Whisper to the Blood (17 page)

Still, nothing. "I don't like this," Van said, her voice very
soft.

"Probably out walking a trapline," Ruthe said, dismounting. She
saw Van looking at her and laughed. "It's packed down here, girl, you can
get off and walk around safely."

Van put out one foot gingerly to feel the snow, and then got off with more
confidence. Johnny followed, standing uncertainly for a moment, and then he
went to the door and knocked. "Hello? Is anybody in there?"

No answer. Ruthe clicked her tongue against her teeth and brushed by him to
grab the knob and pull the door open.

The smell hit them first. It was strong enough to stop Johnny in his tracks,
and behind him Van actually backed up a step. Ruthe froze in place for one long
second, and then with a set face climbed the two steps into the room.

There was a brief pause, and then they heard her say, "For crissake!
What the hell were you doing out here?"

Johnny steeled himself and followed her inside, Van at his shoulder.

The door opened into the office area of the trailer. There was a desk, a
four-drawer filing cabinet, a whiteboard, and a map of the Park on a scale so
large it covered one wall floor to ceiling and corner to corner, including the
two windows in that wall that showed up as light rectangles through the map. Flyers,
brochures, and statistical handouts, all sporting the GHRI cheery sunrise logo,
were piled all over the room.

The desk was large and metal and gray. Across it lay the body of Mac Devlin,
his chest a torn mass of flesh and blood and bone, his square, red face gaping
at the ceiling in astonishment. He was starting to bloat.

Behind Johnny, Van made a sound and the warm of her at his shoulder
vanished, followed by quick footsteps going down the stairs and the crunch of
her knees on the snow. He heard her retch. He wasn't far off it himself.

Ruthe surveyed the scene, her face grim. "How long ago, do you
reckon?"

Johnny swallowed hard and steeled himself to step forward and grasp Mac's
hand. It was cold. He tried to move it. It wouldn't. "Rigor has set in,"
he said.

"What does that mean?"

Oddly, he seemed to have adapted to the smell, and was able to speak more
easily. "Rigor mortis starts setting in about three hours after death. It
takes about twelve hours to reach maximum stiffness, depending on conditions."
He looked around and saw a small Monitor stove, probably fueled by the tank
outside. "It's warm in here." He tried to move Mac's hand again, and
succeeded in shifting it just a little. "I'd say he's been here longer
than three hours but less than twelve." He looked at Ruthe. "It'll go
off again in about seventy-two hours. If someone trained is there to observe
it, they can get a good idea of time of death." He took a deep, shaky
breath. "For now, we need to get out of here."

"What? Why?"

"It's a crime scene, Ruthe. We shouldn't be in here, and we need to
leave now and go get Jim." He walked out of the trailer. Van was on her
feet, washing her face with a handful of snow. "Are you okay?"

She nodded and tried to smile with stiff lips. "I'm okay. Was that. . .
was that Mac Devlin? The MacMiner guy?"

"Yeah, it was."

"What happened? What are you doing?"

He had bent over to look in the snow around the stairs. There was hardly any
light left to the day and he couldn't see anything. "It looks like he was
shot from a long way away, in the back, with a rifle, but a lot of times a
killer can't resist taking a closer look. It's how we catch them."

"'We'?"

"It's how my dad used to, anyway." He straightened. "You
learned a lot from him."

"Yeah." He shrugged, trying to be casual. It wasn't easy, with the
memory of Mac's gruesome remains fifteen feet away. "It was
interesting." He swallowed. "Well, you know. When it wasn't
gross."

"He's dressed like he just walked in the door," Ruthe said from
the doorway. Something clicked and a light came on over the doorway.
"Parka, snow pants, boots, and all."

"I think maybe he was shot in the act of stepping inside," Johnny
said, standing straight and looking up at Ruthe. He pointed two fingers at her.
"He'd probably already opened the door, and was standing on the
threshold." She turned around, standing in the open doorway and looking at
Johnny over her shoulder. "The bullet hit him and the impact spun him
around—" Ruthe's hands flew up and she staggered two steps forward,
turning to face him. "—and then he fell on the desk."

Ruthe looked over her shoulder again, at Mac's corpse this time, and came
back to the door and frowned at him. "But the door was closed when we got
here."

Johnny frowned, too. "The killer could have closed it if he came up to
take a look. Or maybe Mac could have pulled it shut when he fell." Johnny
gestured at his feet. "I can't see anything other than our tracks, Ruthe,
but that doesn't mean Jim won't be able to. You should close the door. And lock
it, if you can."

She reached behind the knob, felt around, and nodded her head. Pulling the
door to, she tried the knob and nodded again when it held. "Okay. Time to
go for help. Like you said, Jim needs to know about this, pronto."

"Wait." Johnny fumbled with one of his pockets. "Here. We can
trigger this."

It was an orange electronic device the size of a pack of cigarettes. Ruthe
took it. "What's that?"

"A PLB, a personal locator beacon. Kate insisted on getting one for me
to carry in case I got into trouble in the Park. If I trigger it, it'll send
our coordinates and a 911 call via satellite to the local police. That's
Jim."

"Clever. And smart of Kate." She shook her head and handed it back
to Johnny. "No can do."

"But he could fly out here, and land. There's a wind sock, I saw it on
our way in."

"So did I," Ruthe said, "but he's not flying out here in the
dark and landing in a place he's never landed before, also in the dark. If you
trigger that thing, they'll think we're in trouble. We aren't. No. We go get
him."

Johnny hesitated. "One of us should stay here. Make sure no one
contaminates the crime scene."

"No," Ruthe said definitely. "I'm not leaving either one of
you around here with some nut on the loose with a gun." Impossibly, she
grinned, and jerked a thumb at the trailer.

"Besides, I just locked the door to the only warm place to wait."

TEN

T
he journey back down the side of the
hill to the valley seemed a lot shorter, but it was well past dark by the time
they got to the river. They stopped to gas up the snow machines and wolf down
steaming bowls of ramen that Ruthe insisted they take the time to cook on her
single-burner Coleman stove. "It's been a long day and we're all tired. We
need fuel to get us home. Drink lots of water, too, and keep a bottle handy,
tucked in somewhere it won't freeze."

She had them stuff peppermints into their outer pockets. "A sugar hit
for the road," she said, "when we start to run out of steam."

"We could stop at one of the villages," Johnny said. "We
could," Ruthe said. "I don't think we should. Once the word gets out,
there's going to be a stream of rubberneckers up there, and some of them won't
stop with looking."

She looked at Johnny. He nodded. "You're right. Best to get the word to
Jim as fast as we can. He can fly in tomorrow at first light." He looked
at Van. "You want to drive awhile?"

A smile broke through the strained look on her face. "Sure!"

Ruthe. The
Gruening
River
caribou herd. The
Suulutaq trailer. Mac. The rush to tell Jim. The attack.

Van.

Vanessa.

He pulled himself inch by painful inch to his knees and looked around.

His snow machine sat twenty feet away. The sled was gone. The sled with all
their supplies in it. Memory returned in a terrifying rush.

"Van," he tried to say. "Ruthe." He staggered to his
feet. "Van! Ruthe!"

He thought he heard a low moan from one direction and staggered toward it,
almost falling over a dark, huddled lump. It was Ruthe. "Ruthe!" he
said. He shook her, possibly a little less gently than he should have.
"Ruthe!"

She groaned again. In the steadily increasing light of the rising moon her
face looked bleached of all color, like a death mask. "Johnny?"

"Yes," he said, almost sobbing. "It's me. Are you okay? Here,
squeeze my hands. Good, now push your feet. Good. Good."

"Where's the girl?" she said, raising her head.

He staggered to his feet. "Van! Vanessa! Where are you, Van?"

He found her beneath the lip of the riverbank. She didn't answer his call,
she didn't move, and he was shaking so badly from fright and the cold that he
could barely pull down her collar to check the pulse in her throat. It beat
strongly against his fingers, warming it. "Oh, Van," he said, his
head drooping. "Oh, Van."

Her voice was a thready whisper. "Johnny. What happened?"

Her voice, the sense of her words was like an on switch for a fury he hadn't
known was there. He surged to his feet and very nearly howled at the sky.
"Those assholes jumped us!"

"What assholes?"

"Those assholes on the snow machines!"

She raised herself painfully to one elbow. "I know you're mad, but
don't yell, okay?"

Her pitiful little smile melted his heart. "Okay," he said,
mastering his anger, not without effort, at least for the present, and dropping
again to his knees. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I understand, believe me." Van tried to rise and
faltered, putting a hand to her head. "Oh," she said, and then leaned
over and vomited in the snow. He tried to help her, to hold her hair out of the
way, and then brought her handfuls of clean snow so she could rinse out and
off.

She looked up at him and smiled again, this time a little less tentative.
"Tell me you don't know how to show a girl a good time," she said.

He surprised himself by laughing. It was a pale effort but it was real.

He got back to Ruthe to find her on her feet. She was wheezing slightly.
"Are you okay?"

"Think I busted a rib," she said.

"I think that asshole busted it for you," he said, his anger
coming back to a simmer. "Fucker was using a two-by-four."

"I see they took your sled. Why didn't they take the snowgo, too?"

"Not enough drivers, probably. I don't remember really well, but I
think there were only three of them, one for each machine."

"Where's mine, then?"

They found it a thousand yards up the river, nose buried in a drift beneath
the lip of the riverbank and miraculously still with the sled attached. "I
pushed the throttle all the way up, last thing before I fell off," Ruthe
said. "It must have got away from them and they were scared they'd get
caught if they wasted time looking for it."

"Not as scared as they're going to be when I catch up with them,"
Johnny said fiercely. The thought of beating on the guy with his own
two-by-four was as warming as the fire Van had started next to his snow
machine.

He fumbled for the pocket that held the PLB and pulled it out. He held it up
and said to Ruthe, "Are we in trouble now?"

H
er sleep was made restless that night
by dreams of Johnny heading off over the horizon on a snow machine, laughing
over his shoulder at her just before the machine carried him over the edge of a
cliff. And dreams of Jim, too, although these dreams were less story and more
snapshot, Jim kissing her much against her will-really and truly, against her
will-the day Roger McAniff went on a killing spree in the Park, Jim crouched
behind the bar after getting his Smokey hat shot off during the most recent
shoot-out between the Jeppsens and the Kreugers, Jim bleeding all over the
floor of Ruthe and Dina's cabin after she'd beaned him with the file box. And
bleeding all over her afterward.

She was jerked awake before she got to the really good part, by Mutt's
full-throated bark and vehicle lights flashing across the interior of the
house. She got up, pulled on sweats, and trotted downstairs. She reached for
the .30-06 at the same time she switched on the porch light, which revealed
Bobby's snow machine stopped in the yard, engine running, one person
dismounting and running to the stairs. A frisson of nameless fear shivered up her
spine. She put the rifle back and opened the door. "What's wrong?"
she said before Dinah had her foot on the bottom step.

Dinah looked up and without preamble said, "Johnny triggered his PLB.
Jim got the word and the location and he's on his way there with Bobby."

Kate ran upstairs and found clothes, ran back downstairs, pulled on bibs,
parka, and boots, grabbed her gloves, goggles, and rifle, and ran outside.
Dinah had pulled Kate's snow machine out of the garage and Mutt was already
waiting next to it. The engine started without fuss, Mutt hopped up behind, and
Kate slid the rifle into its scabbard and followed Dinah up the trail, swung
wide onto the road, where both women opened up the throttles.

The miles sped by as Kate tried very hard not to think of all the different
ways Johnny could have gotten hurt going down the river. A pickup could have
run into them. A snow machine pileup. Some drunk in one of the villages could
have been shooting at hallucinations and they got in between him and his
target. The river could have opened up one of its inexplicable leads and they
could have fallen in, and Johnny's last conscious act before the water closed
over his head was to trigger the PLB.

She could feel the beginnings of hysteria, a coldness seeping over her from
the inside that was worse than the windchill without. No, she thought, very
firmly. You don't know anything. Don't speculate, don't borrow trouble. It'll
be as bad as it is and you'll deal. Right now all you're doing is going from
your house to Bobby's. All you have to do is hold on until you get there.