a number of times on this visit to the Bush. None were quite as gruesome or distasteful as this. Not only would his life end in a flurry of concussions, but he would be ushered out of this existence without the benefit of knowing why. Why had Mark Farrell been murdered? Had a worker from Red Wolf rigged his plane? Why all the concern about getting rid of the body? How was Hunan Enterprises involved? Why was he being “disposed of”?
As they left the comforting brilliance of the camp behind, both of the guards produced electric lanterns. Watching the beams joggle in the path ahead, Ray entertained thoughts of an escape attempt. The meadow was no good. Even if he did somehow manage to break free, he would be gunned down in the flat. They had guns and flashlights. He had nothing. Except the will to survive.
They were on the moose trail, the voice of the river rumbling up at them, when an opportunity for action presented itself. In a split second, two things happened. The guard behind Ray stumbled on an exposed root, momentarily losing his balance. At the same time, they reached a sharp curve in the trail. Directly ahead the tundra gave way to shale and darkness: a cliff.
Unfortunately, the absence of light and the uncertain terrain caused him to hesitate. He looked at the black hole, considered his chances, and took a single step in that direction. Ray felt his head snap back violently, his neck popping as the man behind him used his ponytail like the leash of a straying dog.
“Try that again,” he warned, “and you’ll be sorry.”
“Why not just kill me now?” Ray sighed, massaging his neck.
“We don’t want to lug deadweight to the river.” The two chattered in their secret language, discussing something quite humorous for the final half mile to the rafts.
As they approached the boats, a kick robbed Ray of his footing and he fell to his knees. The specialist began binding his arms behind his back with rope while Stubby rifled the backpack. Withdrawing the brick of plastique, the latter offered up a paragraph of Chinese, to which his partner nodded and laughed. The bomb was tossed across the boat like a loaf of bread. Ray’s attendant caught it and lashed it to his shoulder blades.
“I thought that stuff wouldn’t go off without a detonator,” Ray said.
“It won’t,” Stubby assured him.
Ray looked over his shoulder and saw that the specialist was programming a small device with a digital counter. He leaned back, straining to see how much time was being allotted before detonation but his curiosity was met by a lightning quick left that caught him on the cheek and bent his nose sideways.
“What if it’s a dud?” he asked, blood running down his face.
“It won’t be.”
“But what if it is? What if it doesn’t go off? What if I get away?”
“Tied up, a bomb on your back, in the river, at night …” the man noted with satisfaction. “You won’t get away. Besides, we’re gonna shoot you first.”
Ray felt the detonator being attached to his back, then heard an electronic beep. Apparently he was now armed: a human bomb. The two men lifted him into one of the Zodiacs and slid it into the river. When they were all aboard, the raft bounced and began floating north. Seconds later the natural serenity of the night was interrupted by the wail of the Evinrude. Ahead, the river and surrounding wilderness could have been deep space. The moon had either set or was unable to penetrate the valley.
Ray found the environment fitting. If death was a transition into nonexistence, then this was a worthy first step. It was getting him acclimatized. And if death was an ascension into an afterworld of light, then this was also appropriate. He would appreciate heaven, even hell all the more after this trek through purgatory.
The motor whined, rising in pitch, and the raft hugged the shore. Ray could hear the roar of the rapids. Somewhere out there was the flooded boulder field.
“End of the line,” the specialist grunted.
Stubby lifted something from the bottom of the boat: an unwieldy lump of burlap and a blanket. It was only after it had passed through the glow of the flashlights and been tossed casually over the side that Ray realized that it had been Mark Farrell.
“Your turn.” The specialist goosed the throttle to keep them near the bank, then produced a shotgun. Stubby withdrew a 357.
“Hang on,” Ray pled. “Before you do this, tell me one thing.”
Shaking his head, the man who had just treated Farrell’s remains like the day’s garbage, grunted, “We didn’t kill him. That’s all we can say.”
“That’s not what I want to know. I’ve been dying to find out which of you is whic
h. Who’s Chang? And who’s Chung?”
They found this hilarious. So funny that for an instant, they relaxed, guns drooping as they laughed. Without a clear plan, Ray launched himself over the side of the raft.
Bobbing like a defective buoy, he accelerated toward the rapids. The motor screamed in pursuit. He heard cursing, shots being fired. Then … a constant thunder. Rocks tore at his pants, collided with his shoulders, spun him in circles.
A boulder slammed into his hip and pain radiated along his limbs. Snatches of memories flashed through his mind: his father’s smiling face, his mother kissing his forehead, Grandfather losing his temper on a whale hunt, the first day in his second-grade classroom, Margaret just before their wedding, Margaret on the back porch, Margaret …
He was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, about to pass out, about to give up. Gulping water, careening from rock to rock—backward, forward, sideways—Ray relaxed his grip on life and allowed his head to slip below the furious waters. Tired of kicking, tired of fighting it, he let his legs rise to the surface and released his spirit to the Kanayut.
FORTY-SEVEN
THE TREE RECOVERED him like a seasoned lifeguard. From its wide, firmly rooted stance on the edge of the bank, it reached a single, pointed finger into the river, snagging the leather hi-top Nike. The initial jolt of having his forward momentum halted was followed by a wild swinging action as the raging torrent continued its assault. He gasped for air and flailed against the rope binding his hands. Something snapped, the rope gave, slid away, and he latched on to the branch of a frail willow. Leaves peeled off, the branch stripping as he lost his grip. Water rushed over his chest, into his eyes. He performed a floating sit-up, yanking at the wet shoelace, demanding that the boot release him. When it did his legs whipped downstream, and the brutal amusement park ride started all over again. Ten yards later, he careened against the shore and managed to catch a bouquet of alder branches. He made a frantic scramble up the short, severe bank and collapsed.
Moments later, the noise of an agitated motor urged him to get up. It was run or die. Rising on trembling legs, Ray limped through the alders, away from the hungry rapids, into the all-consuming darkness of the Bush. He managed a dozen faltering steps before he tripped and slid down a muddy chute on his hands and knees. He righted himself and continued on, trudging blindly into the night.
Wet to the bone, wearing only one boot, Ray wondered at his chances of survival. The temperature was in the low forties. Comfortable if you had the luxury of dry clothing, the blessing of a campfire, tent, and down bag. Otherwise … The breeze was quickly robbing him of body heat. Hypothermia would overtake him before the night was over if he didn’t find shelter.
Stretching his neck, he was reminded of the fact that he was wearing an explosive device. He wrestled with the harness, numb fingers yanking at it desperately. It was too tight, too secure. He needed a knife. A curse escaped his lips. Then a feeble but sincere prayer dribbled out.
It was difficult to run away from death when it was strapped to your back.
Squinting north—or was it west?—he tried to imagine the terrain. Was he facing a smooth, sloping tundra heath? A miniature forest of willows? A marsh of knee-high tussock grass? A bald face of limestone? It struck him that Headcase’s cabin was out here somewhere. In this general vicinity, at least.
Ray hurried forward at an awkward, anxious pace. Hands extended to avoid bashing into a tree or rock, he used his feet to feel his way along. Every few minutes he paused to listen, half-expecting to hear the sound of heavy feet stomping in his direction. But Chung and Chang were either too far behind to detect, or had yet to pick up his trail.
Ray was a full hour into his “great escape,” racing mindlessly along with no real plan, when he smelled something: warm, sulfurous, repugnant … The unmistakable scent of bear scat. As he investigated, hoping to locate the pile without falling into it, he serendipitously discovered something else. Patting the ground with his booted foot, he realized that he was standing on the edge of a hole. Squatting, he determined that it was more of a tunnel. A burrow … A bear’s den? The perfect place to hide. If it was empty.
Removing his boot, Ray dropped it into the hole. When this drew no response, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Hey!” His voice echoed back at him and then … nothing. No rustling. No growling.
Shivering, he swore under his breath and lowered himself into the hole. His feet touched the bottom and he twisted to fit his shoulders through the entrance.
The vertical shaft curved four feet beneath the tundra, assuming a horizontal position and stretching into a damp, cool, subterranean pouch that was heavy with the stench of animal fur and feces. The sides of the den were wet, lined with moss and lichen. As Ray scooted along, feetfirst, he decided that the space would have been perfect for developing photographs. The consummate darkroom.
He stopped when the tunnel narrowed and made a ninety-degree turn. No sense pushing his luck. Maybe he was in the sitting room and the occupant of the home was down the hall asleep. Hugging himself, he shivered again and wished he had the pack. It contained matches. A fire would be a godsend. So would dry clothes. So would some food. His stomach growled on cue. Wiggling his numb toes, he wondered if his body had the stamina to stave off hypothermia. Sitting, legs outstretched, bomb-clad back against a wall of lichen, head tilted crookedly to one side, he told himself to relax and get some rest.
No, this was not the Hilton. And if the owner showed up, Ray couldn’t do much of anything to fend it off. Bears aside, there was a good chance that he would be delirious in a short time, reeling under the drunken effects of a plummeting body temperature. Either that or the detonator between his shoulder blades would act as an alarm clock, waking him to a bright, momentarily painful morning. But one thing was certain: Chung and Chang wouldn’t find him. Not unless they happened to be wearing X-ray glasses.
This comforting thought kept him company in the lonely silence of the sodden shelter. As the minutes passed, Ray’s mind slowly released its grip, somehow able to ignore his trembling limbs and the collection of muscles that threatened to cramp.
The goons wouldn’t get him tonight. The Bush might. The plastique might. But not the goons.
FORTY-EIGHT
“YOU BE LIKE Raven.”
The voice was familiar: raspy, dry, authoritative. Ray struggled to place it.“You … Raven … some same.”
The bent old man emerged from the shadows like a wraith, floating, ceremonial jacket flapping in a nonexistent wind. His appearance was utterly surrealistic, worthy of inclusion in a Hollywood horror flick. But this was lost on Ray. He was hypnotized by the man’s head. The ghostly apparition had lost his hat. Uncle was totally bald!
“You listen Raven,” Uncle continued when his image had alighted on the hardwood floor in front of Ray. “You an’ Raven, a-like.”
Ray stared at Uncle, unable to make the connection. “Raven?”
“You no know Raven?” The accusation was followed by a hiss as the old man expelled air in disgust. “You sit,” he ordered, producing a pipe. “You learn ‘bout Raven.”
Raven? Ray was suddenly aware that this was a dream. It had to be. Otherwise, he had lost his mind. Still, there was a certain intangible power to it. Uncle was glaring at him and he felt obliged to comply with the old man’s directive.Sinking to the floor, he silently reviewed what he knew about the cultural icon, half-expecting the old man to quiz him. Raven was a trickster, both hero and villain of Native lore. Raven had supposedly created the world, created man, created fire … He had regularly deceived humans, disrupting man’s unique, symbiotic relationship with animals and, on occasion, killing and eating villagers. Raven was selfish, lazy, always hungry. He had taken advantage of Fox, Whale, Owl. In one narrative, “Dotson’ Sa’,” the Great Raven had called on Raven to act the part of Noah, saving the world’s animals from a global flood. Ray could see absolutely no parallel between himself and the mischievous, someti
mes cruel bird god.
Sucking the pipe to life, Uncle nodded. “You hear story.” His eyes gleamed in the surging flame. “How Raven steal light.”
Ray squinted at the remark, vaguely aware of hearing the tale before, vaguely aware that Uncle had begun to fade, his face washing away, blending into the veil of smoke.
Something brushed past him. It circled, vanished, then streaked by, cawing as it dived for the faded orange glow of a distant fire. It had been kindled on a beach and served to illuminate the area for a group of people who were hunched over.
Somehow, Ray knew that it was daytime. Or, it was supposed to be. The sun was gone and with it all warmth and light. As Ray raced toward the fire, flames rising to greet him, he saw that the people were sad, their faces twisted into masks of desperation.
“What happened?” he asked.
Without looking up, an old woman replied, “He has stolen the sun and the moon.”
“Who? Raven?”
This drew a rude caw from the bird that was hovering overhead.
“The chief,” the woman told him. “And now we must forever work in darkness.”
The bird seemed to take this as his cue. Producing a call that shook the ground, he fluttered toward the water’s edge and landed gingerly. After another flap of his wings and a jittery hop-step, he transmogrified: feathers becoming scales, beak shrinking into a rubbery mouth, wings reshaping into fins. The little fish flopped into the river.
Before Ray could question this phenomenon, a young woman materialized. Kneeling, she filled a bucket from the river, then dipped a drinking cup. As she put it to her lips and swallowed, there was a glimmer, and Ray somehow knew that the bird-turned-fish had entered her.
“You!” Struggling to stand upright, the ancient hag waved a long, bony finger at the young woman. “Daughter of evil! It was your father who stole the sun and moon!” She set out at a determined waddle, chasing the girl away.
Ray hugged himself, rubbing at his own trembling arms. It was winter. The river was frozen, the fire a mound of faint, failing embers. The people continued to stumble in a circle, faces to the dirty snow, clothing caked in a glistening layer of ice crystals.
Season of Death Page 30