Season of Death (34 page)

“Nice move!” Keera congratulated from shore. “How did you do that?”

“I have no idea,” Ray admitted, continuing to gawk at the bomb.

“Now what? What are you going to do with it?”

“I have no idea.” Stepping carefully to the dock, he sank to his knees.

After the stars had retreated from his vision, Ray gently laid the bomb on the dock. He was suddenly weak, void of energy, on the verge of collapse. Rolling the wires between a thumb and finger, he bent to examine their entry into the black square of plastic. Now that the bomb was no longer connected to the ignition of the Otter, did that mean it was deactivated? Nothing but a chunk of impotent orange clay? Or could it still go off?

He assumed that without an electrical charge, the thing was safe enough. But the wires … They made him nervous. Should he disconnect them? Or should he just toss the bundle into the river? Maybe someone in town knew about bombs. He laughed out loud at this. Sure. Kanayut probably had several explosives experts.

He glanced in Keera’s direction and waved her back. “Go farther up the beach.”

She frowned at him, slumped her shoulders, and grudgingly complied, trudging along the shore. When she was safely out of range, he sat cross-legged, addressing the bomb as if he knew precisely what to do. He took hold of the bundle of wires.
Disconnect them,
he told himself. He determined the order by how threatening each one seemed: red he equated with fire and blood, black was symbolic of death, yellow implied suffering.

Grasping the red wire, he gritted his teeth and pulled. It twanged loose. No fire. No blood. He did the same with the black. No death. Yet. Closing his eyes, he wiggled the yellow wire free. Painless. Piece of cake.

He had rendered the brick powerless. Either that or the thing was going to explode in thirty seconds, spraying bits of Raymond Attla into the Anaktuvuk River.

He leaned back on his hands and watched the water rush past, genuinely grateful to be alive. A minute later he dragged the backpack over, coiled the wire, and stuffed it into a pouch, then bundled the plastique in three shirts, burying it in the deepest pocket. Evidence. There were probably no prints. The job struck him as professional. Besides, the gas would have smeared any prints. Still, it was something to go on. You couldn’t just buy plastique at Walgreens. Back in Barrow he could track down the manufacturer.

Back in Barrow
… That sounded good.

“Ready to go to Red Wolf?”

He stared at Keera, resisting the urge to answer truthfully. “Show me where you unhooked the wires.”

She led him onto the pontoon, through the cab, out the pilot’s door. Standing on the float, she lifted a metal hatch and tapped the engine. “Right there.”

Ray noted the carburetor, the spark plugs, the distributor cap … And there beneath Keera’s outstretched finger was the ignition. She was right. The bomb had been set to explode when Farrell pushed the button to start the plane, the same button Ray had pushed in the cockpit. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“Come on,” he said, ready to get off the plane for good.

“Where are we going?” Keera asked. “Red Wolf?”

“The Community Center,” he told her.

They jumped back to the dock and started up the beach, Ray on feeble legs, Keera bouncing energetically along beside him.

“When are we going to Red Wolf?”

Ray ignored her. He eyed the dancers, surveyed the crowd, silently prayed that Betty had managed to locate Dr. Farrell and he could leave this carnival.

“I’m sure we’re supposed to go to the mine.”

The word mine triggered something in Ray. Didn’t they do blasting at mines? With explosives? Dynamite usually. But maybe nowadays they used more sophisticated materials. As much as he hated to admit it, Keera might be right. Given the facts he had discovered thus far—a missing archaeologist, a plane set to explode, a severed head, a mining operation with a vested interest in making sure papers declaring the area a historical site were never filed … Yes. They needed to visit Red Wolf. Or rather,
he
needed to visit Red Wolf. Ray wordlessly consented to do so if Betty didn’t have anything for him.

The Community Center was quiet. With the luncheon over, the throng had dispersed to participate in and view various festival activities. According to an events board just inside the door, a carving and beading exhibit was being held at the Thompson Building, wherever that was. Ray poked his head into the dining area. Two elderly women were clearing the tables, tossing paper plates and cups into Hefty garbage sacks.

Turning to the door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
, Ray was about to try the knob when it opened and a power forward emerged.

“Hi, Reuben,” Keera greeted.

After shooting Ray a disapproving glare, Reuben’s face melted into a soft, almost childlike expression. “Hey, Keera.” He scowled at Ray again. “This guy bothering you?’’

“No. This is Ray. He’s a Lightwalker.”

Reuben observed him skeptically. “You sure?”

“Uncle says so.”

“I need to use a phone,” Ray told him.

Reuben sniffed at this. “You going to the bead display?”

Keera shook her head. “We’re looking for Dr. Farrell.”

“Dr. Farrell?” Reuben echoed. “What for?”

“If I could use the phone …” Ray interjected.

“Something happened to him.”

“A phone. Any phone.”

“Something … bad.”

“Bad? Like he could be hurt? Or in trouble?”

“Even a pay phone. I’ve got a calling card.”

Keera nodded. “I had a vision.”

Reuben looked stricken. “You did? About Dr. Farrell?”

Another nod. “Uncle saw most of it too. It was Nahani.”

“Nahani …” the security guard said in a whisper. “He said he thought someone was after him.”

“Who did?” Ray wondered.

“Dr. Farrell. Last time he was in the village. When he gave me the box.”

“What box?”

“A box of his things. He said to put it in a safe place, in case something happened to him.”

“Well …” Keera sighed. “It did.”

THIRTY-SIX

R
EUBEN LED THEM
through the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door, down the narrow, vacant hallway, into a storeroom marked
JANITORIAL SERVICES.

“I put it in here.” He flipped on the light. “It was the safest place I could think of.”

Ray examined the small, overcrowded room and decided that Reuben was right. It looked like a safe place to hide something. Two metal shelving units were pressed against the wall, each loaded with a confusing assortment of file boxes, canned goods, and office supplies. In the corner, a stack of cardboard boxes leaned its way to head level. Folding chairs sat in stacks. A Mayflower dishpack near the door held an assortment of toys and jigsaw puzzles. The remaining floor space was consumed by a hill of rolled-up rugs and a life-size model of a caribou that was missing half of its antlers and one leg.

It reminded Ray of a pack rat’s attic. As he watched Reuben scramble over the rugs, wrestling the bull en route to one of the shelving units, it struck him that the room contained nearly everything except janitorial supplies.

Pushing aside cartons of Wite-Out and paper clips, the security guard hunched to retrieve a slender box. It bore an Apple computer logo and the word: PowerBook. Battling his way back to the door, he asked, “What do you think happened to Dr. Farrell?”

Ray opened his mouth to offer a vague answer, but Keera blurted, “He’s dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Ray said with a frown.

Keera was nodding with certainty. “He’s dead. I saw Nahani kill him.”

“We aren’t certain where he is, that’s all.” Ray tried.

“His body is upriver,” Keera said. “His head is downstream.” Turning, she squinted at Ray. “You saw his head.”

‘ I saw
someone’s
head. We haven’t determined whose.”

“He’s dead,” Keera assured Reuben.

The big man’s face sank into a mournful expression. “That’s too bad. I liked Dr. Farrell.” After a respectful pause, he asked, “Did anyone tell his wife?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Ray objected. “All we know is that he’s not in camp. He’s not in Juneau. At least, he hasn’t been to the State Historic Preservation Office.” He took a deep breath before telling them, without conviction, “He could be anywhere.”

“There was a bomb in his plane,” Keera announced. “It was going to explode when he started it up.”

“But he obviously didn’t start it up,” Ray countered.

“Because he couldn’t. Because he’s dead,” Keera observed.

Ray decided not to debate the issue. Keera was convinced that she had seen Farrell murdered in a
vision.
How could you argue with the supernatural? “What’s in the box?”

Reuben shrugged. “I didn’t look. I just stuck it in here. He said he would come back for it. And if he didn’t, to give it to the authorities.”

Ray reached for it but Reuben leaned back. “It’s okay. I’m the authorities. I’m a cop. I work for the Barrow Police Department.”

The embrace on the box became an arm lock. “Let’s see some ID.”

“I don’t have any … remember?”

“He’s a Lightwalker,” Keera said. “Even Uncle says so.”

This seemed to strike a nerve. Reuben relaxed and reluctantly offered the box. Balancing it on one of the carpet rolls, Ray pulled the top open and found a yellow legal pad. It was covered with indecipherable notes. Ray lifted a page, a second, a third … The pad was full, fronts, backs, margins … every sheet overflowing with scribbles.

Lifting the pad, Ray studied the collection of sloppy, winding sentences, trying to make sense of it.

“What’s ASTT?” Reuben asked, peering over Ray’s shoulder.

“Arctic Small Tool Tradition,” Ray answered without looking up.

“What about T-n-n-1 … o??”

Ray stared at the designation. “It’s supposed to be Th-u-l-e. I think. Thule.”

“Never heard of it,” Reuben admitted.

“Me either,” Keera said. She reached into the box and produced a device the size and shape of a calculator. “Wow!” She fingered the power button and there was a chime as the three-by-three-inch screen blinked to life.

“Let me have that.” Ray snatched it from her. “Don’t touch anything else.” If there was something important in the box, he didn’t want a ten-year-old fouling it up. “Newton,” he read. He lifted the wand attached to the side of the device and moved it across the screen in a series of random strokes. The Newton beeped at him and a message appeared:
FILE DELETED
. “Huh?” He looked to the bank of icons in distress. One looked like a tiny trash can. He touched it with the wand and a message box read:
TRASH EMPTY.

“What did you do?” Reuben asked.

“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Probably screwed the thing up.” Handing it back to Keera, he returned his attention to the box. There were three more legal pads, all bearing the same chicken-scratch handwriting. Beneath them were a pair of spiral bound reports on ASTT and a thin paperback booklet entitled,
Mystery of the Thule Culture.
On the bottom of the box was a PowerBook. Ray folded open the computer and stared at it. It looked user-friendly enough: standard keyboard, screen … Still, if he could delete files in a Newton with the swipe of a wand, what damage could he do to a PowerBook?

“Know anything about compu …?” Before he could finish, Keera pressed a button just above the keyboard. There was a tone and the screen flickered to life.

“We use Apples at school,” Keera explained, fiddling with the contrast. “Macintosh stations. This is what I’d want though. PowerBooks are cool.”

Cool.
Now there was a word that you would expect to hear from the lips of a ten-year-old. Infinitely more acceptable than talk of Nahani, voices, and spirit help. He watched her roll the ball at the bottom of the keyboard, selecting functions with clicks. A desktop materialized: a rectangular window filled with miniature file folders.

“What are those?” he asked, pointing at the files.

“Don’t know yet.” More clicking. The desktop disintegrated, replaced by a billboard announcing to the world that Dr. Farrell was a licensed user of Microsoft Word. A second later, another rectangle demanded a pass code.