The girl arrived at the river again. She was dressed in a thick caribou parka, her cheeks rosy. Opening her coat, she revealed that she was pregnant. Without warning, she crouched and, an instant later, gave birth to a child. A boy. Ray was at her side. Glancing at her sweaty face, he realized that the woman was Margaret. The child was … a boy … a miniature replica of himself. A baby Ray.
“Do you remember the rest of the fable?”
Ray blinked at Margaret. Except, it wasn’t Margaret. It was Keera!
“The baby grew quickly to be a boy and his grandfather, the chief, became very fond of him. One day the boy began to cry. When the grandfather noticed this, he asked, ‘What do you want?’ The boy pointed to the sun and moon hanging from the ceiling of the house. The grandfather gave them to him. It was only when the boy took them outside and threw them into the sky that the chief realized that something was wrong. The boy then turned back into Raven and flew away. And since then, there has been light.”
Ray considered this. “Uncle said I was like Raven.”
“You are. You are bringing light to a dark mystery.”
Before Ray could ask what that meant, Keera evaporated into a field of pale shadows.
From somewhere in the gray vacuity, she called, “He found something there.”
FORTY-NINE
WHEN RAY AWOKE, he was confronted by three realities. First, he was still alive. Though he couldn’t feel his hands, feet, knees, or elbows, a thundering ache in his head and a constant, fiery throb in his neck and shoulders told him that he had not yet departed for the Land of the Crestfallen. Pain: the telltale sign of life.
Second, he had survived the night. This was evidenced by a dim, yellow hue that was washing into the burrow like a comforting salve.
Third, for a reason that he couldn’t fathom, Ray felt a rising certainty that he knew why Dr. Mark Farrell had been killed. Not who had committed the act. Not how the deed had been carried out. But the why seemed to have worked itself out during the night.
He tried to reach the Indiglo button on his watch, but couldn’t. Even if he had, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see the face. There wasn’t room to maneuver in the hole. There was hardly room to breathe. Time to extract himself, he decided.
Climbing out proved to be more difficult than climbing in. Hours in the cramped hole had left him stiff. Cold, cramped muscles resisted every proposed movement.
After two minutes of agonizing effort, he managed to pop his head out. What greeted him could have been mistaken for spring. The sun, though not yet visible from the floor of the canyon, had ignited the upper quarter of the trees along the closest ridge, transforming their wet, waning foliage into a glorious firestorm.
Ray took a series of deep breaths before ordering his body out of the hole. Every nerve shouted in complaint. Rolling out onto the ground, he winced, clutching his right leg. The hamstring was burning. It was either pulled or torn, he couldn’t tell which.
He swore at this development, wondering if he could make the village in his present condition, and was about to attempt to stretch the irritated muscle, when he noticed something in the trees a hundred yards east: a dark spot. It was empty of texture and color, and wouldn’t have caught his eye had it not been symmetrical. Looming fifteen feet in the air, the square shadow stuck out from its surroundings. Man-made?
Ray scrambled to his feet, cursing the collection of aches that assaulted him. The world spun around him, sky, trees, mountains and fog merging with a universe of golden stars to form a sickening blur. Bracing himself against a tree, he squeezed the back of his right thigh and leaned his head forward, waiting for the asteroid show to subside. When it did, he squinted at the mysterious object. A cache? He tilted his head gently, looking for legs. If it was a cache … Maybe someone had a hunting cabin out here. Shelter … food?
Without placing much hope in these possibilities, Ray began hobbling toward it. He would check it out, he decided, then start for the river and follow it to the village. This seemed rather optimistic given that he had to stop and rest after a dozen faltering paces.
He had just launched into the third leg of his journey to the proposed cache, when he heard a click. Metallic. Solid. Dangerous. A shiver danced along his back. There was no mistaking the sound of a shotgun being cocked.
The idea of running for it crossed his mind, and he laughed out loud. As if he could manage anything more than a gimpy sidestep.
“What’s so funny?” a bass voice asked.
Chung, Ray realized. Or Chang. Whichever. It didn’t matter.
“On your knees!” The second voice was almost identical to the first, same intonation, same dialect, except it came from the other direction: behind and left. The two goons had him covered in a forty-five-degree cross fire.
Ray knelt in slow motion, groaning at the pain this caused his hamstring. He was messaging it when one of the gunmen shouted, “Hands on your head.”
Complying, he said, “I know about Farrell.” There was a rustling sound as four heavy boots cautiously approached. “I know why he was killed.”
One of the men sniffed. The other cocked his gun.
“I know about Red Wolf. That there was no animosity between the miners and the archaeologists. No sabotage, violence, or antagonism. I know about the fake artifacts.”
Time to hit them with the heavy wood, he decided. “I know that Hunan was trying to drive Red Wolf out of the zinc business. Hunan’s into zinc, and Red Wolf was screwing up the world market prices.” Ray almost added, “Right?”, but swallowed it. If he showed anything less than absolute certainty, he was dead. Which was probably the case anyway.
“Mark Farrell found out that Hunan had shipped in a bunch of artifacts, pottery and stuff, to create a false archaeological site at the base of Red Wolf. He was an expert in Thule culture and saw through the scheme.” He paused, waiting for a bullet or Vibram sole to end the monologue. “And he was going to expose the operation.”
One of the men swore softly.
“So he had to be killed.” Another “right?” almost slipped out. “His plane was rigged to ensure that he never left the Bush alive. The explosive was stolen from Red Wolf and planted by a disgruntled worker to further incriminate the mine.”
There was another curse. Ray was about to push, to tell them that he had phoned or radioed all of this information in, to lie about the imminent arrival of an entire team of heavily armed police and FBI agents. But as he glanced up from the tundra, he saw that the source of their consternation was not his disclosure. It was a thin figure emerging from the trees just ten yards ahead of Ray. Dressed in dirty blue jeans and a torn flannel shirt, the man was standing with his arms crossed, a pair of sawed-off shotguns forming a taut V. Bloodshot eyes glared from beneath a creased, stained cowboy hat.
Headcase! Ray tried to decide if the nut’s appearance was a blessing or a curse. Probably neither. If there was a gun battle, Chung and Chang would kill Headcase, then turn their attention on Ray, all the more determined to finish him off with a flourish. If Headcase somehow managed to put the two Chinese Godzillas down, the psycho would no doubt relish the opportunity to complete the tour of “La Grange” that had been aborted a day earlier. Either way, the chance of escape seemed nil.
“This here is private property,” Headcase drawled. When Chang and Chung didn’t reply, he added, “Y’all don’t think I can shoot ya both, do ya?” He laughed. “I used to hunt me squirrels back home. Two at a time.” Another laugh. “Now drop them cannons and get yer ugly butts off-a my property?’’
“Back off,” one of the Asians grunted. “We have business with this guy.”
“Think so, do ya?” Headcase spit to convey his disrespect. “Where y’all from anyway? Yer yeller-lookin’. Got slant eyes. Must be from Chinee. ‘Cept I didn’t know they had nothin’ so big and stupid in Chinee.” His laugh was overcome by a coughing fit.
Ray acted on impulse. Something inside of him shouted, “Duck!” He did, divi
ng for the ground with his arms over his head. Perhaps this movement was a catalyst. Or perhaps Headcase’s belligerence drew a reaction. Or maybe Chung and Chang simply saw the coughing fit as an opportunity to end the standoff. Whatever the reason, in the next instant, even before Ray’s face had impacted the muddy tundra, war broke out: a series of tremendous thunderclaps that reverberated down the canyon like the wrath of God.
Ray’s ears rang with such authority that when an eerie calm returned to the valley, it took him a moment to notice. Slowly the white noise subsided. He could smell gunpowder. His right shoulder was numb. Without lifting his head, he reached a hand up and dabbed at it. The cotton T-shirt was wet and warm.
Before he could fully appreciate the wound, Ray heard voices rising from the battlefield: a soft, mournful groan, a prolonged curse, a foreign word whispered over and over, the hissing laughter of a rabid hyena.
Twisting his head, Ray assessed the damage. His shirt was torn in ragged rows at the juncture of the sleeve and body. None of the abrasions were especially long or deep, and the blood flow was unremarkable. A flesh wound. Still he could already feel the numbness wearing off, the pain beginning to jab into him.
Rolling to his side, he saw that the goon who had been behind and to the right of Ray was down. It was the specialist. He was making a fist with one hand, kicking both legs like an overturned beetle. His rifle was five yards away. After a slow turn to his back, Ray found the man’s partner. Stubby was sitting up, cross-legged, arms in his lap. His mouth was open in a silent scream, the rifle a few feet to his right, within arm’s reach.
Dry branches crackled and Ray looked up to see Headcase hopping to procure the gun. He glanced at Ray, a smile pasted on his face despite the fact that the lower half of his left pant leg was no longer blue but something approaching black. After bending clumsily to retrieve the rifle, he hopped to secure the other man’s gun.
Returning to his place in front of the three downed men, he chuckled. “Told y’all I was fast.” Chang and Chung didn’t respond.
Ray rolled to a sitting position. Between his hamstring and shoulder, he had to bite his lip to avoid crying.
Headcase dumped his newfound arsenal on the ground and began tending to his leg. He ripped the material away revealing a rose-colored blemish between knee and ankle. Taking off his shirt, he used it to soak up the blood, then swore at the wound. Ray wondered if it would slow the nut down enough to allow a getaway.
As Headcase examined the wound, Ray envisioned the next few minutes. Would the psycho shoot them quickly or prolong the event? He thought of Margaret, of the baby that would emerge from her in thirty-six weeks, of the child he would never meet …
“What are you gonna do now?’’ he finally asked.
Headcase finished tying the shirt around his leg, cleared his throat, and spit the result before answering, nonchalantly, “S’pose I’ll have to kill y’all.”
FIFTY
“I’D RATHER YOU didn’t,” Ray said.
Headcase cackled at this. “I’ll just bet you would. But I don’t got much choice.”
“Sure you do,” Ray said. “You can kill us. Or you can cooperate.”
“Co-operate?” He howled a curse. “You sound like yer the one holding the gun.”
“I’m a policeman …” Ray explained. “From Barrow. If I don’t get back there today, people will come looking for me.”
“That right? People like that bucktooth kid?”
“Among others.” He paused, trying to compose a convincing argument. “These men are part of an investigation. A federal investigation.”
Headcase bristled slightly at this.
“We’re talking FBI. If you kill us, you’ll be right in the middle of it. In twenty-four hours, the Fibbies will be beating the bushes, zipping up and down the river, poking around the mine, hanging out at the archaeological site. My guess is it’ll take them about half a day to discover your little operation. Bagging a dope grower … That’ll be a bonus.”
After spitting, the man muttered, “I cain’t just let y’all go”
“Yeah, you can,” Ray insisted. “In fact, if you help me out, you might not do much time.”
“I ain’t plannin’ on doin’ no time.” He began reloading his shotguns.
“Killing me would be a big mistake. You’d be guilty of first-degree murder. Of a law-enforcement officer. That’s life without parole. Maybe even the death penalty.”
“That’s sayin’ they could catch me.” Headcase snapped the guns shut and glared at Ray. “I’m perty darn good at e-vadin’ the law.”
“And you’re willing to bet your freedom, possibly even your life on that?”
“Ain’t got no choice.”
“Yes, you do. If you help me, we can work something out. A deal.”
“I take pity on yer miserable hide and ever-thang’ll be hunky-dory, huh?” He rolled his eyes and launched a wad of spit to emphasize his lack of trust.
Ray shrugged. Actually, he had no idea what would happen. In all likelihood, the loon would be behind bars for decades, even if he did cooperate.
Headcase chewed his lower lip. “What about my farm?”
“I can’t do anything about that,” Ray admitted. “Either way, you’re out of business. The Feds will confiscate everything. But my way, you don’t die in prison.”
Sniffing, he mumbled, “I was thinkin’’bout retiring perty soon.”
“See? This is your chance to get out of the business clean.”
Headcase gazed at the sky. “S’pose I could get a place down in Ha-wa-ya.”
“There you go,” Ray encouraged. “Kick back in the sun, sip tropical drinks …”
“I hear they got real nice ladies down there.” Headcase produced a cannister of Skoal and stuffed a pinch of snuff between his cheek and gum. “What do I gotta do?”
“Just keep an eye on these two brutes.”
“That all?” He limped backward and bent awkwardly to pick up a third shotgun. Opening the chamber he jiggled the shells out and tossed the gun into the bushes.
“Treat their wounds. Tie them up and sit on them until the authorities get here.”
“And when they do, then what? I get my butt carted off to the pokey?”
“What if I could guarantee a twenty-four-hour grace period for you to clear out and hop a plane to the islands?” A big what if.
“Can ya?”
“I can try.”
“You can try, huh?” Headcase retrieved the fourth gun, emptied it and discarded it. He wobbled past Ray and jabbed the security guard sitting cross-legged. “Get up.”
“I’m bleeding,” the man groaned through closed eyes.
Headcase swore at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t fill you full of lead. Get up!” He aimed the other rifle at the man’s partner. “You too.”
Ray watched Headcase herd the men in the direction he had come from. “Thanks.”
After spitting, Headcase cursed Ray. “Don’t thank me. Just do what you said. ‘Cause if you don’t, yer gonna wish you was never born.” A mixture of hissing laughter and raspy coughs followed his exit into the alders.
Ray sat there relieved, exhausted … not sure what to do, not sure he had the energy to do anything at all. But he had to. Keera was still missing. He had to tell someone. And now that he knew about Farrell, about why the man had been killed, he needed to pass that on. Though Ray would have said anything to placate Headcase, the part about the FBI was true. The Fibbies would definitely be interested in this case: foreign company doing business in the U.S., falsifying archaeological sites, trying to drive American firms out of business … They would chomp at the bit for a chance to dredge through this mess.
Stretching his arms, he was reminded of the brick of explosive strapped to his back. If nothing else could motivate him to rise to action, that would. He considered calling Headcase back and asking him to disarm it, or at least remove it. Not worth the risk, he decided. What if Headcase changed his mind and decid
ed to use the shotgun?
Get to Kanayut, Ray told himself as he attempted to stand. The resulting pain brought tears and another wave of nausea.
“Get to Kanayut,” he whispered, jaw clenched. Once he reached the village, everything would be all right. He could tell them about Keera. A search party would be sent out. He could find someone to deal with the bomb. And he would call Barrow. The captain could contact the FBI and arrange a floatplane for him.
But first he had to get there. The thought of limping that far through the Bush sapped him of what little strength he had left. Maybe one of the Zodiacs was still at the river. How far was the river? A mile? Two miles? He could make it that far. He hoped.
Ray spent the next hour fighting to disassociate himself mentally from his injuries. Willing himself west. He thought of Margaret. They had been apart for only three days. Less than three days. Yet it seemed like weeks. So much had happened. Nearly all bad. Nearly all catastrophic. But it would make for a wonderful story. He would tell her every sordid detail. And one day, he would share the story with their child.
A dull, haunting roar spurred him forward. Emerging from the brush, he caught his first glimpse of the water: a silvery ribbon, thick with foam. The shiny heads of wet boulders bobbed in the froth, glistening like enormous black pearls.
Ray studied the slope of scree before him. It dropped to the river at a thirty-five-degree angle. No bank. No ledge. He would have to find a better way down.
Retreating into the tree line, he hobbled north, hoping to locate a moose or caribou trail. The problem of a boat pressed upon him. Without a raft, he would never reach Kanayut. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it had taken him almost seventy minutes to get to the river. And he still wasn’t quite there yet. His hamstring had tightened up, stunting his range of motion. The simple act of walking sent jolts into his buttocks, down his calf. His shoulder wasn’t bad. It had stopped bleeding, and the pain was superficial. Endurable.
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