The Boy Who Stole From the Dead
Read The Boy Who Stole From the Dead Online
Authors: Orest Stelmach
ALSO BY OREST STELMACH
The Boy from Reactor 4
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 Orest Stelmach
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
ISBN-13: 9781477809488
ISBN-10: 1477809481
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908438
For Ihor
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chernobyl and Odessa are located in Ukraine, but these popular English spellings are derived from the Russian language. The proper spellings for these cities based on the Ukrainian language are Chornobyl and Odesa. Beginning with this novel, I will utilize the proper English spelling for all Ukrainian words. Thanks to all the fans of
The Boy From Reactor 4
who wrote me and suggested this change.
CHAPTER 1
“W
ATCH OUT,
” R
OBERT
Jr. said.
Robert Sr. slammed on the brakes. The jacked 4x4 skidded to a stop in the snow. Lauren Ross looked up from the front passenger seat. A reindeer stood in the middle of the deserted road, twenty feet away. It didn’t have that deer-in-the-headlights look. Instead it looked sweet, goofy, and regal, with a two-tiered crown of antlers.
“You thinking what I’m thinking, Papa?” Robert Jr. said.
“This is as good a place as any.”
Lauren heard a rustle behind her. Robert Jr. lifted a rifle from the rack on the back wall. His side window was open. She turned toward the windshield. The reindeer hadn’t moved.
“Oh, no,” Lauren said. “Please don’t.”
“You folks from the lower forty-eight,” Robert Jr. said. “How do you think that venison gets in your grocery store?”
“I’m from New York,” Lauren said. “We don’t have venison in our grocery stores. You can’t do this.”
“I understand what you’re feeling,” Robert Sr. said. “When I was a child I had the same emotions. But we rely on subsistence in this part of Alaska. In Kotzebue, a man’s got to hunt to survive.”
Robert Jr. slid the rifle’s bolt handle forward and locked it down. He handled the rifle as though he’d been born firing it twenty-something years ago.
It was 15°F outside but Lauren was sweating. She understood what Robert Sr. was saying. They weren’t idiots with permits hunting defenseless animals for sport, an oxymoron if there ever was one. Still, she couldn’t help herself. A single thought kept coming back to her, as it did whenever her colleagues at the Sports Network boasted after a hunting trip. It bothered her less when a random person was killed than when an innocent animal was slaughtered. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did.
“Locked and loaded,” Robert Jr. said.
Robert Sr. said, “All right, then.”
“Shit,” Lauren said. She averted her eyes. “I can’t watch this.”
“It’s not what you think,” Robert Sr. said.
“You mean you’re not going to shoot the reindeer?” Lauren felt something hard press against the back of her head.
“No, dear. We’re not going to kill the caribou.”
She’d arrived via Anchorage yesterday. Kotzebue was a three-mile long gravel spit at the tip of the Baldwin Peninsula, twenty-six miles north of the Arctic Circle. The locals pronounced it “Cots-a-byoo” but called it “Cots.” The population totaled 3,201. Neat rows of modular homes packed a narrow strip of land, some more ramshackle than others. Spare tires, rusty gasoline drums, and snowmobiles filled the yards. Kotzebue malamutes wandered among them, tethered by long chains to their doghouses.
Lauren checked in to the Bayside Inn, a no-frills bed and breakfast. She ducked into the inn’s restaurant for lunch, and was ecstatic when she saw the menu featured comfort food, albeit at exorbitant prices. She’d read up on the local cuisine. The last thing she needed was herring egg salad or peeling ptarmigan eggs. She inhaled a burger, wiped the ketchup off her plate with a French fry, and washed it down with a Diet Sprite.
Her first appointment had been at city hall at 1:30 p.m. Her second one had been at the June Nelson Elementary School an hour later. She introduced herself as a reporter from the Sports Network doing a background piece on a seventeen-year-old prep school hockey phenom named Bobby Kungenook. Neither one provided any new information. No one in city hall or the school knew the Kungenooks or a son named Bobby.
When she was finished, she took a cab to the neighborhood where the Kungenooks lived prior to their deaths in 2000. Lauren went house-to-house knocking on doors asking about their deceased neighbors. The doors closed quickly, in most cases before Lauren was finished asking questions. No one knew anything. No one could help.
When she got back to the inn at 4:00 p.m., two men were leaning against an old Ford pickup truck at the curb by the entrance. They looked like father and son. They wore matching parkas and fur hats. The younger one looked to be in his mid-twenties. The older one closer to fifty. He introduced himself as Robert Seelick. His son shared the same name.
“I’m told you’re looking for me,” Robert Sr. said.
“Who told you that?”
“Mayor Schroeder.”
“Funny. He didn’t mention you.”
“And Principal Coffey at the elementary school. You met with her after you left the mayor’s office.”
“She didn’t mention you either.”
“I’m sure they didn’t want to volunteer me.”
“To do what?”
“Help a stranger from the lower forty-eight.”
“I’m guessing that’s me.”
“You’re the only one in town.”
“How can you help me?”
“My wife and I were best friends with the Kungenooks.”
“Holy crap. I mean, that’s incredible. Do you have a minute to talk now?”
It was her first break. Their son had come to New York from nowhere, beaten the NHL’s fastest skater in a race, and lit up the record books at Fordham Prep. The Jesuit priests at Fordham said he was from the Arctic Circle but he spoke Ukrainian and Russian better than English. His guardian in New York wouldn’t let Lauren near him. Something was off about the whole story. Lauren was as sure of it now as when she’d seen the kid play for the first time.
She pointed to the restaurant at the inn. “Can I buy you both a beer? Or two?”
“Thanks, but we have an errand to run. We thought you might want to come along.”
“What kind of errand?”
“We need to pick up dinner,” Robert Jr. said.
“You’re going to the grocery store?” Lauren said.
“Something like that,” Robert Sr. said. He told her their destination. “Coming?”
Robert Sr. drove them out of the residential area toward the southern end of the peninsula.
“What do you do for a living?” Lauren said.
“I’m a civil servant,” Robert Sr. said. “Junior works for Rotman’s.”
“Rotman’s?” Lauren said.
“The general store,” Robert Jr. said. “Serving Kotzebue since 1932.”
Robert Sr. said, “On his off days, he writes music. Boy’s got a natural talent for rhyming. As you can see.”
“Serving Kotze-boo, since 1932.” Robert Jr. swayed to his own beat in the back seat.
“We hunt, too,” Robert Sr. said. “Not much luck today.”