Season of Death (40 page)

“Okay. Thanks for trying, Billy Bob. I’ve got to go.”

“… And they got, uh … two hundred employees. And they’re owned by a conglomerate.”

Already reaching for the power button, Ray froze. “What kind of conglomerate?”

“Chi-neez corporation. Uh … Hu-noon.”

“Hunan?”

“You heard of ‘em?”

“Yeah. I’ve heard of them.” He wished that he hadn’t. He wished that Billy Bob hadn’t mentioned the name either.He wished that hearing it didn’t mean what it meant: that he had lost his deal and would be required to head upstream on a corpse hunt with a ten-year-old Athabascan seer.

FORTY-TWO

“W
HAT’S THE STORY
?” Mack asked when Ray returned to the table.

Ray’s answer took the form of a belabored, groaning sigh.

Keera beamed at this, somehow guessing that the news was to her advantage.

“Digidine is owned by Hunan,” Ray told them.

“Hunan?” Mack shoveled in the beans. “Farrell’s corporate sponsor?”

“What does that mean?’’ Keera asked.

“I have no idea,” Ray admitted. “But if this Sanders guy rigged the floatplane, and if he was in contact with Digidine, which is owned by Hunan, which sponsors the archaeological dig …” He clamped his eyes shut against the tentacle-like connections.

“So we’re going upriver, right?” Keera asked. “You promised.”

“Yeah … I know …” He shook his head. “I should probably have a talk with Janice Farrell. Fill her in. Let her know that her husband seems to be …”

“Dead,” Keera said flatly.

“Missing
.” He glanced out the open front door and sighed heavily. “Problem is, we’ve only got a few hours of light left.”

“I’d say three … three and a half hours till dusk,” Mack estimated helpfully.

“That’s enough time to get up to Shainin Lake and back,” Keera said.

After another melodramatic sigh, Ray agreed, “Yeah. Maybe. And I suppose we could spend the night at the dig site, if we have to.”

“You’re welcome here,” Mack said magnanimously.”

“If we get hung up, I know the Bush,” Keera said. “I know my way in the dark.”

Ray nodded, hoping they wouldn’t get hung up. “We better get going.”

Mack hurriedly stuffed two more wide loads of stew into his mouth, washed them down with a gulp of coffee, and bolted to his feet. “I’ll drive you down.” He led them to the ATV and started the engine while Ray and Keera climbed into the trailer.

As they rumbled and jolted their way down the winding track, Ray squinted into a furious sun and tried to sort out what they had learned on their visit to the mine. Not much. At least, nothing that made sense. Just a jumble of bits and pieces. The type of explosive used to sabotage Farrell’s plane matched the type used at Red Wolf. Okay. And there was even a brick of the stuff missing. Good. That should mean that someone at Red Wolf was responsible for the bomb. Maybe.

And then there was Sanders. Disgruntled employee communicating with Hunan, or at least an arm of the corporation. Coincidence? Doubtful. How many employees of this mine just happened to be receiving letters from the sponsor of a nearby scientific expedition? Okay. Say Hunan had contacted Sanders. Why? About what? Had they paid him to steal the plastique and rig the plane? That actually made sense, sort of. Except … Why would Hunan want to murder the leader of the dig it was funding?

Ray stared at the craggy, steel gray peaks looming on the farside of the valley, as if they might hold the solution to all the world’s problems. A moment later, the river presented itself: a beryl serpent slithering through a narrow forest of yellow and red. Gazing south, he thought he could make out the archaeological camp. Not the camp itself, but the location of the Zodiacs. Farther upriver, a crescent mirror reflected the sun’s glare. Shainin Lake? Maybe with a gas-powered motor they could make the trip up and back relatively quickly. All they had to do was find Farrell’s body.

Ray was pondering this, wondering how to extricate himself from the whole silly plan, and speculating as to whether or not there was enough gas in the raft’s engine to even get to the lake, when they reached the twine-bordered square of exposed earth.

“Can we stop for a minute? I want to look around, if that’s okay.”

Mack shrugged, squeezed a brake, and switched off the ignition. “Doesn’t bother me. Just don’t go inside the ropes. Farrell gets all hot “and bothered about that.”

Ray walked to the corner of the cordoned-off area. It was unremarkable: a neat, level square of dirt. He made his way along the side, then down the rear rope, to the pit. It was in the back corner, a full three feet deeper than the rest of the site. Leaning across the boundary, he peered in and saw what looked like plastic jugs half-buried in the wall. High-stepping over the rope, he hopped into the hole.

“Hey! You aren’t supposed to be in there!” Mack warned from the ATV.

“I know,” Ray mumbled back. “Official police business.” If Farrell showed up later, noticed the footprints, and got upset, he could be placated by the knowledge that this little intrusion into his treasure trove was sanctioned by the North Slope Borough.

Bending to inspect the containers, Ray realized that they weren’t plastic. He tapped one. Ceramic. Pottery? He suddenly felt a new respect for the ground he was standing on. He checked under his boots for artifacts before examining another pot. A section of this one had been cleaned, the mud brushed away to reveal a patch of dull black markings.

“They’re the same,” Keera observed. She had joined him in the pit.

Before Ray could ask what she meant, it dawned on him. No wonder the symbols, or letters or whatever they were seemed vaguely familiar. They were just like the ones scrawled on Farrell’s notepad, the one he had left in the box back at the village. Ray was on the verge of accepting this as something bordering on a break when another thought submitted itself. So what? So the markings matched. It proved nothing. It didn’t even suggest anything. Farrell was an archaeologist and had documented the site.

“Must be important,” Keera said. “Why else would he hide it?”

“True …” Ray agreed. If the pot was just another artifact, even a significant one in terms of research, why would Farrell entrust the corresponding notes to Reuben? To keep the find from rival scientists? Archaeology, as far as Ray knew, wasn’t that competitive. Maybe in the race for grant money. But for pots …?

What was it Farrell said in the notes? Something about the site not being Thule?

“You’re burning daylight,” Mack warned from astride the all-terrain vehicle.

Ray knew he was right. If they weren’t careful, they’d wind up somewhere on the river when darkness fell. He gave the pots a parting glare, wishing they could speak, before clambering out of the hole on hands and knees.

Keera sidled up to him en route to the ATV. “That’s why they were after him.”

“Who’s
they?”
Ray asked.

“The evil ones.”

“Oh!
That
they!” Depending on one’s mood, Keera could be endearing, comical, or downright irritating. “A whole gang of Nahanis, huh?”

She scowled at him. “How can you walk in the Light with such doubt?”

Ray shrugged. “A lot of practice, I guess.”

“Nahani killed him,” she said, “but the evil ones were after him.”

He nodded, as if this made sense. “Ah … I see,” he lied. Fruit loops!

“They wanted him dead because of the pots. But Nahani got him first.” She mounted the trailer, then gasped, “Nahani was … a she. A woman killed him … for fire.”

“Fire?”

“She was jealous.” Keera turned to Ray, her face animated. “Dr. Farrell was being chased by evil ones. But this Nahani murdered him … for fire love. Understand?”

“It’s as clear as mud,” he assured her.

“Mud?” she asked, squinting. “But mud isn’t clear.”

Mack cackled at this and started the engine.

As they began the jolting descent toward the river, Ray shook his head at the nonsense: evil ones …
female
Nahanis … fire love … Good grief! It was an Athabascan soap opera. Keera was nothing if not imaginative. He watched her extract a plastic bottle of Cutter’s and apply it to her exposed arms, neck, face, ankles …

“Want some?’’ Her voice was friendly enough, but her expression was sour. Apparently Ray’s ability to be a Lightwalker while harboring doubt was distressing her.

Dabbing on mosquito repellent, Ray’s mind left Keera’s idiosyncrasies and returned to Farrell. To the pots. To the box that Reuben had stashed. “Artifacts inconsistent with Thule site.” That was what Farrell had written. It was a simple observation. He had somehow managed to rule out the possibility that the pots were created by Thule culture. That was his specialty, so he would have known. And it was worthy of comment. But why had the words implied surprise? Or had they? Maybe Ray had read something that wasn’t there. To him, Farrell’s notes conveyed a sense of confusion, as if the pots should have been Thule, but inexplicably weren’t.

Maybe it was nothing, he decided as a row of malnourished willows reached up to greet their approach. Maybe he had misread the notes. Except … Hadn’t the letters been scrawled with an extra energy? And the bit about “Not Thule …” He wasn’t certain, but he thought that was in capital letters, underlined. Had there been an exclamation mark?

He was pondering what might have motivated Farrell to hide his notes, when the ATV lumbered through a thin line of alders and deposited them on the bank of the Kanayut.

“How’s that for door-to-door service?” Mack remarked.

“Thanks. We appreciate it,” Ray said, helping Keera out of the trailer. He took the pack from the boat, unzipped a pocket, and showed Mack the orange brick.

Mack sneered. “Yep. That’s ours.” He paused to curse Rick Sanders soundly.

Ray replaced the explosive, asking, “Is it dangerous to carry this thing around?”

“Not without a detonator.” He dismounted from the ATV, waddled behind the bulldozer, and reappeared a few seconds later with a gas can.

“Oh … Thanks.” Ray had forgotten about fuel.

When Ray had finished filling the Evinrude, Mack said, “I was serious about the offer. You two find yourselves without a bed tonight, you come on back.” He gestured to the backhoe. “Give the horn on one of these beasts a toot, and I’ll come pick you up.”

“Thanks,” Ray repeated. He shook the hand offered to him before pushing the raft into the water. When Keera was aboard, he splashed into the river and leapt into the boat.

“Take care of that little lady!” he called after them.

Ray nodded, silently hoping that his stint as an unpaid baby-sitter would soon be over. The engine started on the first pull, and he gunned the throttle, pulling away from shore, from Mack, from the Red Wolf Mine. If only he could figure out how to pull away from Keera, he thought. And from Farrell, and from the entire mess.

It was five minutes before he asked her, “Where are we going?”

She pointed upriver.

“Could you be a little more specific?’’

“Let me have your Bible.” She started unzipping pockets on the backpack.

“What are you going to do with a
BibleT’
he asked, unable to mask his skepticism.

“Ever heard of scapulamancy?”

Ray had. It was an ancient Athabascan practice for locating caribou in which a shaman placed the scapula bone of a bull into the fire and interpreted the resulting cracks. He slid the book from the pocket of his parka. “You’re not going to burn my Bible, are you?” Though he placed little value on the contents of the book, it was worth preserving because it was a gift from Margaret.

“No.” Closing her eyes, Keera held the tiny volume to her breast and began to hum. As the tune swelled, she added words, in Athabascan.

Checking his watch, Ray swallowed a curse. In a few short hours night would fall. And what was he doing? Heading south into the wilderness with an up-and-coming witch doctor in hopes of locating a dead archaeologist. A dead,
headless
archaeologist.

FORTY-THREE