Season of Death (27 page)

“D
R.
F
ARRELL
?” R
AY
blinked at him. “Which Dr. Farrell?”

“The archaeologist guy. He’s working upriver.” Ray considered this. “Has the plane been parked here all summer?”

The Athabascan shrugged. “Except when he flies it.” He glanced at his fellow celebrants, clearly anxious to get back to the stick dance.

“He’s a pilot?”

“Yeah. Excuse me, I got a dance to do.” With that, he bounded toward the pole.

Cindy, who had been watching the festivities, leaned over to Ray. In a raised voice, she asked, “Did he say something about Dr. Farrell?”

“That’s his plane.”

She twisted her head toward the Otter. “Yeah. I know.” She flinched and looked at Ray with a pained expression. “What is Mark’s plane …?”

Doing here,
Ray thought, completing the inquiry in his mind.
Good question.
Especially since Farrell had supposedly flown to Juneau two days earlier. “Maybe he hitched a ride with someone else,” Ray suggested. He discarded the idea even as he said it. Why would a pilot who had a specific destination and mission plane-pool with another traveler? And just how much air traffic did Kanayut get?

“No …” Cindy took in a halting breath. Ray knew what she was thinking. That the skull
had
been Mark Farrell. And this was confirmation. Except that it wasn’t. The mole on the head, the presence of the plane, the fact that Farrell was supposed to be in Juneau … It was enough to make you stop and think, but didn’t prove anything.

“There has to be some explanation,” Ray assured her.

She sighed, and Ray thought she might begin to cry again. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll ask around. I’m sure someone saw Farrell get on a different plane.”

“If Mark … if he’s … d … d …” she squeaked, unable to verbalize the unthinkable.

“Hey …” He put an arm around her. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out where he is.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

After a brief whimper, Cindy said, “Sorry. I just … I’m such a sap when it comes to … to Mark. You’re right. He’s probably fine. Off filing for the permits.” She embraced him. “Thanks.”

As Ray accepted her hug, he scanned the area for Billy Bob and Lewis. He found them on the river side of the celebration: two lumps on a long, flat piece of bleached driftwood. Lewis was watching the dance, Billy Bob either napping or swooning.

He was about to ask one of the elders if there was a place for them to rest, when he heard the whine of deliverance. Seconds later a Cessna dropped through the low ceiling, its pontoons reaching for the Anaktuvuk like the feet of a goose.

Ray glanced at his watch: 10:30. Perfect. He directed Cindy’s attention to the plane, and they watched as it glided gracefully toward the village. “That one’s for us. Let’s get going.”

She froze. “What about Mark? You promised you’d find him.”

“I will.”

“When?” Cindy looked hurt, poised to start bawling again. “You promised …”

“Yeah, I did … but … Don’t cry.” Ray wasn’t sure what he had agreed to, but was willing to do just about anything to stave off another bout of blubbering.

She sniffed back her tears and followed him as he gathered up Billy Bob, Lewis, and the gear. The foursome limped to a dock a few meters north of the Otter and was standing there waiting when the pilot cut the engine and climbed out.

“Somebody call a cab?” The glib remark came from a woman in her early forties. She was wearing a soiled denim work shirt, jeans, a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat. “Ya’ll my fare?”

Ray nodded.

“Motley bunch, ain’tcha?” She looked them over, surveyed their packs. “One a ya’ll ‘11 have to sit on the floor. Only got four seats. Pulled the other two fer cargo space.”

Ray felt Cindy’s eyes boring into him. Sighing he announced, “There’s only three passengers.”

“Eh?” Lewis did a head count. “Four.”

After another melodramatic sigh, Ray told them, “I’m not going.”

“Not going?” Lewis was confused. “Den I not goin’. I stay for da hunt.”

“No.
I’m
staying,” Ray said laboriously.
“You
are going.”

“How come you get to stay?” he whined.

“I just … I have to … to … uh …” It was difficult to find the words to describe what he was about to do: pass up a trip home to track down a wayward dirt digger. It was the icing on the cake, just the thing to make an already-intolerable outing perfectly dismal: blundering around an Athabascan village, asking questions, making a nuisance of himself in the middle of a potlatch. All to alleviate a coed’s misgivings. Yes, Ray was a public servant. But this was pushing things.

“I have to … do something first,” he muttered. “I’ll be on the next plane out.”

“Sure,” Lewis said through a sneer. “You bring back a bull, I gonna shoot you.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t even have a rifle.” He realized then that if he put all the gear on the plane, he would have nothing in the way of supplies or clothing. Chances were he would make it out later in the day, as soon as he could convince a bush pilot to rescue him. But just in case … He took the pack that Janice Farrell had loaned them and began cannibalizing bits and pieces from the other pack.

“See ya back home, partner,” Billy Bob drawled. He dabbed at the paint still caked on Ray’s face. “Yer lookin’ a little sunburned, buddy.”

“Very funny. I’ll call and check on you if I get stranded,” he said, giving the cowboy an affectionate pat on his uninjured shoulder. After helping him on board, he turned and faced Lewis.

The little guide wagged a finger at him. “No hunting, Redman. Swear?”

Ray raised his palm as if he were about to testify. “I swear.”

“Good. Wait for da next trip. We hunt real good. Be real great.”

Ray smiled and nodded, silently vowing never to enter the Bush again on so much as a picnic if it was organized and led by Lewis Fletcher.

Cindy was peering upriver.

“What is it?” Ray asked.

“The Zodiac. How are you going to get it back to camp?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somebody here in the village will volunteer to return it for us. Or maybe a member of the dig team can pick it up.” He took her by the elbow with the intention of assisting her aboard. The sooner she was out of his hair, the sooner he could ask his twenty questions and line up another plane.

Cindy stood fast, eyeing the raft. “Mark took a Zodiac when he left for Juneau.”

“So?”

“So where is it?”

As the implication of this dawned on him, Ray had to fight the urge to swear. It would be just his luck that Cindy was right, and Mark Farrell was dead. Worse, that he had been deliberately killed. Ray physically sagged as he imagined this. That would really throw a wrench into his plans to escape from the Range. He could see himself tromping through the Bush, looking for clues to a murder.

“I’ll check,” Ray groaned. Cindy was turning out to be a real pain in the neck.

“If something happened …” she started to say.

“I’ll check,” Ray insisted. “I’ll figure out where he is, okay?”

“Okay.” From the pontoon, she asked, “How do I get to Seattle from Barrow?”

“You can probably catch something to Anchorage this afternoon.”

Hopping back to shore, she pecked him on the cheek. “I really appreciate this.”

He rolled his eyes, feeling more like a sap than a Good Samaritan. When she was aboard, he shut the door and backed away. The pilot winked at him through the cockpit windshield and gave him a thumbs-up. Ray returned the hand signal without enthusiasm. The prop roared to life,and the Cessna pulled from the dock like a taxi leaving the curb.

Two minutes later, the plane was airborne, screaming north. And Ray was alone, standing on a rotting dock, a backpack at his feet, wondering how he had come to be there, why he had let a college student talk him out of going home, and, more importantly, if the face paint was water-soluble or had to be scrubbed off with turpentine.

When the plane had been swallowed by the dense cloud bank, Ray turned to find the red-faced, caribou-clad men still engaged in a frantic dance around the pole, the drummers pounding out a relentless beat. A dozen stragglers were observing the dance, most viewing the performance through camera lenses. Tourists. The rest of the crowd was moving up the hill. Probably for the start of the feast.

Ray followed the trail of people. Plodding up the beach, he passed a row of kayaks and flatboats before reaching a dirt street lined with single-story frame houses. The homes needed paint and minor repairs. Fifty yards past the residential district was a large brick building. It looked like another school, but the sign in front proudly declared that it was the
KANAYUT COMMUNITY CENTER
. Ray almost laughed. Once upon a time, just a few decades earlier, the community center of most any village had been a crude plank or log dugout.

He held the glass door open for a cluster of elderly men. “Good costume,” one of them grunted, noting his crimson face. He followed them into a spacious entry way decorated with children’s crayon drawings of stick-figured caribou. There was a counter straight across from the door. A trio of ladies was standing behind it, accepting money, making change, doling out tickets. Apparently this potlatch had an entrance fee.

This ran against the grain of the ceremony itself, Ray thought as he fell into line. The purpose of such gatherings was to commemorate a significant event: a death, a birth, a marriage, a boy’s first hunt, a successful hunt, a plentiful run of salmon … And the single emphasis was giving. Often the leaders would compete to see who could give the most.

“Five dollars each,” the woman at the counter told the men in front of Ray.

This potlatch was a
taking
affair. That didn’t bother Ray as much as the fact that he didn’t have five dollars. He had no wallet, no money … As the line crawled forward, he decided that he would tell the woman his name and rank, that he was there on official business and show her his … badge. The one residing with the fish at the bottom of Shainin Lake.

With just one patron between himself and the box office, he tried to formulate an alternative plan. A village this size, this rustic, probably had a chief.

“Nice face paint,” the woman complimented. “Five dollars.” She was short, overweight, wearing a striped headband and a tasseled gown with caribou cuffs. Her face was round and friendly, the eyes cheerful. She reminded him of Betty.

Betty! Wasn’t her uncle an elder? What was his name? Pilchuck? No. Polchick?

“Five dollars, please,” she repeated. The appeal was polite but insistent.

“I don’t have any money …” Ray said. “I’m a police officer and …”

She chuckled at this, her eyes moving from his dirty undersized jeans to his Michael Jordan T-shirt. “And I’m Demi Moore.” Lifting her arms, her rotund figure jiggled in what vaguely resembled a stripper’s bump-and-grind routine. Several men in line clapped and whistled. “Didn’t you see me in
Striptease
?” More catcalls. The mirth disappeared, and she said, “If you can’t afford the cover charge, fill out a benevolence form.” She handed him a two-page document. “The council will spring for your ticket.”

‘I know someone on the council. Uh … Betty Reed. Her uncle.”

The woman frowned, then offered a pen. “Step out of line and fill out the form …”

“Betty said to mention her name and we’d be taken care of.”

“Is that right?” Her eyes darted to the far side of the room.

“She said if we needed anything in the village, just to let her uncle know.”

“We?”

“Me and the guys I’m hunting with.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder.

The cashier leaned to glance around him. Ray turned to follow her gaze. Two old women with canes smiled back at them.

“Hunting, huh?” She nodded, eyes shifting again. “For what? Dentures?”

“Dentures? Uh … No. Oh! Not with them, with …” Ray felt more than saw the approach of a large object, a body that seemed to create its own gravitational field.

The woman’s head tilted back and she addressed the ceiling above Ray’s head. “Reuben, would you please assist …” Her voice trailed off. “What was your name?”

“Attla. Ray Attla.”

“Would you assist Mr. Attla here to our security office.”

A large hand clamped onto Ray’s shoulder, and he was suddenly moving toward a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Following the arm up from the hand, he found khaki: bulging sleeve, skintight fabric at the shoulder, buttons straining over an expansive chest. The uniform was burdened with the task of covering a six-eight, 350-pound mass of muscle and bone.

“That’s
Officer
Attla,” Ray pointed out with a smile. “Barrow PD.”

The dark face looming above the gargantuan physique remained impassive. The man was either deaf or terribly unimpressed with Ray’s rank and position. Possibly both.

TWENTY-NINE