Season of Death (28 page)

“R
EUBEN, HUH?
T
HAT’S
Jewish, isn’t it?”

They were walking down a deserted hallway, into the bowels of the community center, Ray’s escort directing their progress by adjusting the vise grip on his shoulder.

When Reuben didn’t respond, Ray said, “You don’t look Jewish.”

Reuben sniffed, clearly bored with the chore of policing the potlatch.

They passed an empty basketball court with a glossy hardwood floor and eight backboards that reached down from the high roof on tubular, hinged arms.

“Ever had a Reuben sandwich?” Ray asked. The silent walk to the security office was making him a little nervous. What if they didn’t have a security office? What if that was code for “get rid of this nut’’ and Reuben was going to take him into the alley behind the center, crumple him into a ball, and deposit him in a Dumpster like yesterday’s trash?

“Rye bread … corned beef … mustard … sauerkraut … My wife loves them.”

They arrived at another hallway, turned the corner, and faced a door marked
SECURITY
. Reuben opened this with a key and pushed Ray through, into a tiny waiting area: three people seated in metal folding chairs, a window of reinforced Plexiglas. The room reeked of body odor and cheap alcohol.

Reuben forced Ray into a chair and tapped on the window. When a woman appeared, he said, “Got another troublemaker.”

As they conversed, Ray examined the other occupants of the waiting room. A thin, frail-looking woman wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt and a pair of threadbare Levis’ was stretched awkwardly across two seats. She appeared to have lost consciousness. Probably drunk. Kanayut was legally dry, but that didn’t mean it was without booze. A young man was seated to the woman’s right, his head tilted back against the wall. On the other side of the room, a tiny, elflike man was babbling quietly, engaged in an in-depth conversation with a blank wall. He was wearing an ill-fitting gown and a ragged shawl. Springing from his seat, he glared at Ray with the eyes of a man possessed. “You take my dogs?!”

“No,” Ray answered, offering a thin smile. “Haven’t seen them.”

“You take my dogs!” the man accused. He proceeded to denounce Ray with a long stream of abusive language. “I teach you take my dogs.” With that, he rushed Ray like a wild animal loosed from its cage. Thankfully, Reuben stepped between them. “
This
guy took your dogs, Mary,” Reuben cajoled, directing the man’s attention to the blank wall.

His rage renewed, the man began assailing the wall with profanities.

“Thanks,” Ray grunted.

Reuben shrugged. “Poor guy thinks he’s Horse Creek Mary.”

Ray nodded. This single bit of information was genuinely helpful. It not only told him that he wanted to steer clear of the little troll, but that Reuben was warming up. Ray was about to ask Reuben why he was being held and what he would have to do to get out when the security guard ambled out the door. The woman at the window disappeared.

Rising, Ray tried the door. Locked. He tapped on the window.

When the woman returned, it was to berate him. “Don’t touch the glass!”

“I need to talk with someone,” he told her through the Plexiglas.

She nodded, frowning. “Sit down.”

“I’m a friend of Betty Reed’s.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied. “Sit down or I’ll call Reuben.”

“I work with her.”

“Right. And I work with Betty Crocker,” the woman said sarcastically. “Betty Reed has been dead for forty-seven years.”

Ray opened his mouth to argue, but was speechless. Dead? Finally, he blurted, “I’m talking about Betty Reed. Lives in Barrow. I spoke to her yesterday.”

A wave of relief swept over the woman. “Oh. Barbara
Colchuck
Reed.”

“Huh?”

“After she moved away, she started going by the name of Betty.” The door next to the window buzzed and swung open. Ray slipped through and the woman waved him down a short hall. Her head twisted and she examined Ray curiously. “You’re a tall one!”

“Yeah,” Ray grunted.

“Inupiat?”

He nodded. “Tareumiut.”

She led him along a corridor, smirking over her shoulder. “Nice face paint.” A beat later, “Maybe she did it to honor her great-grandmother.”

“Who? Did what?”

“Barbara. Maybe that’s why she started going by Betty. Betty Reed Colchuck was a very noble woman, highly respected.”

Ray shook his head. Whatever. Barbara “Betty” Colchuck Reed and Betty Reed Colchuck … Talk about confusing. “She told me her uncle would be able to help us.”

“Us?” The woman hesitated at an open doorway. A placard behind her read:
COMMUNITY CENTER ADMINISTRATION.

“My hunting buddies. They flew out a little while ago.”

“Ah …” She entered a cramped office and gestured to a chair, the only one in front of her desk. It held a stack of file folders.

“What’s going on?” Ray asked, moving the folders. “Why am I here?”

“The folks out front thought you were going to be a problem, you know, make a scene. We get a lot of people in here for potlatches, especially the Coming of the Nomads. Most of them are nice enough. But there’s always a few fights, some drinking …”

“Mental patients wandering loose?”

She laughed. “You met Horse Creek Mary.”

“Interesting guy.”

“Totally out of his mind. More of a distraction than anything else though. Gets in the way. Wanders into the dance area. Pesters tourists. He’s harmless enough.” She leafed through a stack of forms lying on her desk. Extracting one, she scanned it quickly, then said, “When you started throwing Betty Reed’s name around, they thought you were in Mary’s league.” She paused to twirl a finger at her temple, indicating crazy. “Sorry.” She deposited the form in the trash can. “Jackie Miller, Center manager.”

“Ray Attla,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Why didn’t you fly out with your friends? Sticking around for the festival?”

“Not exactly.” He paused, trying to decide how to inquire about the missing archaeologist. “Ever hear of a Dr. Farrell?”

“Mark or Janice?”

“Mark.”

Nodding. “Nice guy. Knowledgeable, respectful of the ways of the People.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“He’s in and out of the village every couple of weeks.” Lifting the phone, she punched in a number. “Picks up supplies, ships out the artifacts he digs up.”

“When was he here last?”

“Oh … about …” She paused, turning her attention to the phone. “Hello, Emma? Jackie. How are yo …? Is that right …? Why aren’t you at the feast?” She chuckled.“Same here. Listen, Emma, I have a guy here who says he’s friends with Barbara Reed …. Yeah …” Covering the receiver with a palm, she asked, “How is it you know Barbara?”

“She’s our dispatcher at the Barrow Police Department.”

“You’re a cop??”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I tried.”

She told Emma, “He’s a police officer out of Barrow. Barbara’s the dispatcher up there.” She listened for a beat. “Yeah …. Uh-huh. They got married … No. I never met him either From the sounds of it … I have no idea …” she lamented.

Ray surmised that they were discussing Betty’s husband, Eddie Reed. After several years of working with Betty, he’d seen her significant other on only a handful of occasions. Eddie was a ghost husband, always off hunting or fishing or trapping.

“Yeah …? Really …?” She leaned back in her chair. Thirty seconds later she shifted forward again. “Okay … Sure … I’ll send him right over … Bye.” After replacing the phone, she raised her eyebrows at Ray. “You’re invited to lunch at the Colchucks.”

“Betty’s uncle?”

“Barbara’s
uncle. Try to refer to her as Barbara. It’ll be safer.”

“Safer?”

“Trust me.”

“If he’s head of the council …” Ray thought aloud, “why isn’t he at the potlatch?”

“He’s Chief Emeritus. Doesn’t usually attend the festivals anymore.”

“Not into tradition?”

“He’s
very
into tradition,” she assured him. “Just wait and see. But he’s old and handicapped. Or I guess the word nowadays is ‘disabled.’ Either way, he can’t walk without all sorts of braces and crutches. Usually he’s in a wheelchair. And he’s such a proud man that he doesn’t like to go out in public like that. At least, not at these celebrations.” She ripped a piece of blank paper from a pad and scribbled something on it. “Go north, to the end of town. Take a left. Walk toward the mountains for about … oh, maybe a quarter mile. His place is on the right, back in the trees along the cliffside.

Ray reached for the note. “Is that the address?”

She shook her head, pulling the note out of his reach. “It’s a list of food I’m going to ask the cooks to save for me and Emma. She’s his daughter and his nurse. She doesn’t make the festivals either. Me, I wind up working through them.”

“About Dr. Farrell …”

“Oh, right. When did I see him last?” She screwed her features as she struggled to reconsider the question. “Probably … ten days ago. Give or take a day.”

“He didn’t come in here on Friday?”

“He could have, but I didn’t see him.” The phone rang. “Excuse me.” Answering it, she told the caller that she would be right over. “The soda dispenser is on the blink. No carbonation.” She shook her head. “Imagine if we didn’t have Coke at our potlatch.”

Jackie rose, indicating that the meeting was over. “You’d better get to Uncle’s. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” She showed him to the exit. “Good luck.”

Ray started to ask why he would need it, but said, “Give my regards to Reuben.”

Hitting the exit bar, he stepped out of the cool building into the bleached light of midday. The cloud cover had departed, and the glaring sun was chasing the last smoky remnants of fog away. The air was stiflingly warm and still, the village quiet, except for the thumping beat of the stick-dance drummers and the buzz of late-season mosquitoes.

After locating the main drag, the only dirt roadway that qualified as a street, Ray followed Jackie’s directions, walking north. The end of town proved to be just a long block away. Turning left, Ray set out on what appeared to be a caribou trail. It rose, climbing away from the river for a hundred yards.

Ray smelled his destination before he spotted it: wood burning, salmon being grilled … Following the aroma through a bank of alders, he was rewarded with his first sight of the Colchuck house.

THIRTY

F
IT INTO A
depression at the bottom of a limestone cliff, the house was framed by willows and the overhanging rock.

As Ray started up the twisting path, a pack of dogs hurried out of the brush to greet him. Blue-eyed malamutes. Thin, mangy … Probably sled dogs. Yipping in chorus, they jumped against his legs and trotted in tight circles, celebrating his arrival. Ray massaged the ears of an especially excited one, then turned his attention to a runt nuzzling his calf.

“They like you,” a voice announced.

Ray looked up and saw a woman standing on the narrow porch attached to the rambler side of the house. She was small, in her early sixties, with long gray hair collected into a pair of braids that reached to her waist. Her skirt was colorful and featured a primitive, repeating pattern. A dentalium shell necklace was draped around her neck.

“Uncle says if dogs like you, it means you have a heart full of good, not evil.”

Ray nodded, accepting the compliment while at the same time wondering if there was anybody on the planet that these particular mutts wouldn’t like.

“Uncle said a Lightwalker was coming. He didn’t mention face paint.”

Ray decided not to ask what that meant. Instead, he gave the dogs a final pat and joined the woman on the porch. The steps creaked alarmingly as he mounted them.

The woman laughed as Ray cast a suspicious glance at the wooden floor. “Don’t worry. The house is safe. It will not fall down today. Maybe tomorrow. But not today. Uncle is sure of this.” After another laugh, she offered her hand. “I’m Emma Colchuck.”

“Ray Attla,” he responded. Her handshake was surprisingly firm.

When she had released her grip, Emma took a single step backwards and gave Ray a slow once-over. A lopsided grin curled up the left side of her mouth. “Big,” she finally surmised. “I never saw such a big Lightwalker. Or such a red one.”