Fatal Thaw (13 page)

It was a thirty-two foot bowpicker with a bare, stainless-steel reel in the bow and a square, squatty cabin that filled up the stern. Between them was the hold, covered over in wooden deck planking. In appearance it had much in common with the Getty's homestead, as it was messy but in good repair, and clean if not neat. There were old tracks of a very small boot in the thin layer of crusting snow on deck. Kate climbed aboard and began to pull up the deck planks-long, onebytwelvebytwelves laid side by side across the inner lip of the holding tank. Mutt wagged her tail encouragingly from her comfortable seat on the mat in front of the cabin door.

It was noon, and the sun was shining, and Kate was sweating before she had enough planks up to climb down into the hold.

She surfaced some twenty minutes later, puzzled. The hold was empty, without a net, corkline, leadline or buoy to be found. She'd even pried up the floorboards and checked the bilge. Bone dry from a winter in dry dock, it, too, was empty, from stem to stern. She replaced the floorboards and straightened, groaning a little when her back creaked in protest. "It has to be here if it's anywhere," she told Mutt.

"Woof," Mutt agreed without moving.

"You're a big help." Putting both hands flat on the lip of the hatch, Kate lifted herself up and over into a sitting position at the hatch's edge. Her legs dangling in the hold, she turned her face up into the sun, closed her eyes and thought out loud. "When we were kids, Lisa never left all her stuff in one place. She had toys stashed in hidey-holes all over-in the tent we pitched up the hill in back of her parents' house, in the tree house we built in the cottonwood in Big Monkey-Land down on Humpy Creek, on her dad's boat, in her uncle's cache, in her locker at school, hell, in her desk at school. She spread things around; she always did.

If she was growing dope at home, ten to one she was selling what she poached out of somewhere else. Besides, at home there was Lottie, who I know for a fact disapproves of flying and shooting the same day, never mind shooting at something on the endangered species list. She'd probably have turned Lisa in herself, if she'd caught her at it." Kate paused. "If she'd caught her at it." She looked down at Mutt, who stared solemnly back. "Anyway, the boat was in town and closer to hand. Closer to the airstrip, for that matter, and to planes headed out of the Park."

Mutt rested her chin on her forepaws and prepared to be patient.

Somewhere down the beach a couple of sea gulls raised their voices in raucous dispute, a crow cawed mockingly from overhead, a slight breeze rustled through the alders crowded against the high water mark. That same breeze lifted the wisps of hair escaping from Kate's single braid.

A hammer beat rhythmically against a metal surface, paused, resumed. The ice in the river shifted and cracked over the gray, thickly silted water beneath. As the brims of ice-cap glaciers dissolved in the warmer temperatures of the ever-increasing daylight, as the winter's snowpack melted, the runoff filled the streams and creeks and poured into tributaries and from them into the Kanuyaq. Daily, the volume and speed of the river increased, and would soon peel the caked, cracked rind of winter from the river's surface, sweeping it downstream, into Prince William Sound and the Gulf of Alaska and out to sea, leaving behind a new, swelling, rushing skin of pearlescent gray, a living, gleaming, 250-mile ribbon adorning the awakening landscape of the Park, fecund with the promise of spring and the first run of salmon.

There is nothing tentative or uncertain about the coming of spring in the Arctic; it does not creep in unannounced. It marches in at the head of an invading army, all flags flying, brass brand playing, soldiers at present arms and knee-deep in ticker tape and cheers. Suddenly and with all her heart Kate longed to be home, back at the homestead, to participate in the rambunctious toss and jostle as breakup elbowed its way into the Park. The trunks of the birches were dark with the subdermal flow of sap; the scab of ice on Silver Creek at the foot of the ravine in back of her cabin was breaking off in larger and larger chunks; the Quilak Mountains were shrugging out of their winter coats and striding bare-breasted into spring. Away from it for twenty-four hours, she missed home with an aching intensity that brought a rueful smile of self-acknowledgment.

"Maybe Jack's right and I am just a hermit at heart," she told Mutt. She should have gotten on with her search.

Instead she stretched out on the deck, burrowed her head into Mutt's furry side and let the sun pour down over her.

A half hour later a sudden chill woke her from a light doze. She shivered and sat up, blinking. A tumble of cumulus clouds elbowed its way up out of the southeast horizon, jostling for position between Kate and the sun. "See that," she said, slapping Mutt affectionately on the flank, "a cloud comes over the sunlit arch, a wind comes off a frozen peak and you're all at once back in the middle of March. The poet was right."

She rose to her feet and stretched her arms over her head, yawning. "I suppose I should check the cabin, although I can't imagine Lisa'd be dumb enough to leave anything right where some drunked-up teenager vandalizing dry-docked boats on a dare could stumble across it. But if Wu's in the Park, the stuff's got to be somewhere."

Still half-asleep, she grappled with the hasp, upon which Lisa had not bothered herself to install a pad lock. Sliding the little door to one side, she took a step forward, tripped over an unstowed boat hook and fell headlong through the cabin door.

Which was a very good thing, since the shooter hunkered down in the clump of alders at the head of the beach chose that very moment to squeeze off a shot in her direction.

The sharp report echoed across the expanse of sand and gravel and ice.

Something nudged the side of Kate's head, and something warm began to flow down over the right side of her face and drip off her chin. She fell hard and loose, hitting her shoulder against the edge of the bunk built into the back of the cabin. Her head started to hurt. She raised a hand and touched it, and saw that the liquid was blood. All the strength seemed to go out of her limbs and a smothering wave of darkness rose up and overwhelmed her.

When she woke, her eyelids seemed stuck together. It took her a moment to get them open. Her cheek was pressed against a hard surface and seemed also to be stuck there. Someone was rubbing a rough, wet washcloth over her face. A dog whined, and she stirred. She knew that whine, and memory returned in a sudden rush. "Mutt?" Her hands fumbled around for purchase and she pushed up. The skin of her cheek pulled off the floor with a sticky sound.

At her side, Mutt whined anxiously. She licked Kate again.

Her head was pounding. Kate raised a shaky hand and investigated. Where the bullet had plowed across her temple there was a shallow wound a half-inch wide and two inches long. Blood must have drained from it into her eyes and down the right side of her face and into the collar of her shirt. The smell of blood was everywhere, but the area around the wound seemed cleaner than the rest of her. Mutt whined again, her muzzle thrust directly in Kate's face, her yellow eyes round and anxious, and licked her cheek yet again.

"okay," Kate muttered, holding her off, "head wounds always bleed like hell. Get fixed up in a minute. okay, girl, take it easy." With hands seemingly too swollen to perform even the most simple task, she fumbled around in her pockets for a kerchief. It took what felt like forever to find one, and when she did, it took another forever to fold it and bind it around her forehead. Reaching up over the edge of the tiny sink, praying that the water tank wasn't empty, she was rewarded by a thin stream of cool water. She splashed some on her face, a scant handful at a time. Blinking her eyes clear, she inched over to the door and peered up over the sill.

Outside, the sky had cleared again, and the sun seemed to have dropped like a golden stone into a pale blue pond, cumulus ripples spreading out to the very edge of the horizon. Kate blinked again and realized it was coming up on sunset. She must have been out for hours. She could see nothing out of the ordinary, hear nothing out of the ordinary. No one had come running, so the hammerer had not heard the shot and was long since gone. From the town up the bank and beyond the trees smoke rose from chimneys in peaceful white wisps. Even the gulls were silent. Leaning back, Kate looked around the cabin and found a knit watch cap of navy blue. With the cap over the end of the boat hook that had tripped her up, she poked them both out the door of the bowpicker's cabin, very slowly. Mutt, still on her feet with her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Kate's face, didn't move.

The cap crept up over the sill, the level of the deck, the railing.

Nothing. No sound, no movement, nobody shooting.

Kate swung the boat hook back and, swinging it with both hands, threw the cap across the deck into the bow. Still nothing.

The boat hook fell clattering to the deck. Whoever the shooter had been, they were gone now. Kate lay where she was and shook for a while. She felt she'd earned it. After a moment she remembered there was something she was supposed to do. Groaning, she pulled herself up by the edge of the bunk, raising herself to her feet to begin the search. Hampered by the dimming light, her pounding head, and having to do most of it by touch, nevertheless it didn't take long to find what she was looking for. In the locker mounted on the bulkhead above the bunk, hidden behind the canned goods, she found a creased paper bag with the top folded down. Inside were half a dozen greenish-yellow, wizened-up little bags of what seemed to be dried meat. She put the bag to one side to rummage further. Not for a moment did she believe she had found all there was to find, and proved herself right almost immediately.

She pulled back the mattress and knocked against the sheet of plywood beneath. Lifting the mattress completely out of the bunk, she felt around the edges with inquisitive fingers until she found a line of three small holes sanded smooth at one end. Her fingers slid in and she lifted. In the shallow hollow between engine compartment and mattress bottom, tucked between a clutch of plastic mending needles and a damp, disintegrating cardboard box full of rusting nuts, bolts and nails, she found two sets of walrus tusks with skulls. Forgetting, she whistled, long and low. The sound hurt her ears. One of the sets was trophy-size, with tusks thirty inches long and perfectly matched.

Dizzy, aching, sick as she was, the arrogance of it amazed her. To leave a set of ivory tusks worth a minimum of $3,000 on the black market in the cubby beneath the bunk, to leave half a dozen black bear gall bladders worth anywhere from $600 to $1,000 apiece in Hong Kong practically out in plain sight in the locker above that bunk;- and all behind a door Lisa hadn't bothered to lock-a wave of nausea engulfed her. Kate held her head on with both hands and staggered out to retch over the side. Rinsing out her mouth in the sink she' searched further without result, which did surprise her. By this time Jack Morgan could have accused Lisa Getty of selling military secrets to Moammar Qaddafi and Kate would have believed him without question. She replaced plywood and mattress and climbed shakily out of the cabin, carrying the paper bag and the tusks.

Looking over the side at the eight-foot drop to the ground, she swore weakly. She tossed the bag over, let the tusks down more gently and somehow managed to maneuver herself to the edge and over, landing on legs that promptly collapsed. Mutt jumped down next to her and touched a cold nose to her cheek.

Kate raised a feeble hand and shoved at her. "I'm all ht, girl, just give me a minute."

One minute passed, another, and still Kate lay there, her head pounding, her vision swimming, until Mutt set her teeth in Kate's collar and began to tug.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, all right already," Kate said. wearily. With a tremendous effort she made it. to her knees and had to pause there, retching emptily between trembling arms braced wide apart. She wobbled to her feet, leaning up against the bowpicker's hull. When she";` remembered how to walk, she picked up the bag and the tusks, which now seemed to weigh one hundred pounds each, and staggered out from between the boats and up the bank to her snow machine.

She never remembered getting the seat locker on the Jag open. She never remembered whether she went through the village or around it. She never remembered the two-mile trip over the rough, rutted, icy track that led to Bobby's house. If she'd been a fanciful woman she would have thought that Mutt drove the snow machine, or at least steered it. She did have a clear, painful memory of falling, hard, as if dropped from a great height, on the ramp just two steps shy of Bobby's front door, but those two steps took on the width of the Atlantic Ocean and Kate had gone as far as she could. She was dimly aware of a rough, wet tongue washing her face, of a dog whining anxiously somewhere, of a far-off wish that she could respond, of the bitter knowledge that she could not. Only the smell of blood was clear and definite and wholly undeniable, clinging tenaciously to her nostrils, so strong it was almost a salt taste on her tongue. The sun had set by now, and she began to shiver. She made a tremendous effort and stretched one hand toward the door, managing to move it perhaps six inches before the effort proved too much. In a part of her mind wholly detached from her dilemma, she wondered if she was going to die of exposure, there on Bobby's front porch.

But Bobby heard them, and forever after Kate remembered the sudden shaft of light streaming from his front door to illuminate what felt like her final resting place, the reassuring roar of his deep voice. "Kate!

Goddammit, Mutt, move your ass out of the way! Woman, what the fuck have you done to yourself now?"

And then, mercifully, oblivion.

HER eyes opened the next morning promptly at six. She stared up at the steeply pitched roof of a cedar A-frame that after some thought she recognized as Bobby's. Her head ached, but at a distance, as if the pain, was happening to someone else. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and when she brought up one hand to push the covers down it was like she was pushing her way through very deep water.