Season of Death (46 page)

“I’
D RATHER YOU
didn’t,” Ray said.

Headcase cackled at this. “I’ll just bet you would. But I don’t got much choice.”

“Sure you do,” Ray said. “You can kill us. Or you can cooperate.”

“Co-operate?” He howled a curse. “You sound like yer the one holding the gun.”

“I’m a policeman …” Ray explained. “From Barrow. If I don’t get back there today, people will come looking for me.”

“That right? People like that bucktooth kid?”

“Among others.” He paused, trying to compose a convincing argument. “These men are part of an investigation. A federal investigation.”

Headcase bristled slightly at this.

“We’re talking FBI. If you kill us, you’ll be right in the middle of it. In twenty-four hours, the Fibbies will be beating the bushes, zipping up and down the river, poking around the mine, hanging out at the archaeological site. My guess is it’ll take them about half a day to discover your little operation. Bagging a dope grower … That’ll be a bonus.”

After spitting, the man muttered, “I cain’t just let y’all go”

“Yeah, you can,” Ray insisted. “In fact, if you help me out, you might not do much time.”

“I ain’t plannin’ on doin’
no
time.” He began reloading his shotguns.

“Killing me would be a big mistake. You’d be guilty of first-degree murder. Of a law-enforcement officer. That’s life without parole. Maybe even the death penalty.”

“That’s sayin’ they could catch me.” Headcase snapped the guns shut and glared at Ray. “I’m perty darn good at e-vadin’ the law.”

“And you’re willing to bet your freedom, possibly even your life on that?”

“Ain’t got no choice.”

“Yes, you do. If you help me, we can work something out. A deal.”

“I take pity on yer miserable hide and ever-thang’ll be hunky-dory, huh?” He rolled his eyes and launched a wad of spit to emphasize his lack of trust.

Ray shrugged. Actually, he had no idea what would happen. In all likelihood, the loon would be behind bars for decades, even if he did cooperate.

Headcase chewed his lower lip. “What about my farm?”

“I can’t do anything about that,” Ray admitted. “Either way, you’re out of business. The Feds will confiscate everything. But my way, you don’t die in prison.”

Sniffing, he mumbled, “I was thinkin’’bout retiring perty soon.”

“See? This is your chance to get out of the business clean.”

Headcase gazed at the sky. “S’pose I could get a place down in Ha-wa-ya.”

“There you go,” Ray encouraged. “Kick back in the sun, sip tropical drinks …”

“I hear they got real nice ladies down there.” Headcase produced a cannister of Skoal and stuffed a pinch of snuff between his cheek and gum. “What do I gotta do?”

“Just keep an eye on these two brutes.”

“That all?” He limped backward and bent awkwardly to pick up a third shotgun. Opening the chamber he jiggled the shells out and tossed the gun into the bushes.

“Treat their wounds. Tie them up and sit on them until the authorities get here.”

“And when they do, then what? I get my butt carted off to the pokey?”

“What if I could guarantee a twenty-four-hour grace period for you to clear out and hop a plane to the islands?” A big
what if.

“Can ya?”

“I can try.”

“You can try, huh?” Headcase retrieved the fourth gun, emptied it and discarded it. He wobbled past Ray and jabbed the security guard sitting cross-legged. “Get up.”

“I’m bleeding,” the man groaned through closed eyes.

Headcase swore at him. “You’re lucky I didn’t fill you full of lead. Get up!” He aimed the other rifle at the man’s partner. “You too.”

Ray watched Headcase herd the men in the direction he had come from. “Thanks.”

After spitting, Headcase cursed Ray. “Don’t thank me. Just do what you said. ‘Cause if you don’t, yer gonna wish you was never born.” A mixture of hissing laughter and raspy coughs followed his exit into the alders.

Ray sat there relieved, exhausted … not sure what to do, not sure he had the energy to do anything at all. But he had to. Keera was still missing. He had to tell someone. And now that he knew about Farrell, about why the man had been killed, he needed to pass that on. Though Ray would have said anything to placate Headcase, the part about the FBI was true. The Fibbies would definitely be interested in this case: foreign company doing business in the U.S., falsifying archaeological sites, trying to drive American firms out of business … They would chomp at the bit for a chance to dredge through this mess.

Stretching his arms, he was reminded of the brick of explosive strapped to his back. If nothing else could motivate him to rise to action, that would. He considered calling Headcase back and asking him to disarm it, or at least remove it. Not worth the risk, he decided. What if Headcase changed his mind and decided to use the shotgun?

Get to Kanayut, Ray told himself as he attempted to stand. The resulting pain brought tears and another wave of nausea.

“Get to Kanayut
,” he whispered, jaw clenched. Once he reached the village, everything would be all right. He could tell them about Keera. A search party would be sent out. He could find someone to deal with the bomb. And he would call Barrow. The captain could contact the FBI and arrange a floatplane for him.

But first he had to get there. The thought of limping that far through the Bush sapped him of what little strength he had left. Maybe one of the Zodiacs was still at the river. How far was the river? A mile? Two miles? He could make it that far. He hoped.

Ray spent the next hour fighting to disassociate himself mentally from his injuries. Willing himself west. He thought of Margaret. They had been apart for only three days.
Less
than three days. Yet it seemed like weeks. So much had happened. Nearly all bad. Nearly all catastrophic. But it would make for a wonderful story. He would tell her every sordid detail. And one day, he would share the story with their child.

A dull, haunting roar spurred him forward. Emerging from the brush, he caught his first glimpse of the water: a silvery ribbon, thick with foam. The shiny heads of wet boulders bobbed in the froth, glistening like enormous black pearls.

Ray studied the slope of scree before him. It dropped to the river at a thirty-five-degree angle. No bank. No ledge. He would have to find a better way down.

Retreating into the tree line, he hobbled north, hoping to locate a moose or caribou trail. The problem of a boat pressed upon him. Without a raft, he would never reach Kanayut. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it had taken him almost seventy minutes to get to the river. And he still wasn’t quite there yet. His hamstring had tightened up, stunting his range of motion. The simple act of walking sent jolts into his buttocks, down his calf. His shoulder wasn’t bad. It had stopped bleeding, and the pain was superficial. Endurable.

A narrow depression in the tussock grass ran away to the left, disappearing into a stand of sickly, stunted pines. A trail. Ray took it, grasping at branches to slow his descent. Slipping through a clump of alders, he silently begged the heavens for a boat.

The trail dead ended into a row of hostile berry bushes. Great. Ray looked left. More bushes. They ran all the way to the scree slope. To the right the bank became a sheer, ten-foot crevasse. If he wanted to access the water, this was it.

Without hesitation Ray strode into the tangle of thorny branches. Closing his eyes, he fought his way through the gauntlet, swearing as the tiny spikes tore at the skin of his hands and neck. He was within sight of the muddy shore when a thorn pierced his parka and assailed his shoulder. Cringing, he fell to his knees. Stars covered the landscape.

When he could see again, he clambered out of the bushes on all fours and deposited himself at the water’s edge. Lying prostrate in the mud, he sucked in air and prayed again for a raft. It was a full minute before he raised himself up and surveyed the shore: rocks, a sandy ledge, gravel, willows … No boat. Last night’s landing must have been upriver. Either that or the raft had been washed away by the water’s fury.

Ray pounded the mud with a fist and swore. He was coiling to punish the earth again when something caught his eye: a gray shadow in a thicket-shrouded eddy twenty-five yards downstream. The color blended with the water. But the shape. It was rounded. Fat. Inflated? A raft?

Rising stiffly, he slogged to inspect it. Halfway there, the bank curved and the object was hidden from his view. Was he hallucinating?

Fifty halting paces later, he stopped. His mouth fell open as his eyes traced the smooth rubber, the yellow rope anchoring the craft to a tree, the Evinrude outboard hiding in the overhanging foliage. A Zodiac! Behind it was the shadow of a twin sister. Two Zodiacs! Unbelievable. Leaning to touch the closest boat, he felt the spongy sidewall bend under his fingers. He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t going crazy.

Ray shook his head at the luck. At the providence? He was about to check the gas tank when the far raft rocked.

Something reached up to greet him: long, black, steel. The barrel of a shotgun. The Zodiac bounced as the owner sat up. For a long moment, blue eyes stared at him from beneath tousled blond hair. A smile appeared. The shotgun nodded happily.

“Hello, Ray.”

FIFTY-ONE

“J
ANICE!”

The smile grew, smooth cheeks rising in an expression of delight. Sliding forward, she disembarked from the raft cautiously, eyes glued to Ray. The shotgun continued to address him, twin barrels reaching for his chest. After sloshing to the bank, she circled him warily, then stopped within arm’s length to regard him.

Raking the landscape with her eyes, she asked, “Where’s Chung and Chang?”

“Indisposed,” Ray answered, leaning away from the gun. Facing her, he realized that he had nowhere to go but into the river. He stumbled backward, and the Kanayut rushed to fill his remaining boots.

Janice followed him step for step, pressing the shotgun against his sternum until foam was collecting at their knees. She was wearing a pair of pleated khaki shorts, an open parka, and a form-fitting purple T-shirt that displayed a Husky in Ray-Bans holding a jigger of amber liquid. Bold letters declared:
“Tequila!”
Under different circumstances, she might have qualified for a layout in the university catalog.

“What did you do to them?”

“Nothing.”

She prodded him with the shotgun again. “This is their raft.” She nodded sideways. “I found it on my way into the village. What did you do to them?”

“Nothing. Headcase has them. The weirdo with the beard and the cowboy hat.”

“ZZ?”

“Yeah. ZZ caught them and took them back to his place.”

The smile was replaced by a look of irritation. “How did you get away?”

“I’m tricky.”

This remark was rewarded with a shove that sent Ray sprawling. Sitting crablike in the shallows, he could feel the current tugging at him. The river still wasn’t satiated. It wanted him. The shotgun came to rest on his abdomen, just above his crotch. Staring down at it, he contemplated the damage a round would do to that region.

“I know everything,” he blurted out.

“You can’t know
everything.”

“Okay. I know a lot. And I guessed at the rest. I told my buddies back in Barrow the whole story,” he lied. The bluff had almost worked on the terminators. It had worked wonders on Headcase. Maybe Janice would go for it.

“Did you?” She tapped the barrel against Ray’s belly button. “And how did you manage that? You don’t have a radio. You don’t have a cellular.” She glanced left, then right. “I don’t see any phone booths. Just how do you contact Barrow?”

Good point, Ray noted. “I used Headcase’s … uh … ZZ’s radio.”

An eyebrow rose.

Before she could question this, he added, “I told them about Hunan, the bogus artifacts, the plan to shut down Red Wolf … the whole thing.”

She responded with a sigh and a pouty frown.

“So they’re inbound, as we speak,” Ray continued. “Bringing the FBI, of course.”

Janice backed to shore, swearing softly. She allowed Ray to get up, then motioned him over.