Season of Death (32 page)

Keera pointed up the street. Ray had already risen and was slipping on the backpack when she advised, “But he’s not there today. He’s at the festival. I saw him dancing this morning. And drinking …”

“What do you mean, drinking? Like punch or soda …?”

“Beer. It’s not an official part of the celebration. But a bunch of the men always drink beer. I think the sheriff gets barrels of it from Fairbanks or someplace.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The sheriff of a dry village gives keggers?”

Keera squinted. “What’s a kegger?” For an instant, she was a ten-year-old again.

“Never mind. Let’s try to find him before he gets smashed.” He led her inside the Center. The lines were gone, the female ticket sellers sitting behind their tables cackling like happy hens. “Anybody seen the sheriff?”

Three heads turned in their direction. The faces examined Ray skeptically, then looked to Keera for an explanation. “We’re looking for him,” she said.

“Not since they uncorked the beer,” one of then snipped. The others shook their heads at the disgrace of this.

Ray spotted Reuben looming near the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door. “Seen the sheriff?”

His expression remained passive, as if he were alone in the room.

“Hi, Reuben,” Keera chimed.

Suddenly the big man was animated, his features glowing as he grinned down at her. “What are you up to?” he asked her in a hypertenor voice.

“We think someone’s been murdered,” she blurted out.

Ray cringed. Keera may have been wise beyond her years, possibly even endowed with supernatural abilities, but she had the discretion of a prepubescent kid.

“Murdered?” Reuben squeaked. He glared at Ray, as if he were to blame.

“We’re looking for the sheriff,” he said.

Reuben ignored him, his attention focused on Keera. “Where? Who?”

“Dr. Farrell,” she told him. “Upriver.”

Ray wondered how she knew where it had happened. But then, how did she know he had been murdered? “We need to talk with the sheriff,” he repeated.

He glared at Ray, then told Keera, “Over at Jim Wood’s place.”

“Thanks,” she beamed.

Reuben chased Ray out with a sneer. Outside, walking down the main street, Ray shook his head. “I thought I was big, but man … that guy … wow!”

“His grandfather was a Russian Jew,” Keera informed.

The buildings of downtown fell away as they continued south, past the beach where the dancers were ringing the pole to the thump of drums. The crowd, having lunched and rested, was spurring them on with fresh applause.

They were a quarter mile into the scattering of frame homes before Keera pointed one out. It was one-story, like all the others, balanced on concrete blocks. The eaves were rotting, the peeling wood in desperate need of paint. There was no yard to speak of, just trampled tundra and a patch of tall weeds. A dented camper shell, and the carcass of a dead snow machine sat in the driveway. The drapes were drawn, the front door shut. It looked like no one was home.

Rounding the corner of the house, they heard the telltale signs of a drinking party in progress: a hearty belch, cursing, deep voices, boisterous laughter, the tinny noise of a portable radio. Ray saw four men sitting on a decrepit picnic table. They were all Natives, their faces painted red, each clutching an oversize plastic cup.

Ray waited to be noticed. Finally, he waved at the men and asked, “Anybody seen the sheriff?”

This was apparendy the funniest thing anyone had said in Kanayut for some time. The men began to shake, gasping for breath. When they finally recovered, Ray repeated the question. The results were the same. This time, however,one of them jabbed at the house with a hand, indicating that the sheriff was inside. Or maybe he was offering Ray a beer. Perhaps both.

Pulling back a wounded, ailing storm door, Ray ushered Keera inside the house. “Anyone here?” Silence. “Is this the sheriff’s place?” he asked Keera.

“No. His brother-in-law’s.”

“Hello!” Ray called again. “We’re looking for the sheriff.” Nothing. Ray started down a narrow, bleak hallway, following the scent of ale. He was about to issue another greeting when he reached the kitchen and found the source of the odor.

A chrome keg sat in the middle of the floor, embraced lovingly by an overweight man in a pair of faded, threadbare overalls. He was hugging the barrel, his chin balanced on the rim, eyes closed, lips curled into a smile of contentment, oblivious to the fact that he was marooned in a shallow pool of pale yellow beer. A crew cut made his chubby, flushed cheeks all the more round and jolly.

“Don’t tell me …” Ray grunted.

Keera nodded. “That’s him. That’s the sheriff.”

THIRTY-FOUR

“L
ET’S GET HIM
up,” Ray suggested, although he wasn’t sure how to go about the job. The sheriff was stocky, his grip on the keg ferocious. And the ale on the floor made the footing treacherous. They slipped and slid, pulling the sheriff in various directions before giving up. “Get me some water.”

Keera filled an empty coffee can and handed it to Ray.

“Sheriff,” he tried, jiggling him. When there was no response, he dumped the contents of the tin on the man’s head. The sheriff released his hold on the beer keg, gasped for air, and began flailing his arms like a swimmer going under for the third time.

“It’s okay,” Ray consoled. “You’re all right.”

“Huh?” He looked up at Ray with bleary eyes, his jaw slack. “Who’re you?”

“Officer Ray Attla, Barrow PD,” he said in a professional tone, hoping this information might generate a little interest, if not respect.

“Am I under arrethp?” he slurred. Though leaning against the wall, he was wavering, as if the entire house was adrift on a turbulent sea.

“No. I needed to ask you a few questions.”

“‘S not my beer,” he claimed, thrusting two palms into the air. “I swear.”

“I don’t care about the beer,” Ray said. “I’m looking for a Dr. Mark Farrell.”

This obviously didn’t make it through the alcohol-induced fog. “The beer’th in a marked barrel?” he wondered, blinking.

“I’m looking for a Dr. Mark Farrell,” Ray repeated.

The sheriff’s thick head bobbed up. “Farrell?”

“Dr. Mark Farrell,” Ray said slowly.

The sheriff blinked, then asked deliberately, “You from Hu … Huma … Nuhan … Huny …?” The spell was broken, and he broke down laughing. “I can’t slay it. My dongues too trunk.” More laughter.

“We were wondering if Farrell came into the village in the last day or two.”

“Where’th my beer?” he asked in slow motion. One arm was slung around the keg, his overalls soaked in ale. Yet he was apparently looking for a cup of the stuff. “There it is!” He pointed at the coffee tin in Ray’s hand. “Gimme my mug.”

Ray did, shaking his head. The sheriff was a disgrace, not only to his badge and office, but to his people. Grabbing the man by his fleshy cheeks, Ray jerked his head up and glared into the bloodshot eyes. “Have you seen Dr. Mark Farrell?”

“I thold you,” he whined. “Farrell’s upfriver.” He followed this with a swear. “Not my fault yer deafth … and dumb …” he mumbled. “I’m gettin’ tired of you peeple.”

“You people?” Ray wondered. He glanced at Keera. She shrugged back.

“Commy gangthers … that’th what you are,” he moaned grumpily. “Think you can come in here … take over the place. Goons … Just cause you mot gunney …”

Ray struggled to translate the gibberish. Mot gunney … Got money …? “Who’s got money?”

“Hus … Nus … Nuh …” he stuttered. Giving up he denounced the word soundly. “Whatever the heck your thupid company’s called.”

“Hunan?” Ray tried.

The sheriff jabbed an arm into the air, affirming this with a four-letter exclamation. “Darn right. I’ll look th’ other way, you give me enough cash … but I’m sthill a law enf … emforsh … a law emfershm … a law ociffer … the sheriff.”

“Hunan gave you money? What for?”

“To keep an eye … on th’ … crates.” His head fell forward, eyelids drooping. “And … to show ‘em … hith plane.”

Ray started to ask about the crates, but could see that the window was closing. The sheriff was slipping away. “Why did they want to see his plane?” When there was no answer, Ray repeated the question.

“Get outta my other-in-blaws kishen!” He tossed the coffee can at Ray. The can bounced and spun, rolling its way back to the sheriff. He picked it up for another try.

“Come on,” Ray told Keera. They retreated into the hallway as the can flew across the kitchen and struck the cabinet.

“What’s Hunan?” Keera wanted to know.

Ray was about to answer when he noticed the phone: a cream-colored rotary model mounted next to the back door. It was stained with fingerprints and the curlique cord had been stretched until it dragged the floor. Lifting the receiver, he smiled. A dial tone.

“Who are you calling?”

“My office.” He pulled the circular dial, entering his calling card number, then the number of the Barrow Police Department. Betty answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Betty. Ray again.”

“Are you back in town?”

“No. Still in Kanayut,” he said glumly, as if the village were some sort of gulag. “I need you to check out a company for me. Got a pencil?’’

“Shoot.”

“Hunan Enterprises.” He spelled it. “It’s Chinese, I think.”

“Where are they based?”

“I’m not sure. But they’re funding an archaeological dig here in the Range.”

There was a pause as Betty dutifully recorded this information.

“Try contacting Juneau,” Ray advised. “Hunan must have had to file something to get permission to dig. And try the University of Washington. That’s where the dig team’s from. While you’re at it, ask the U.W. if they know where Dr. Mark Farrell is.”

“Farrell? The guy who is supposed to be in Juneau, but isn’t?”

“Right. He’s missing. Or at least, he seems to be. Maybe he took an unscheduled trip back to Seattle or got waylaid in Anchorage.”

After another pause, Betty said, “So you need information on Hunan Corporation and on the whereabouts of Dr. Mark Farrell. Anything else?”

“That’s it for now. And Betty, I need this ASAP. The sooner I can get this cleared up, the sooner I can come home.”

“I hear you, honey. I’ll do my best.”

Keera, who had been staring at Ray quizzically during the entire conversation, was now grimacing at him. “But Dr. Farrell isn’t in Seattle.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s dead. I told you that already.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“His head is in the Anaktuvuk.”

“What about the rest of him?” Ray asked sarcastically.

“It’s upriver.”

Ray studied her face. She was serious. “Where upriver? Can you take me to it?”

She thought about this, lips pursed. “Maybe. I would need to ask first.”

Ray sighed, wondering if he should bother with the next question. “Ask who?”

“The Voice.”

“Oh, right. The Voice. Of course.” He opened the door and stepped outside, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight. In the backyard, the four men were still enjoying the party, one sprawled on the tabletop, one passed out underneath it, the others bent over on the benches, laughing sloppily.

“Where are we going?” Keera asked.

“We aren’t going anywhere. It’s time for you to go back home.”

“I don’t want to go back home.”

“Go to the festival then. Go find your friends and do whatever it is ten-year-olds do. I have some police work to do, and I can get it done more efficiently by myself.”

He started walking, hoping she would take the hint. Leaving the houses, he returned to the beach. As they were passing the crowd at the stick-dance grounds, Keera asked, “Where are we going?”

Ray nodded at the Otter tied to the dock a hundred yards away.

“What are you going to do with Dr. Farrell’s plane?”

“Just have a look at it,” Ray replied wearily.

“What for? What are you looking for?”

Ray sighed at this. It was a fair question, one to which he had no answer. He had no idea what he was looking for or what he hoped to find. Farrell napping in the pilot’s seat? Farrell’s body slumped in the cockpit, the victim of a heart attack? A handwritten note explaining that he had hopped another plane out? The murder weapon and a signed confession from Nahani stating that he had murdered Farrell? Shrugging, he grunted, “I don’t know.”