Season of Death (48 page)

The pistol exploded again. Instinctively jinking sideways, Ray struggled to stand, unsure where the bullet was headed, where the gun was. He was in the process of twirling to take another blind swing when there was another concussive bang and a snake reached to nip at his upper thigh. Glancing down, Ray he saw a blotch of red on his shirttail.

A hand rushed to put pressure on the wound while the other gripped the barrel of the shotgun in preparation for another determined swing. Turning to locate the target, he heard a click and realized that he was looking into the business end of the revolver.

“Don’t!” Janice warned. Behind her the caribou were grazing lazily, oblivious to the conflict, unwilling to so much as look up from their meal.

The sun winked again. Ray watched as a black speck emerged from the glare and circled with a buzz. When it had completed another turn the object took on shape and color: over-and-under wings, single engine, cheddar cheese yellow … Jack’s Beaver.

There was a long pause as Janice stared through him, thinking. Her eyes darted up at the approaching Beaver, as if it were a bothersome fly. The floatplane disappeared, taking the shrill engine noise with it. Suddenly the river seemed loud. On the bank, the bulls and their cows munched sleepily, wandering forward, working their cud.

“He’ll be back,” Ray assured her. “He’s just testing the wind.”

“Put the shotgun down,” she sighed.

Ray nodded and began to lower it. Behind him the Beaver returned, announcing its intention to land on the Anaktuvuk with a brittle, grating howl.

When Janice’s eyes darted up to the plane, Ray slipped his fingers down the barrel, and fumbled with the trigger. Aiming over his shoulder, he squeezed. Smoke and flames filled the air. Though beyond the range of the discharge, Janice was sufficiently startled. Reeling, she fell backwards, one arm whipping the air, the other gripping the pistol. The gun went off, its venom issued at the sky. Ray leapt to disarm her.

Janice screamed. Swore. Raged. Kicked. Tried to wrench herself free. Finally, she lost her grip on the weapon. Winded and pinned spread-eagled against the wet gravel, she sneered up at him. “You stupid cop.”

“What? No flirting? No eyelash batting?”

She told him where to go.

Gripping both wrists, Ray turned her over, curled her arms back, and helped her to her knees. He brought her to a standing position and moved her toward the boat. With a knee against her back, he used his free hand to rummage through the backpack. In the second pocket, he found a bundle of rope.

Two minutes later, Janice was facedown in the Zodiac, arms lashed behind her, bound at the ankles. Ray frowned at the brick of plastique sitting in the mud. Take it? Leave it? It was evidence. But it still had a detonator hooked to it. He decided to let the Feds worry about it. He would tell them where it was, and they could deal with it.

Pushing the raft off the sandbar, he splashed after it, legs wobbling at the effort. The stars returned, eclipsing river and sky. He flopped blindly into the boat and lay there, next to Janice, assessing his injuries. The thigh, like the shoulder, was a graze: layers of skin peeled away in a neat but shallow trough. An opportunity to lose more blood.

He wished he could curl up and sleep for about twelve hours. Instead, he struggled to a sitting position and pulled the cord on the Evinrude. The motor raced, then fell to a steady idle. On the shore the caribou looked up, the largest bull grunting at them.

A half mile north, a bright yellow bird alighted on the water and began droning its way toward the Kanayut. His ride home.
Home!

Gunning the throttle, Ray braced himself as the raft fought the wind and waves. From the inflated rubber floor, Janice mumbled, “I didn’t do anything.”

Ignoring this, Ray squinted at the village He could see three dots on the shore.

“Hunan is to blame. Go after them.”

People. One sitting in a chair. Another jumping and waving. A third towering over the others. It was another thirty seconds before he recognized Reuben. The man in the chair had to be Uncle. The one hopping around on short legs, long hair bobbing …

“Keera?”

“I didn’t kill him!” Janice protested.

Ray should have slowed as they neared the beachhead. Yet he found himself unable to let up on the throttle. Choosing a point to the left of the dock, he purposefully ran them aground. The motor was still belching as he scrambled onto the gravel.

“Keera!”

She ran toward him, shouting something that was drowned out by the coughing Evinrude. Ray caught her and teetered backward, lifting her into the air, the pain of his various wounds masked by a heady mixture of relief and joy.

“Keera! Where did you go? How did you …? Are you all right?” He hugged her against his chest. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“I’m fine.” She smiled up at him with a magical, twinkling countenance. “I told you I knew my way around the Bush.”

“But one minute you were there and the next …”

“When those goons caught you, I came home,” she explained flatly.

“Keera tell me ‘bout trouble.” The voice was Uncle’s. Reuben was wheeling him across the lumpy beach. “I say you no need help. You Light-walka. You be fine.”

“Fine?” Ray stared at him, mouth agape. “Do I look fine?”

“You alive.”

“Barely.”

Uncle laughed at this. “Barely better than none.”

“Raven looked after you,” Keera explained.

“Uh-huh …” Ray was trying to think of a glib, smart-aleck comeback when he heard the explosion. He turned in time to see a fireball rising into the air near the far shore of the river. On the bank the migrating animals were in a panic, scattering at a gallop.

“What dat?” Uncle asked with wide eyes.

“That was … that was …” Ray stammered. He was stunned by the fact that the bomb had gone off just minutes after he had been separated from it. “That was … almost me.”

“Raven protected you,” Keera insisted.

“Maybe so,” Ray agreed, unable to get enough oxygen.

Reuben walked to the raft and peered inside. “Dr. Farrell?”

“Reuben? Thank God! Reuben, get me out of here! Untie me!”

Ray shook his head. “She’s under arrest.”

The giant’s eyebrows rose. “For what?”

“Fraud, conspiracy to commit a felony, kidnapping … murder.”

Uncle responded to this with an energetic paragraph of Athabascan. Scowling, he said, “She no Nahani. Evil maybe. No Nahani.”

“Whatever,” Ray sighed. “She was involved in a plan to shut down Red Wolf mine, and she murdered her husband.”

“But I didn’t do it!”

“Reuben, could you lock her up somewhere? In that closet at the Community Center for all I care. Just so she doesn’t wander off before the FBI shows up.”

“The FBI?” Reuben asked.

“Yeah. They’ll be flying in from Fairbanks to take the case.”

Uncle said something in Athabascan. “She no Nahani.”

“She’s not,” Keera agreed. “She didn’t kill her husband.”

Ignoring them, Ray asked, “Can you do that for me, Reuben?”

“I guess so. But what about you? What are you gonna do?”

On cue, the Beaver plowed to the dock. “That’s my ride. I’m out of here.”

Keera reached to shake his hand. “I’m glad I met you, Lightwalker.”

“I’m glad I met you too,” he said, the sentiment genuine. Yes, the girl was weird. But she was nevertheless endearing. He bent and kissed her on the forehead.

“Why not get fixed up first?” Reuben said, gesturing to Ray’s stained clothing.

“Jack’s probably got a first-aid kit. If not, I’ll get cleaned up in Barrow.”

After an awkward silence, Keera said, “Promise you’ll come back.”

“I promise,” he sighed.

Reuben lifted Janice out of the raft and tossed her over his shoulder like a roll of carpet. “Don’t worry about Dr. Farrell. She won’t go anywhere. I’ll make sure of that.”

Uncle mumbled his disapproval. “She no Nahani.”

“The Feds will be here soon to sort everything out,” Ray assured. He performed a half bow. “I appreciate your hospitality. You guys take care.”

“She no Nahani!” the old man called as Ray started for the plane.

“She’s not,” Keera agreed. “Bye.”

Ray waved without looking back. It was time to get out of there, to escape from the world of crazy old men and psychic children and mines and archaeological digs and malevolent rivers … Time to leave the messy business of murder behind. Time to leave the Bush. Time to go home.

FIFTY-THREE

“H
OW WAS THE
hunting?” Jack asked the question without casting a glance at Ray.

“Not so hot.”

Jack worked to tighten a bolt on the wing. “Where’re your buddies?”

“Went home early.”

The pilot nodded slightly. “What the heck was that explosion?”

“You got me,” Ray answered. He didn’t have the energy to explain.

The Beaver rocked, ropes groaning, as Jack fought to snug up the bolt. “There.” Stuffing the wrench into a pocket, he turned and was preparing to make the short hop to the dock when he took his first good look at Ray. “What happened to you?”

Ray shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing …?” Jack drew a four-letter word into two distinct syllables.

“It’s a long story.”

Jack readjusted his ball cap. “Always is. Where’s your gear?”

“Lost it … in the river.”

This seemed to bring the pilot great satisfaction. “I’d say I told you so … But I’m not the kind of guy who rubs it in when he’s right.”

“Thank goodness.”

He puffed on his cigar stub as if it were Ut, then nodded toward the cabin of the plane. “First-aid kit’s in the compartment behind the backseats.” He squinted at Ray. “Unless you need me to run you down to Fairbanks.”

“No. A couple of aspirin will do me until we get to Barrow.”

“Suit yourself.” He returned his attention to the plane.

Ray climbed into the Beaver, found the kit, and began treating himself with equal amounts of hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and ibuprofen. When he had finished and was slumped in the shotgun seat, Ray could feel himself sinking. His shoulder and side were keeping time with his heart, his hamstring burning. Yet these sensations were quickly fading, replaced by an illusion of movement. He closed his eyes and accepted this, plunging toward the blissful realm of sleep.

The Beaver rocked, Jack said something, the prop buzzed …

Ray smiled down on the Range. Crooked spires and jagged peaks formed uneven highways that weaved north, descending like stair steps as they approached the Slope. The tallest of these monuments were lightly dusted with the season’s first snowfall. Glacier ice glowed a fluorescent blue from deep pockets and recesses in the north-facing valleys.

The browning tundra was speckled with puffs of cotton. White dots trailed along the river, congregating to form a clean, bright blanket that smothered entire hillsides.

Ray dived for the nomads. Racing along, his face just yards from the ground, he laughed as the animals parted before him like an ocean wave.

Rocketing skyward again, he sped northwest. Barrow came into view almost instantly. He smiled. Barrow. Home. Margaret. Baby. All things good.

He was strafing the landing field, arms outstretched like a human airplane, when he heard someone say in a singsong voice, “She’s not Nahani … Nahani is a woman …”

“Two minutes,” a gruff voice informed. “We’re on final approach.”

As sleep retreated, pain advanced. Instead of falling, Ray was expanding, stretching, being pounded on like a drum. Every pulse was a hammer swing that made him want to cry.

“Headache?” There was a digging noise. “Here.”

Ray accepted a bottle of Excedrin. He fought with the lid and took a trio of tablets.

The Beaver was returning to earth with a vengeance: engine roaring, seemingly unable to maintain its balance. The change in altitude and pressure along with the shaking was causing Ray to regret the fact that he was still alive.

“Might be a little turbulence,” Jack said over the roaring engine.

On cue the plane began to bounce. Thirty seconds later, something screeched outside. The engine went into a panic. They were on the ground. Thank God.