by Ed Ifkovic
“Quiet,” Jeremy whispered. “Let’s get this over with. This is not going to be good.”
Preston glowered at me. “Entertainment for a cold Fairbanks night? Usually it’s getting royally lit at the Pastime Cocktail Lounge.”
“You’ll still have time for that when you leave here,” I told him.
He spoke through clenched teeth. “Oh, I’m allowed an escape plan?”
“You may need it,” Hank suddenly said, surprising himself, and Irina reached over to place her hand on his wrist. A look that communicated Not now, Hank.
I cleared my throat again. “The reason Noah and I asked you all here is simple.” I looked at a fidgeting Ty. “Mr. Gilley, as some of you may know, or maybe not, has come to Alaska to find out, if possible, what happened to his long-missing father. A common enough story in these parts, the old prospectors and wanderers disappearing. But I learned there’s more to the story. I figured at first Hank, long a traveler to the North, especially decades ago, might offer him a clue—might recall a story told over a campfire. But then I thought—why not all of you? Because all of you have roots in the North.”
“I was a child,” Preston protested. “I remember ice and snow.”
Jeremy grumbled, “I am new to Alaska.”
I cut them off. “Preston, your mother lived there for years. She knew the players.” Purposely I employed Sonia’s prophetic words in her note to Tessa. “Your mother cannot come here, of course, but perhaps you can remember stories.” I stopped, not convinced by my own words. Not my real intent, this ruse, but the cloudy look in Preston’s eye told me he was buying none of it.
“Then let’s get this over.” Preston rolled his eyes.
“Ty,” I motioned to him, “tell your story.”
And he did, his voice halting, at times a whisper, other times firm and confident. A folk tale, fireside Homeric, yes, flat and colorless, but very effective. The hanging of his father somewhere in the Yukon, trickery, thievery, false accusation, lies, an honest man betrayed, a family’s destruction. Talking, he gathered steam, his words rising in squeaky crescendo, and he stopped suddenly, his final word—“Murdered!”—hurled into the quiet space with such force that Irina yelped.
Interesting, I thought, watching the faces of the listeners. Hank at first seemed indifferent, his head dipped, a man still covered in grief for his dead daughter. But as Ty went on, Hank looked up, paid attention, focused, at one point nodding. Irina began crying. Although it was difficult to gauge Paul’s face because I saw only a profile, it was clear he was fascinated. When Ty finished, Paul turned his chair, stared directly into Ty’s face, and actually saluted him. A whispered, “Good for you. The good son.”
But Preston and Jeremy fascinated me, both men sitting so close their shoulders brushed against each other. Jeremy had an eager look, the frisky puppy in the store window, head bobbing up and down, but a stranger’s indifference. You’re telling me a story, a good one at that. Got any more chilling Arctic tales to waste this cold, cold night? Occasionally he’d glance at the roaring fireplace, rub his hands together as though he were chilled, then start to bob his head again.
Preston never took his eyes off Ty. A steely, unblinking look, almost fierce, his body rigid and unmoving, his hands folded decorously in his lap. Only once did his gaze shift—to me, in fact—a look that said: All right now, what’s the game here? What’s afoot? What horror are you planning to drop at my footstep, Miss Ferber? This is about me—yes? I’m no fool, sister.
Ty’s heartfelt talk over, a babble of voices erupted. Irina left her chair and hugged him, which made him uncomfortable. Hank and Preston spoke at once. Hank said he couldn’t help—he never saw the incident, nor had he heard of it. Not this one. Others on the Yukon trails. Other shootings, hangings, ambushes. Shell games that ended in violence. But most were legend, maybe mythic, campfire stories. He ended, “I never heard of Clay Fowler. Sorry.”
“Preston,” I began, “your mother was a missionary in Venetie. Minto. She spent days at Fort Yukon. Years in the territory. Did she ever mention—?”
He sliced into my words, almost angrily. “No. Of course not. My mother looked back on those years with—I was going to say a spiritual journey she left behind—but no, she would have no reason to fill her little boy’s ears with tales of treachery and hanging and wrongdoing. The topic was taboo.”
“She knew the murdered missionary, Ned Thomas,” I broke in.
I could see the name resonated because he flinched, a bead of sweat on his brow. “I don’t have a clue what you’re babbling about, Miss Ferber.” He glanced at his watch and reached for his coat. “Well, this has been delightful.”
“Wait a second,” Noah insisted. “There’s more to all these stories.”
“What does that even mean?” Preston remarked.
“It means that there have been three murders in Fairbanks.”
Irina cried out while Hank flinched. Preston half-rose from his seat.
“Jesus Christ,” Preston bellowed, “a little decency, no?”
“Murder isn’t decent.” Noah said.
“But,” sputtered Jeremy, looking at his uncle, “there’s a time and a place.”
I sucked in my cheeks. “This time’s good as any.” I smiled. “And I like this place. The Nordale lounge is where stories of the far North end up.”
Silence as everyone checked out the others, conspiratorial, accusing. I realized that everyone here had thought—maybe had uttered outright—the name of someone sitting in the room that person suspected was a killer. An awful moment, tense, as everyone looked around, then turned away.
“All I’m saying,” I began slowly, “is that Ty’s sad story got me thinking about the bond between father and son. About the invisible cord that stretched from the far North down to Fairbanks. Indeed, even to the Lower Forty-eight. A cord that stretched for decades.”
“Your point, Miss Ferber?” Preston, again checking his watch.
“My point, Preston, is that the idea of a son in search of a father set me on a path to consider the why of three murders. Jack Mabie, Sam Pilot, Sonia Petrievich.”
A faraway voice from Paul, now facing us. “Sam murdered? I thought he froze to death drunk.”
Noah looked at him. “Sam was murdered because he knew who killed Jack Mabie.”
Explosive words that brought about a rush of confused voices.
I waited.
Then, I breathed in. “‘I and the Father are one.’”
“What?” From Hank, baffled.
“Am I misquoting the Bible?” I said, wide-eyed. I smiled. “Does anyone have a Bible? I thought all hotels had Gideon Bibles. I’m making a point here.”
Paul laughed out loud and called to Teddy who was hanging over the reception desk. “A Bible?”
Teddy squinted. “A prayer service here?”
“A Bible?” Paul repeated.
Teddy disappeared and walked over with an old Bible. “My personal Bible,” he said. “Not the hotel’s. Treasured. My morning scripture to begin the day.”
Preston was rolling his eyes. “This is all ridiculous.”
I reached for the Bible but Teddy cautioned, “Fragile, Miss Ferber.”
“Then could you please turn to Matthew 3.17?”
A quizzical look on his face, but he slowly opened the old pages. The crackle of old pulp. In a scratchy voice he read: “‘And lo a voice from Heaven, saying, this is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’” He added editorially, “A lovely passage.”
“Thank you, Teddy.” I took the Bible from his hands, ran my fingers over the weathered old leather, smiled at him, and placed the Bible in my lap. “I won’t harm it. Teddy. Trust me, I promise. I value old books. If you don’t mind, I will need it for one other quote.”
Hesitant, he shrugged and walked to the reception desk.
/> Irina spoke up. “Edna, are we going somewhere with this?”
“The Biblical quotations came to mind last night as I thought about things. Fathers and sons. The Lord God and Jesus. Mortal men. A father and his son. Ty and his father. Others.”
Noah looked at me. “Folks, this is the story of a father and a son.” His eyes drifted across the faces staring at him. “Sonia investigated the murders with her usual dogged determination to get a story.”
“And look where it got her,” Paul mumbled.
His father shot him a look, but Paul wasn’t looking at him.
Noah continued. “Sonia obviously was intrigued by Sam Pilot. What did he know? She also probably realized that the murder of Jack Mabie, admittedly an annoying and crusty old man, probably dated back to his outlaw days. These days he was a garrulous old drunk.”
I went on. “Somehow she connected an old murder—that of a missionary in Fort Yukon—with Jack.”
Hank interrupted. “God, yes. In fact, we talked about it. No, wait. After her interview with Jack, the meanest man in Alaska, I told her—‘You know he was the man who killed a missionary in Fort Yukon.’ Later on she asked and I told her—he was an old friend of Tessa Strange. That surprised her.”
Paul spoke up. “Yeah, we know about that murder. We heard about it as kids. The guy shot in front of his kids. But I never connected a name—Jack Mabie—to it. All we knew was that a harmless missionary guy had been murdered.”
Hank looked at his son, nodded. “When I told Sonia that the man she’d interviewed was the man who killed him, she got excited.”
I added, “Hence her note to Tessa. She mentioned Jack Mabie and Sam Pilot. Suddenly she had the beginning of a new story.”
Irina looked perplexed. “You’re saying the murder of that man so long ago led to this tragedy?”
“Yes, I am.” I looked at Noah. “We are. Our thinking.”
Noah went on. “When Sonia sent that note, Tessa refused to see her. And when Tessa showed the note to Edna, it was too late. Tessa claimed she was afraid to show it to the police because it would implicate Preston. She hoped it would implicate me.”
A loud shout. “Are you people insane?” Preston stood up, waved his fist in the air. “This is all nonsense.”
At his side Jeremy reached out and tugged at his elbow. “Sit down,” he murmured.
Preston stammered, “As my mother told Miss Ferber, the note implicated—Noah.” His finger pointed at Noah, trembled in the air.
Noah started. “But she feared it would point to you.”
“Why would I kill Jack Mabie?”
“Why, indeed?” I said. “I agree it’s preposterous. Preston didn’t like Jack, acted around him like a foolish hothead, but did he kill him? And then Sam? And then Sonia?”
Again Preston stood up, face flushed.
“Could you sit down and shut up?” Jeremy whispered.
I counted a beat. “All Noah and I are saying, frankly, is that Sonia made a connection with the killing of Ned Thomas in Fort Yukon with the present. The question is—why now? What would make someone exact vengeance all these years later? A desire to kill that spanned decades.”
Silence. Everyone’s eyes on me, waiting. Preston was breathing heavily.
“My blood is Sam Pilot.” Noah’s words broke the silence.
“What?” From Hank, agitated.
“Sam understood what was going on, though at first he rejected the idea, confused that he was. Sam sat in this very lounge, a frozen figure, then bolted out. Then, again, later on, a long stretch of hours as he sat impassive against the back wall. A vigil that obviously got Sonia’s attention.”
“So what?” asked Irina. “An odd man.”
“Not odd,” Noah insisted. “Prescient. We have to consider some of the things we heard him say.”
I began, “He saw it.” I smiled. “Admittedly in Gwich’in.”
“Jack’s response,” Noah added. “‘Maybe it ain’t him.’”
“‘I have seen the face of God.’”
“And,” Noah concluded, “to my sister Maria, he said, ‘Is it possible to return from the dead?’”
“Shaman talk,” Hank said hurriedly, “the mystical rattling of the old shamans. The ancient superstitions.”
I shook my head. “No, Hank. Nothing mystical about it.”
Noah spoke over my words. “Father and son.”
Jeremy spoke up. “You keep saying that.”
“Edna and I first thought Sam was talking about Ty Gilley because Sam seemed to be startled by Ty’s appearance in the lounge. He fled the lounge right afterwards.”
“But we were both wrong,” I said. “There was no way Sam could have recognized Ty. Ty was a toddler when his father disappeared. A stranger to Alaska.”
“What are you saying?” Hank was impatient.
“It suddenly dawned on me, Hank, that Sam, indeed, did see a ghost. The dead did rise again. A dead man—murdered—came back to life. He saw something that drove him to tell Jack about it. Someone else.” I breathed in. “When I was visiting Noah’s grandfather in Fort Yukon, he talked to me of early life there. The missionaries. Of Tessa Strange and of Ned Thomas. How Jack lusted after Ned’s wife, trumped up a charge, then shot him in the heart. Sam lied to cover it.”
“So?” From Preston, nervous.
“So Nathan West shared with me old photos and, by chance, there was an old grainy snapshot of Ned Thomas with his family. With Tessa and Lionel Strange. I’ve been thinking a lot about that photo. I thought the image looked familiar.”
I stopped, collected my thoughts. At my right Noah encouraged me, his fingers tapping my elbow, a thin smile on his face.
Teddy maneuvered his way through the others and placed a cup of hot tea on the table. I smiled up at him. “Thank you, Teddy.”
He grinned at me. “You’re doing a lot of talking, Miss Ferber.”
Preston grumbled, “The only true words said here tonight.”
I grasped Teddy’s sleeve. “A moment more, please. I need you for something.” I tapped his Bible in my lap.
That bothered him, his eyes shifting back to his empty reception desk, and he shifted from one foot to the other.
Noah spoke loudly. “Sam Pilot saw Ned Thomas.”
My finger in the air, I corrected him. “No, Noah, he saw Ned Thomas’ son.”
A rumble throughout the room, Irina making a chirping sound, Hank clearing his throat. Even Clint, who’d been watching me closely, made a rattling sound.
“Revenge,” Noah added, “served frozen.”
I sucked in my breath. “May I introduce you all to Ned Thomas’ son?” I raised the teacup and saluted Teddy.
Teddy jumped, spun around, and didn’t know where to look. His voice garbled, “What are you talking about?”
I pointed at the identification tag on his shirt, a small clipped-on metal strip that said: Ted Thomson.”
“I finally realized why he had that name.”
“Really?” Teddy exclaimed. “How foolish. Thomas’ son? Tom’s son? A stretch?”
I ignored that. “Talking with Noah, I realized that Sam Pilot was not startled that day by Ty’s appearance. I thought back—Teddy had just served me a cup of tea. Sam, looking up, stared into the face of the man Jack murdered. I finally remembered why I thought the image in Fort Yukon so familiar. In the back room here, where Teddy naps, a family photo. His father. The same man.”
“Preposterous.” Teddy’s voice trembled. “I’ve never been north of Fairbanks.”
“So you tell everyone. Over and over. But I wondered when you joked that my going to Fort Yukon was dangerous. Frostbite making me lose a foot. Or, you said, a toe of someone walking to an icebox church. I remember—this little piggy went to…an icebox church. An odd remark, not ‘to the market,’ as any c
hild recites, but a missionary son’s remark, no?”
Suddenly Ty Gilley spoke up. “Christ, yeah.” His voice rose. “Teddy talked to me about it. I didn’t pay it any mind then.”
“Sonia, investigating, pursued Sam Pilot. She questioned folks in the lounge, doubtless even Teddy. Definitely Teddy. Being a good investigative reporter, she came to believe that Teddy murdered Jack. ‘He was there.’ ‘Maybe it ain’t him.’ Sam’s flight out the door. Who else? Lord knows what else she uncovered.”
Teddy was wetting his lips, his arms swinging at his side.
Noah was watching Teddy closely. “‘He saw it.’ Sam’s words. Ned’s son was there—saw his father wrongly murdered.”
“And,” I concluded, touching the Bible in my lap, “a good missionary’s son somehow forgot Proverbs: ‘Do not say, “I will repay evil.” Wait for the Lord because he will deliver you.’”
I lifted the Bible and opened it. “As I suspected, a family treasure. Here, look.” My fingertip touched the faded-ink signature on the first blank page. I read out loud: “Edmund Thomas, Butte, Montana.”
Teddy grabbed the book from my hands. He arched his back, and his voice thundered, “I waited long enough for God to deliver me. I had to repay evil myself.”
As I watched, Clint withdrew his pipe, fumbled with the tobacco pouch, but quietly walked out of the lounge, disappearing from sight. I watched his retreating back, but said nothing.
“Why, Teddy?” Hank asked. His voice broke. “My daughter?”
Teddy’s laugh was eerie. “I had no choice.”
Noah whispered, “Of course you did.”
“What do you know, damn it? You slick yourself in here, an Indian in a suit, acting high and mighty.”
“Sonia...” Hank’s voice, breaking.
“I don’t give a damn.” Teddy threw back his head, and his eyes locked with mine. “I waited decades for this. You don’t think I’ve hungered for this? The name Jack Mabie stayed with me like a curse. I was a young boy, but I saw my father shot down in front of me. He ruined my family. My mother—we drifted back to the Lower Forty-eight and she died of grief. Poverty, struggle. I struggled to make a life for me and my sister. And I vowed—someday… At night, burning, I wept. One night, finally, I said—go to Alaska.”