Season of Death (19 page)

“Uh-oh,” was her response.

“Yeah. Uh-oh is right, Betty. We’re calling it quits. And not a moment too soon.”

“That Lewis …” she said, turning his name into a curse.

Ray asked Farrell, “Do we have to go to the village to meet a plane?”

She nodded. “Either that or go south, to one of the lakes or to Anak Pass. Kanayut is the simplest. You can use one of our Zodiacs.”

“Really? You sure you can spare one?”

“For the
cops …
anything.” This was punctuated with a sly, flirtatious smile.

“Great.” To Betty, he said, “Have a plane meet us at Kanayut tomorrow. Say noon or so.”

“Need any medical supplies?” she asked in something of a groan, implying that she had expected this and would give them a stern “I told you so” when they returned.

“Maybe some painkillers. Something mild. Lewis has a separated shoulder. At least, I think it’s separated. And Billy Bob has a couple of … puncture wounds.”

“What did that cheechako do? Mix it up with a grizzly?”

“Not exactly.” Ray decided not to elaborate. Farrell was watching him closely, overtly eavesdropping, and it was making him uneasy. “Just send bandages.”

“Will do. What about you? Are you all right, Ray?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good to hear. Is there anything else I can do you for?”

“I need you to run a check on the computer, Betty. See if any missing person reports have been filed in the past week or so.”

“Worldwide? Or do you have a specific region in mind,” Betty teased.

“In the Range. Specifically in our area: the Pass to the Colville.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“Yes,” Ray answered. He let up on the button and waited for her to argue.

“So that’s how you’re going to be,” she said, predictably gruff. “Listen here, young man, you want a favor, you better tell old Betty what’s going on.”

“We found something.”

“What is it?”

“Evidence that has caused us to suspect that someone may have met with an untimely demise,” he said, careful not to be too specific.

“That’s about as informative as a financial report,” she shot back. “What gives?”

“I’ll fill you in later. Just check the records, okay?”

“Will do,” she sniffed back. “Is that all?”

“One last thing. Could you patch me through to Margaret?”

“I can try. It’ll take a minute.”

“Thanks. I’ll call back about the MPR in the morning.”

“Okay.” The static surged then, “Hey, listen, it sounds like you boys are in pretty bad shape, but if you get a chance, look up my uncle, Pete Colchuck, in Kanayut.”

“Sure,” Ray said. He was nearly positive they wouldn’t get the chance, but …

“He’s head of the council. If you need anything, tell him Betty sent you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hang on. I’ll get your wife.”

“Wife?” Farrell asked. Here a single eyebrow sank, the other rising into her forehead. She leaned forward, making an exaggerated effort to get a glimpse of Ray’s left hand.

“I don’t wear jewelry when I hunt,” he told her.

“Old Inupiat custom?”

There was a hiss that caused Ray to flinch, and the line began to ring.

After three rings, a distant voice answered. “Hello?”

“Margaret?”

“Ray!”

“Will you excuse me for a minute?” he asked Farrell.She turned and began the laborious task of zipping her way through the mosquito door.

“I can just barely hear you, Ray,” the faraway voice said.

When Farrell was safely out of earshot Ray said, “It’s a radio patch.”

“What happened this morning? One minute we were talking, the next …?”

“Bad connection,” he explained.

“Why didn’t you call back?”

“I lost the phone.”

“Lost it?”

“Yeah. We were out in the kayaks and … Billy Bob … It’s a long story.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Fine. Tired and filthy. But fine.”

“How’s the hunt going?”

“Uh … So far … Let’s just say we haven’t bagged any caribou.”

“Have you had a chance to do any fishing?” She asked this enthusiastically. Though she refused to lift a pole, she knew that he enjoyed it.

“A little.”

“Catch anything?”

A vivid image flashed through Ray’s mind: Billy Bob fighting to reel in Fred Da Head. “Not to speak of.” The line beeped and the static spiked. When it began to subside Ray said, “Listen, we don’t have long to talk. I just wanted to touch base.”

“I’m glad you did,” she replied. She sounded genuinely pleased.

“And I thought maybe you could clear something up. There’s a rumor going around that the Attlas are …
expecting.”

The response was delivered in a giggle. “They certainly are.”

“We’re going to … we’re really going to … to have a … a … we’re going to …?” Ray stuttered. “In nine months, we’re going to … to … in nine months …?”

“Thirty-six weeks, according to the doctor. The due date is May 14.”

Ray swallowed hard, sobered by the disclosure.

“Ray? Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m here. Honey, that’s … that’s great. I’m … I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re happy, Ray. Say we’ll be great parents.”

“I am, honey. And, we will.” He paused to breathe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You mean Sunday.”

“No. We’re coming home tomorrow.”

“Ray,” she objected. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine. It’s not like I’m an invalid.”

“I know, but we …” Static brought an abrupt end to their conversation. “Margaret …? Margaret …?” He adjusted the dial, quickly realized that the connection had been broken, and confessed the depths of his love for her, to a dead mike.

Switching off the radio, Ray braced himself against the card table. Was the floor swaying? A
baby
… Lightheaded, he stumbled through the insect netting and sucked in the cool evening air. Already disoriented, the halogen glow that met him added an eerie, surrealistic quality to the moment. A
baby …

Squinting into the haze of white light, he looked for someone to tell. The crew was busy attending to the site. Where was Farrell? She wasn’t a friend, barely even an acquaintance, but Ray desperately needed to share this news with someone. He was about to set off in search of her when one of the enforcers stomped out of the shadows at the end of the row of tents. It was the specialist. He had two packs slung over his enormous shoulders and seemed oblivious to their weight or encumbrance. Behind him a dwarf appeared. It took Ray a moment to realize that it was Lewis. The shorter, wider Stubby lumbered into view next. He was cradling Billy Bob in his beefy arms, as if the cowboy were a straw doll.

Ray trotted over to them. “You guys all right?”

Lewis was clutching his shoulder, scowling at the ground. He was either in pain or bummed that his first adventure trip had failed miserably and come to a premature end.

From his lofty position in the human hammock, Billy Bob drawled, “Fine.” His skin was ashen, the usually fresh face haggard, the intensely bright eyes turned down several notches. His arms and legs drooped from the security guard’s embrace.

“I’ll find the doc and see where to put them,” the specialist grunted.

Stubby nodded, content to suspend his charge indefinitely.

“What is this place?” Billy Bob wondered.

The man blinked his sleepy eyes at this, the round, full face void of emotion. When it became clear that he didn’t intend to respond, Ray said, “An archaeological site.”

“A whuut?” the cowboy asked. In his injured condition, he seemed pitifully dense.

“An archaeological site,” Ray repeated. “A group from the University of Washington is excavating a Thule hunting camp.” He regretted this even as it left his mouth. An answer this specific would only invite further questions.

“A huntin’ camp, huh?” Billy Bob surveyed the dig area. “Don’t look like much. Just a hole in the ground.” He breathed heavily after this observation.

“That’s usually where you find remnants of ancient cultures, buried in the ground.”

“Thule!” Lewis asked in horror, as if the word represented something odoriferous. “What da heck dat?”

“Pre-Eskimo,” Ray explained. “The people that came over from Asia …” He paused, waiting for a sign of recognition. “Across the land bridge.”

“Da what?”

“The Bering Land Bridge,” Ray explained. “Didn’t you learn anything in school?”

“I drop out grade seven.”

“I know. But cultural history was taught in grade five. Maybe earlier than that. Besides, something about our people should have been on the GED.”

“Nah,” Lewis frowned. “Nothin’ about dat on da GED.” His pronunciation of the acronym for the Graduation Equivalency Diploma test rhymed with head.

“The Thule were our ancient ancestors, according to the anthropologists.”

Ray expected Lewis to drill him about what an anthropologist was. Instead, an expression of panic fell over his face, and his eyes began to dart back and forth nervously. “Ancestors?” he asked in an ominous tone. His head twisted and he gave the dig site a suspicious glance. “Da
naluaqmiut
dig an-ces-ter bones?”

What Lewis wanted to know, Ray realized, was whether or not any graves had been desecrated, any spirits had been disturbed, and whether he should hightail it back to the river before the
tuungak
visited revenge. “No,” he lied. “They’re just surveying the area, studying the way our forefathers hunted, the tools and weapons they used.”

Lewis didn’t seem convinced. He was examining the darkness surrounding the encampment now, staring into the trees, probably envisioning a swelling legion of malevolent, perturbed
tuungak
and
piinjilak.

“I’ve got good news,” Ray told them in an effort to change the subject.

“Day got a
anjatkut
in da camp?” Lewis tried hopefully, still studying the tree line for otherworldly activity.

“No. At least not that I’m aware of.” Ray looked at the brute hoisting Billy Bob. “You’re not a shaman, are you?”

“Uh?” Stubby grunted. His brow met his cheeks and his eyes disappeared.

“So what’s the big news?” Billy Bob sighed, grimacing.

Ray smiled at them, glowing with pride. “Margaret’s going to have a baby.”

Lewis’s head popped up. “Baby? You gonna be aapa?”

“Wall, ain’t that special,” the cowboy gushed. “Let me be the first to say …”

“Congratulations.” The accolade came from behind Ray. Turning, he saw Farrell approaching. She said something else, something about children being wonderful, about Ray making a great father. Whatever it was, Ray missed it. He was busy gawking at her. So were Lewis and Billy Bob. Even the Chinese muscleman was transfixed.

Farrell had discarded the baseball cap, and with it, her T-shirt. She was left wearing only a purple bra, the kind the goddesslike female athletes wore in Nike ads as they sprinted the track or worked out in a high-tech gym. And they had nothing on Dr. Farrell. The halter sports top was small and tight, leaving little to the imagination: golden hair spilling onto bronze shoulders, toned arms, spandex stretched to its limit, a flat brown stomach, thin waist disappearing into her shorts, curving mysteriously beneath the khaki fabric to incorporate shapely hips before emerging again as dangerously long legs.

“Aariga …!” Lewis whispered.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, Ray?” As she asked this, she gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

The smile she flashed them, combined with her attire, the touch, and the way she said his name caused Raymond Attla, professional law-enforcement agent, happily married man and soon-to-be father, to blush like a schoolboy.

TWENTY

S
WALLOWING HARD
, R
AY
stammered through the introductions. Lewis and Billy Bob nodded at Farrell politely, their eyes slightly glazed.

“It’s a pleasure, ma’am,” Billy Bob assured her. He seemed to be making a dramatic recovery, color returning to his face.

“Aariga! You a
scientist
?” Lewis asked, as if this was an impossibility.

“An archaeologist,” Farrell specified. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”