Season of Death (22 page)

The metal teeth of the zipper seemed obscenely loud in the early-morning stillness. Before Ray could retract the door, the beast froze. The sloppy champing ceased. The shadow became a motionless nylon mural. It had heard him.

Ray held his breath, gripped by an emotion that bordered on panic. What if he stepped out of the tent, directly into the embrace of a grizzly? He glanced back at Lewis, wondering where the little twerp had hidden the rifle. When the mystery intruder finally hissed a sigh and returned to its rooting, Ray clenched his jaw and threw back the blue flap, prepared to make a hasty retreat, to be attacked by a blur of teeth and claws. Instead, he found himself staring through the mosquito netting, directly into the bulging eyes of a caribou bull. Thick muzzle to the ground, antlers just a foot away, it continued nibbling at the tundra. The barrel-chested animal studied him, seemingly unafraid, for a full minute before backing away from the tent and moseying out of sight. As he departed, others came into view: scraggly white-and-brown coats milling about in a low, dense mist.

Pushing through the insect door, Ray stood up and gasped. The caribou near the tent represented only the leading edge of a skein that continued north for miles. There were hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of animals. A living sea drifting slowly south. Heads bobbed and nodded at the ground, antlers jerking skyward, then disappearing into the layer of clinging fog. Ray’s jaw fell open as the tide rolled gracefully toward him: wave after wave of regal beasts borne like fish on an earth-hugging tide of foam.

“Hey!” he called in an urgent whisper. “Lewis! Billy Bob! Get out here!”

The animated ocean current flowed majestically forward. A bull trotted along a ridge a quarter mile east, his rack stabbing at the dull orange sky.

“Wake up, you guys have to …” Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that the tent was gone. With it, his companions. The camp was missing too. It had been absent since his emergence from the tent. Ray performed a slow, nervous 360. The peaks were nowhere to be found, the canyon having flattened into a broad, featureless plain. There were animals on every side, in every direction, cluttering the landscape as far as the horizon. The no ads of the north had risen to surround him. He was a man adrift.

The sense of loneliness was overwhelming. He was crowded by the swelling herd, animals rubbing and bumping against him in their relentless journey south. Yet he was utterly alone. Framed by this freak phenomenon of nature, he had the impression that his life was without purpose: small, insignificant, impermanent, that it would have no lasting effect whatsoever on the world, that it would in no way impact the march of history. This realization was followed by a tangle of emotions: regret, bitterness, a longing for meaning.

Ray braced himself as bulls, cows, and calves brushed past with more urgency. Then he heard it: a faraway cry. It was shrill, haunting, a high-pitched summons that sent chills up and down his spine. A cat in distress. No … more like a …

Scanning the mist, Ray set off recklessly, against the current of oncoming animals. He had to find the source of the cry! Had to. Was compelled to. Would die if he failed to.

Pushing into the tide, he began dodging caribou like a crazed matador. He evaded a cow, slipped a marauding bull, was nearly downed by another cow, felt the sharp points of a bull s antlers pierce his shoulder. In the next instant, he was on the ground … bleeding. Leaping to his feet, he raced into the fray, shouting like a man possessed.

Ray stumbled on, for what seemed like miles. For hours, days … The caribou kept coming.

The cry ended abruptly when he discovered a blanket-wrapped bundle lying on the ground and somehow managed to scoop it up without breaking stride. An embankment materialized: a ridge of limestone that the horde of caribou was splitting to avoid. As he sprinted for it, he looked down at the bundle and saw two big brown eyes winking up at him from a round, chubby face. A baby.
His
baby. It wore an expression of relief, tears still streaming down its flushed, cherublike cheeks as it whimpered and sniffled.

Love for the child rose within him like steam from a boiling kettle: frantic concern, a white-hot desire to protect and console.

When he looked up, the stone refuge wavered like a mirage before transforming itself into an angry bull. It was charging, coming directly for Ray. For the baby.

Ray felt something on his face. Wet, cold … tears? Was he crying? He hugged the baby closer. To his dismay, the blanket was now empty. The baby had evaporated. So had the bull. So had all the caribou.

Icy droplets found his neck … his lips. He felt pressure and realized that arms were wrapped around him, smooth hands massaging his skin. Blond hair fell across his face. It was heavy with the scent of a sweet perfume.

There was a giggle and two blue eyes sparkled at him:
Janice Farrell!.

Smiling wickedly, she continued her assault, nipping at his ear, passionately locking onto his neck before …

Cold moisture seeped to his chest…. she found his shoulders. As her hands played at his ponytail, her lips attending to his biceps, Ray had a shocking revelation: He was naked! So was Farrell!

“Stop,” he insisted. “I’m …”

“You’re what?” she moaned.

“I’m married.”

Eyeing him playfully, she purred, “Can’t you be married later?”

TWENTY-THREE

R
AIN WAS PEPPERING
the tent when Ray finally clawed his way out of sleep. The top of his bag was wet. So was he: hair, face, neck, upper third of his T-shirt. The mystery of this lasted only until the next drip. He looked up and cursed the leak.

Squirming away from it, he took back the pronouncement. At least it had served to wake him up. He blinked into the dim morning light, cringing at the flighty remnants of the dream. Actually, he reflected, wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt,
dream
didn’t do it justice. Nightmare. That was the word. A rather distressing nightmare!

He struggled out of the bag, found the penlight, and began clumsily searching Lewis’s backpack for a dry shirt.
Caribou … a baby … Dr. Farrell …
The topics were wholly and completely unrelated. They didn’t belong in the same sentence, much less the same night terror. How had his subconscious managed to link them? Better yet, why? Fatigue, stress, the chicken surprise he had downed right before bed. That had to be it.

The vision of the caribou had been exhilarating, almost mystical. Like a prophecy fulfilled. Though he was generations removed from the nomadic Inupiat hunters who had depended on caribou for sustenance, the sight of them migrating en masse still moved him deeply. It was as if his ancestors had passed down a special gene that caused him to respect, honor, and appreciate the peculiar animals. Caribou were not, after all, especially attractive: low to the ground, scrawny legs, thick-bodied, boxy snouts … Yet the unlikely beasts were uniquely suited to survival in the Arctic, and, more importantly, they represented Life: fur that provided better insulation than anything Eddie Bauer could offer, meat that was rich in protein, antlers and bones suitable for tools and weapons … Every part of the animal was useful, even essential, to forging out an existence in the brutal environs of the extreme North. Dreaming about them was instinctual.

The baby … That portion of the dream had been a twisted variant on an old Inupiat custom. In times of hardship, starvation, and epidemic disease, it was customary to leave infants and elderly relatives behind when relocating to a new camp. The idea was that by sacrificing the few, the many stood a better chance of survival. Rescuing a baby from a stampede was probably a reaction to the bombshell Margaret had dropped on him. It seemed clear that his psyche was nervous about becoming a father.

Pulling on a fresh T-shirt, Ray wondered at the latter portion of the nightmare. The seduction. That part bothered him. Dreaming about another woman? About Farrell? In
that
way? It disturbed him, made him feel out of control.

No matter what happened in his dreams, he thought as he slipped on his boots, the truth was that he loved one woman and always would. There was no question about that. Margaret was his one and only. So why was he entertaining fantasies about a well-endowed stranger he had just met? Simple. Farrell’s appearance, combined with her aggressive behavior, had caught him off guard, at the end of an exhausting day.

Today would be different, he decided. Punching the Indiglo button on his Timex, he squinted at the readout: 6:22. It was already getting light outside. Time to get going.

Sitting on the cot, he closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. Yesterday was over, thank goodness. Today would be different. No more being led down the trail to hell by a reckless, inept
guide.
No more letting a pushy, well-endowed archaeologist intimidate him. He was a professional. A law-enforcement agent. A loyal husband. A skilled outdoorsman. He would take charge.

Today would be different. He would lead his friends to safety, to the village, to the floatplane, back to Barrow. Soon all of this would be a memory. A bad one.

He suddenly remembered Fred. Three police officers recover a disembodied skull, and what do they do about it? Nothing. Except stow the find in a backpack. Maybe he could do something about that today too. Ask a few questions. Learn something about who Fred really was. Who he had been.

Ray shook his head at the picture that formulated in his mind: a hiker enjoying the Range one minute, meeting a horrible, unexpected death the next. Having his head severed by a bear … Tragic. Grotesque. For the first time since Billy Bob had reeled in the head, Ray felt a tinge of compassion. Loved ones needed to be notified, the rest of the body recovered, if possible. Why hadn’t they done more to ID the deceased? A blur of images assaulted him, reminding him that further investigation had been virtually impossible given their location and circumstances.

Today would be different.

Standing, he took a deep breath.

A brittle chuckle ended his silent pep talk. It was Lewis. “Neva happen. You no be like him.”

“What are you talking about? Like who?”

“Da shirt.
My
shirt. First, way small. Second, can’t wear if you can’t dunk.”

Ray glanced down at the T-shirt he was wearing, noticing for the first time that it bore a graphic. Bold letters at the top declared: “I want to be like Mike!” The remainder of the fabric was consumed by a huge, full-color photograph of Michael Jordan, the picture badly distorted by Ray’s chest. Between the cartoonish Jordan and the undersized, mud-encrusted jeans, Ray looked less than professional. Maybe today
wouldn ‘t
be different.

He kicked the cot. “Get up! We need to get going.”

“You a head bigger dan me. More. But can’t dunk.” Lewis shook his head, smirking. His smart-aleck attitude changed when he tried to sit up. “Aiyaa …!”

“A little sore, are we?” He turned his attention to Billy Bob. “Time to wake up.” Ray peeled the bag away. “Come on. We have to get ready to leave.”

The cowboy blinked at Ray, examined Lewis, as if he didn’t recognize them.

“How’s the leg?” Ray asked. The question was asked out of concern for the cowboy’s health, as well as a need to know whether or not he could walk. If he couldn’t, one of the Chinese giants would have to carry him back to the river.

Billy Bob stared blankly at his leg, then muttered, “We goin’ somewheres?”

“Yeah. Home. So get up and …”

“Texas …?”

“Close. Barrow. Now get up.”

The cowboy watched Lewis dress before attempting to stand. His next word was a curse. Examining his bandages, he announced, “I been shot.”

“We know,” Ray assured him. He was crouching, checking the packs, trying to decide what supplies he would need from Farrell. The less the better, he thought. He didn’t want to be indebted to her. The Zodiac was the main problem. He had to figure out a way of returning it without having to make a personal visit to the camp.

“It shore does sting,” Billy Bob exclaimed, gingerly putting on his clothes.

“I’ll bet,” Ray agreed. “Bullet wounds have a way of doing that.”