Season of Death (37 page)

“Hang on,” Mack warned, climbing aboard. He slid the door shut and jabbed a green button on the wall. A motor puttered in response and the Dumpster lurched forward, climbing the rails. As it rose, it tipped, maintaining a level position in relation to the slope.

“Designed it myself,” Mack announced proudly. “It’s basically just a copy of the Incline in Pittsburgh. That’s where I’m from. Worked in steel for thirty years. MacElroy Steel …” he said somberly, as if referring to a dead relative.

They continued to float smoothly up the mountain. Unable to look into the valley, they watched the ridge grow closer.

“Would have put benches in here. And another window,” Mack mused. “But it’s not for sightseeing. There’s three more cars. That’s how we get the zinc to the river.”

At the midway station, a cluster of workers was huddled around an enormous, disembodied engine that had been dissected on a canvas tarp next to the shed. Mack waved as they passed by. “Any luck yet, Jimmy?”

A tall man in greasy coveralls shook his head. “Looks like a bad carb.”

Mack swore at this. “Keep trying.” After a melodramatic sigh, he explained, “Getting parts in here is a real bear. Gotta fly them up from Fairbanks. Raft them down from Kanayut …” He cursed again, seemingly ready to give up on the entire venture.

“You guys work all summer?” Ray asked.

“All spring. All summer. All fall. As much of the winter as we can stand. And that’s just to keep the creditors at bay.” He smiled at Keera. “Got any other kids?”

Ray hesitated.
Other
? He followed Mack’s gaze. “Oh. No. She’s not mine. I don’t have any kids.”

“Yet,” Keera submitted helpfully.

“Yet,” Ray agreed. “My wife’s expecting.”

“Congratulations,” Mack offered warmly. “A word of advice. If you have a son, whatever you do, don’t let him become a miner. Let him play hockey and get his teeth knocked out, let him get himself an earring, let him grow his hair to his waist and play the electric guitar. But don’t let him go looking for gold in Alaska. You hear me?”

Ray nodded. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Only leads to misery.” He sighed. In the next instant, his face was animated. “Of course, if we can make this baby put out …” He chuckled gleefully. “Next year at this time I might not be so sour on zinc mining. In fact, according to Hal, I’ll be retired and living in Hawaii. We all will.” He raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

Ray sneaked a look at his watch: 4:30. This was taking too long. Gazing at the upper house, he willed it closer.

Despite his attempts at telekinesis, it took ten long minutes to arrive “up top.” It turned out to be nothing more than a depression in the peak of the ridge that served to hold the wide, barnlike structure and the towering crane. The incline transport carried them inside a set of swinging double doors just to the left of the now massive wolf’s face. It continued through the barn and into the flat, grinding to a halt when Mack punched a red button with the soft flesh of his fist.

“That’s it,” Mack announced. He gestured to a dark square in the side of an embankment that had been framed with heavy beams. “That’s where we get the zinc. Or, I should say, that’s where we
try
to get the zinc.”

“It’ll come,” a voice promised. A man poked his head into the glassless window. He was short and husky, like Mack. His face bore a resemblance too: fewer wrinkles, better skin, a scruffy beard, but the same nose and cheek structure. He too was bald.

“Hal MacElroy,” he told them. “Don’t believe a word this old coot tells you.”

Mack laughed gruffly at this. “Coot, maybe. But old … I could whip you any day of the week.” He slic’. the door open. “Might just do that later this evening.”

“You wish.” Turning to Keera, he asked, “And who is this beautiful young lady?”

“Keera. She’s from Kanayut. And I’m Ray Attla.”

“He’s the policeman,” Mack specified.

“Really, Dad? I thought Keera was the cop.” He slugged Mack on the shoulder. “Go make yourself useful, will you?”

“I’ll show you useful …” Mack muttered as he disappeared into the barn.

“Dad tells me you’re looking for someone.”

Ray nodded. “That’s right. We’re looking for Dr. Mark Farrell.”

The mirth drained from MacElroy’s face. “Did you try the dig site upriver?”

“Yeah. He’s not there. Apparently he was on his way to Juneau.”

MacElroy was nodding. “To file. The chump.”

“So you know Dr. Farrell?”

“Mark? He and I were frat brothers at the U-Dub. He’s the reason I’m up here. Two summers ago, I get this call. It’s Mark. He wants me to come on an expedition to Alaska.” He smirked at this. “I was working for Dad’s company back in Pittsburgh. It was dull—bookkeeping, accounting …. So a trip to the Last Frontier sounded pretty good.”

“How’d you go from archaeology to mining?”

“Turns out archaeology is even more boring than doing the books for a steel mill. I don’t know how Mark can do it. After a couple of weeks I was ready to scream. So I started doing some hiking, fishing, even a little gold panning. I found some nuggets in the river, followed the deposit up here. Last summer Gene and I came back with some shovels, picks, and a minisluice ready to strike it rich. Except the vein I discovered went dry after three days. A couple weeks later, we hit zinc.” He offered a lopsided smile that told them he didn’t understand it either. “Weird how things work out, huh? Here I sit on top of what could well be one of the world’s largest zinc mines, thanks to Mark Farrell.”

“Are you two still friends?” Ray asked incredulously.

MacElroy made a face: a mix of disgust and resignation. “Yeah. Except that he’s bound and determined to put us out of business. He’s a purist. In love with archaeology. Concerned that our operation is endangering precious historical artifacts. The dope.”

“Is the mine compromising the site down there?”

“Maybe. But … Mark’s anal. He was a compulsive nut in school. Still is. Don’t get me wrong. He’s my buddy. But he drives me crazy sometimes.”

Still confused, Ray said, “I talked to Janice Farrell and she said …”

“Ha! There’s no telling what sort of horror stories that witch laid on you.”

“Well, she said that there was a certain amount of
animosity
between your crew and the digging team.”

MacElroy rolled his eyes, frowning. “She’s full of it.”

“She said that there had been threats, sabotage …”

“What a liar!”

“She claims your people set off explosives at the dig site.”

“Oh, that …” he sniffed. “It was nothing. Just a little plastique.”

“Plastique?”

MacElroy shrugged. “It was the Fourth of July.”

THIRTY-NINE

“T
HAT’S WHAT WAS
in Dr. Farrell’s plane!” Keera blurted.

MacElroy squinted at her, then turned to Ray. “Huh?” Ray closed his eyes, sighed, tried to think of a way to avoid explaining. Unable to, he confessed, “Something may have happened to Farrell.”

“What? Is he okay?”

“We don’t know. He’s …”

“Dead,” Keera announced.

“Dead?” MacElroy was shocked. “Mark? No …”

“We don’t know if he’s dead.”

“But his plane was rigged to explode,” Keera threw in. “With plast … plast …”

“Plastique!” MacElroy’s jaw fell open and his brow fell.

Ray waved him off. “Someone did rig the plane with plastique. But it didn’t go off. Farrell never showed up in Kanayut like he was supposed to. That’s why we’re here.”

MacElroy stared at him, dazed.

“When did you see Farrell last?” Ray asked.

Sinking to a wooden bench, MacElroy answered,” ‘Bout a week ago. Mark comes by at least once every ten days or so to poke around in that little site down the hill. And to give us a hard time about screwing with history, destroying the landscape.” When he noticed the concerned look on Ray’s face, he added, “It’s good-natured. He razzes me about ruining the environment. I accuse him of loving dead people more than living people.”

Ray considered this. “Janice said …”

“Janice is a witch. I warned him before they got married. The woman is deranged.” MacElroy shot a glance at Keera before whispering, “
She’s a nympho.”

It was Ray’s turn to make a face.

“You met her, right?” His voice dropped again. “Did she …
come on to youT’

“Well …” Ray could feel his cheeks blushing.

“See? She is … what I said. And she hates me because I turned her down.” He nodded knowingly. “She wanted to … while I was on the dig that summer. But I wasn’t about to do that to Mark.”

Ray considered this for a moment. “So you and Farrell are friends,” he submitted. “And there’s no hard f elings between your crew and the archaeological crew?”

“Nothing serious. Just good-natured pranks. All in fun.”

“The fact that he’s seeking a permit that will shut you down doesn’t bother you?”

MacElroy shrugged. “The injunction would only be for a season or so, as long as it took them to work the site down there. We wouldn’t like it, but … Actually we could probably use the downtime to get our financing in better shape.”

Glancing at his watch, Ray continued reviewing the information. “He comes by here every so often. You saw him about a week ago. But you don’t know where he is?”

“Or who killed him?” Keera prodded.

MacElroy shook his head wearily, lips pursed.

“Any chance someone else saw him since then, say Thursday or Friday?”

“Doubt it,” MacElroy grunted. “Mark usually makes a point of coming up to see me. But maybe Gene’s seen him.”

He led them to the opening in the embankment. “Watch your step.” Once inside, he handed them each a hard hat equipped with a light and a small black box the size of a pocket calculator. “Regulations,” he explained. “The hat’s supposed to keep you safe, as if it would do any good if a ton of rock fell in on you. The other’s a locator. If there is a cave-in, and you aren’t killed instantly, that tells us where you are so we can try to get you out.”

“Have you had any cave-ins?” Ray asked warily.

“Oh, sure. Almost every day. This ridge is pretty unstable. And what with all the earthquakes up here … But don’t worry. Nobody’s been killed in Red Wolf.”

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Ray realized that they were standing on a platform overlooking a vast, seemingly bottomless crater. The sides of the hole were flat, man-made. Hanging halogen lights provided illumination.

Adjusting his hat, Ray flicked on his own head lamp, then Keera’s. A crate emerged from the shadows. Ray could see neat squares of orange stacked inside.

“It’s not armed,” MacElroy said. “We use TNT mostly. But there are some tricky spots where plastique does the trick.”

“Do you keep track of it?” Ray asked.

“Sure.” Lifting a wireless walkie-talkie, MacElroy thumbed the button and said, “Gene? We’re up top. Got a minute?”

After a burst of static, a tinny voice replied, “Be up in two.”

A moment later a man emerged from the darkness, the antithesis of MacElroy: tall, slight, with flowing blond hair.

“What’s up?” he sighed, removing his hat. His hair was matted with sweat.

“You seen Mark Farrell lately?”

Gene shook his head. “Not since … probably a week ago Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday.” He paused. “Is that it? Don’t tell me you dragged me up here for that.”

“Mark’s missing,” MacElroy explained.

“And his floatplane was sabotaged,” Keera added.

Gene examined her curiously before asking MacElroy, “Who are these people?”

“Ray Attla, Barrow PD.” He offered his hand. “And this is Keera.”

He glanced at Keera before asking MacElroy again, “What’s this all about?”

“We’re looking for Mark Farrell,” Ray told him.” We think he might be missing.”

“He’s dead,” Keera informed. “His plane was going to blow up.”

Gene looked to MacElroy for confirmation. MacElroy shrugged at him. “Who’s got the p-brick count?”

“Dave does,” Gene answered. “But I can tell you what it is. It’s twenty-three. That’s what it was when Dave did the last tally and we haven’t p-brick-blasted since.”

MacElroy used the walkie-talkie to confirm this information. Calling down to the base station, he spoke with Dave. When he was confident that the count was indeed twenty-three, he walked over to the crate and used a flashlight to conduct his own assessment. A half minute later, he swore, making the resemblance to his father that much more valid.