A Night Too Dark

by Dana Stabenow

  Dan O’Brian was turning the spit and Kate clicked her tongue. “And you a Park ranger,” she said.

  “A hungry one,” he said, and grinned.

  When the moose was done Old Sam did the honors with a butcher knife the size of a samurai sword, producing thick, tender slices running with juice that tasted of forest and stream and home. There was sticky rice and soy sauce for those who wanted it, and boiled potatoes and butter for those who didn’t, and enough fry bread for all.

  There was plenty for seconds, and some went back for thirds, and the talk got louder and the laughter more frequent. All the old stories were trotted out and retold to advantage as the sun sank in the sky, and the surface of the river turned to molten gold as it progressed downstream in a manner infinitely more stately than any holiday parade.

  And for one evening at least, nobody talked about the elephant in the room, the gold mine fifty miles away that would change the very fabric of their lives forever.

  It was getting on toward dusk when Old Sam said, “You know, I think I’m going to sit down,” and went down the dock on unsteady legs to subside onto the bench there.

  Kate grinned, watching him.

  “Old man can’t hold his liquor like he used to,” Bernie said, next to her.

  “He can still drink you under the table.” Kate raised her voice. “Come on, everybody, it’s getting cold. Time to clean up and head home.”

  It broke up reluctantly, as all good parties do, and everyone pitched in to cut and wrap the remains of the moose, bag the leftovers, wash the dishes, and burn the paper plates and cups. People left in twos and threes, their vehicle lights showing for brief moments before receding into the encroaching darkness. The air grew chilly and Kate shrugged into her jacket.

  “Get your goddamn butts over to the house the next couple of days, before the kid forgets what the fuck you look like!”

  “Okay, Bobby.”

  “And you, you ancient old fucker, thanks for the best hunk a moose I ever sank a tooth into!”

  “I think Old Sam’s passed out, Bobby.”

  “He’s probably awake now.”

  “Hey, Kate, Willard was up on the Step yesterday.”

  “How’d he get there?”

  “Damn if I know. He didn’t have his truck and when I asked him all he would say is him and Anakin hitched a ride.”

  “Where the hell is Howie?”

  “Come on, Kate. Is that a question any of us really want the answer to?”

  “Who’s running the Roadhouse?”

  “I closed it for the night.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong. You closed the Roadhouse?”

  “Yep. Locked the door, turned out the lights, put a sign out saying ‘Closed due to barbecue.’ ”

  “I’m trying to think. Has that happened in the memory of man?”

  “I’m making enough money from those miner boys, I can afford a night off now and then.”

  “Well, there’s something good to be said for it, then.”

  “My new pilot finally showed up yesterday.”

  “Would this be Sabine?”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Does that whistle mean what I think it means?”

  “It does.”

  “We may have a logo, Kate.”

  “Don’t toy with me, Annie.”

  “I’m not, I promise.”

  “Did that artist come through?”

  “No. Believe it or not, we got a really nice design from one of Demetri’s nieces. We will need a professional to adapt it into a logo, and the artist who did the Gaea logo says she can do that, but I think everyone will like it.”

  “You know people will say it’s favoritism, that her design won because her uncle’s on the board.”

  “Let them.”

  Jim was the last to leave, walking back up to the post with a plate of leftovers for Holly Haynes, there to pick up the Blazer and drive home. Kate would soon follow in the Ranger.

  Kate took a last look around. The little cabin had a view that wouldn’t quit. The sun was a burnt orange memory on the horizon. Venus shone brightly in a clear night sky, preening at its reflection in the river below. Kate was unsurprised to see her breath when she exhaled. Winter would soon be upon them.

  She went to stand at the end of the dock. “Come on, Uncle, let’s get you to bed before you roll into the river.”

  Mutt was sitting on the dock in front of the bench, looking up into his face.

  “Old Sam?” Kate said.

  The old man didn’t move.

  Kate started down the dock. “Uncle?” Unconsciously her step began to quicken, until she was running. “Uncle!”

  She skidded to a halt next to Mutt, who looked up at her with wise yellow eyes.

  Kate didn’t know her legs had given out until she felt her knees hit the wooden planks of the dock.

  His eyes were closed and his head had fallen a little to one side. He looked like he was asleep.

  His hand was already cool. She clasped it in both of hers and cradled it to her breast, and bent her head, and wept.

  Mutt took a deep breath and raised her head.

  The plaintive, mournful howl ululated into the still air, echoing down the river, and beyond.

  Twenty-three

  Gaea is the face of the organization behind the brochures, the press releases, the radio and online ads, the television commercials and the ballot proposition. We’re a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, we file our paperwork annually, and our reputation is squeaky clean. We are known for activism but not for fanaticism. We are respected but not feared.”

  “Fear isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  “No,” McKenzie said, “but the appearance of propriety is ninety percent of the battle. It behooves us to maintain—” He paused.

  “The shine on our halos?”

  “Exactly.” McKenzie’s smile was approving without being patronizing. “We must be seen to be on the side of the angels. By contrast, Global Harvest and the Suulutaq Mine must be seen to be on the side of the devil. That’s about as subtle as the collective public mind can handle. Ask anyone who ever ran a bank.”

  He looked around the table at the four other men sitting there. Three were heads of their own new-made nonprofits, Eric Sackman of Green Energy, Rudy Villegas of Alaskans for Sustainable Jobs, and Chad Isaak of the Seventy-one Percent Society. Sackman was a former political consultant and a member of the board of Villegas’s group. Isaak was a local attorney who had sat on the Anchorage Assembly and served in Juneau as a legislator. Sackman and Villegas had been major contributors to his campaigns.

  The fourth man was a close friend and associate of the other three. He wrote checks. Big checks. “What are our chances of knocking out this mine?” he said.

  “Fair,” McKenzie said.

  The four men exchanged glances. “Only fair?” the fourth man said.

  McKenzie showed his palms. “Global Harvest has got a head start. They’ve done a good job with publicity and community outreach. We can’t outspend them, I’ll tell you that right now.”

  “What can we do?”

  McKenzie leaned forward. “We can out-shout them. We can plaster the airways with pictorial evidence of their industry’s violations of the land, the water, and the air. We can fly up people from out of state who live near open-pit mines and put them in front of every social organization in Alaska. We can attack the executives of the Suulutaq and Global Harvest on a personal level.”

  “A personal level?”

  McKenzie met the moneyman’s eyes without flinching. “They’re human, they screw up. I’ve had a private investigator gathering information on the top tier of Global Harvest management for the last year. There is plenty there to exploit.”

  “What does that do, besides embarrass them?”

  “The trick is not to let up. You hit them with something, and then you barely let them get their feet under them before you hit them with somet
hing else. You don’t feel sorry for them, you don’t lose your nerve, and you don’t let up. You remember that you’re in this for the long haul, and you believe absolutely that failure is not an option.”

  “And then what happens?”

  McKenzie shrugged. “Some of them will be fired. Some of them will be forced to resign. Some will resign regardless because they know a sinking ship when their feet get wet.”

  “And?”

  “And the incredible disappearing power structure will disrupt management, which will put operations in flux. There will be pressure from shareholders and from the public to investigate, to clean house. I’ve got a couple of tame reporters who will print anything I give them, and we’re starting a couple of blogs, one under our own name and at least two that will be anonymous.” He smiled. “The Gaea blog will take the high road. The anonymous ones will throw the mud.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we turn the lawyers loose on them. Every application they file, every permit they apply for, the lawyers scrutinize every line and challenge every discrepancy in court. I did have access to most of the discovery data coming from the mine, but that person has now, ah, left their employ. I’m working on developing a new source even as we speak, and I’m confident we will regain that access before very long. That information will only better inform any future legal actions by our attorneys.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It will be. But the mine has a high national profile. We have one commercial, running only in Alaska, and every time it runs it brings in an average of ten grand. Once we achieve some success, once our name is a solid brand, and once we begin running commercials nationally, we’ll get even more.”

  The man leaned forward, his eyes intent. “It cannot become known that I am supporting this organization. They’ll kick me off the board the moment they learn of it, and your source of inside information on the Niniltna Native Association will dry up.”

  “I understand.”

  He gestured around the table. “I know these guys. I don’t know you. If there’s a leak, I’m going to figure it came from you. I won’t be happy about that.”

  McKenzie met his eyes without flinching. “There won’t be any leaks.”

  “All right.” Demetri Totemoff opened his checkbook. “Fifty thousand to start sound okay?”

  Gold.

  Number 79 on the periodic table. “Au,” from the Latin aurum.

  There are only an estimated 42 metric tons left to be mined from the earth’s crust. With annual world production of gold ore at nearly 2,500 metric tons, only seventeen years of gold mining remain.

  Hurry, hurry, grab up the last of it before someone else gets to it first.

  Quick, carve away the surface, lay on the chemicals, separate the ore from the slag.

  Drill your holes, build your dams, force the hard earth to yield up the soft gold it holds so close and so dear.

  Mine it, refine it, sell it.

  Gold to airy thinness beat.

  Gold.