Season of Death (4 page)

Ray watched as Jack slipped on a headset and began flipping switches. Lights blinked on. He twisted his head to bellow, “Seat belts!”

The three passengers complied, reaching for the straps. Ray was still working to untangle his harness when air erupted from tiny vents in the roof. There was another whoosh, a rumble, and an instant later, the plane lurched. Beyond the front windshield, the prop began to twirl in slow motion. Sluggishly, it began to gain momentum, the engine revving to keep up. The resulting roar rattled the entire fuselage.

A moment later, they were rolling forward, bounding toward the runway.

Billy Bob unhooked his belt and reached for his pack, his face even more pale than usual, beads of perspiration dotting his brow.

“You okay?”

The cowboy shook his head. He was panting now, hands trembling. “Forgot my airsickness pills. I lose ma lunch ever-time I fly. Sometimes ba-fore we even take off.”

Jack gunned the throttle. The engine screamed in response, and the Beaver jerked forward, starting its mad race to break the pull of gravity.

Before the wheels left the earth, Billy Bob bent forward, covering his mouth with a hand. Ray averted his gaze, silently vowing to ride shotgun on the return trip.

FOUR

F
ROM THE AIR
, the North Slope appeared flat, dead, featureless, a worn, auburn quilt stretching unopposed from the Arctic Ocean, south to the rising foothills of the Brooks Range. The image was deceiving. Though relatively flat, it was neither dead nor featureless. Approximately a hundred miles wide, the unique strip of land was peppered with pingos, conical hills rising two to three hundred feet from the plain, and riddled with meandering streams, wide alluvial deltas, and thready brooks that fingered their way toward and out of countless shallow ponds and lakes.

In summer, the Slope was home to a wide variety of waterfowl, including geese, brant, and loon. It was frequented by arctic fox, moose, wolves, lemming, and grizzlies. It also served as the calving grounds for the Arctic herd: approximately half a million barren-ground caribou. While most of these animals left the Slope in winter, it was never truly lifeless, never as desolate as it appeared.

By now the migration would be well under way, Ray decided as he gazed out the window. Fourteen thousand feet below the Beaver, burnt orange tundra gave way to an expanse of dark, ice-wedge polygons. The uneven waffle pattern reminded Ray of the scales on the back of an enormous crocodile. Ahead, through the windshield of the plane, the Endicott Mountains loomed on the horizon,sharp gray peaks veined with the waning vestiges of last winter’s snowfall.

“Shore don’t see no car-ee-boo,” Billy Bob observed. He was feeling better now, cheeks flesh tone again. “You see any of ‘em, Ray?”

“Shore
don’t,” he answered, trying to match the cowboy’s drawl.

Billy Bob smirked at the attempt, then asked, “Where are they?”

“Already headed south. Moving down the Colville.”

“Oh.” He nodded as if he understood this. “The Colvill?”

“River.”

His jaw fell open, signaling recognition. “The river we’re gonna boat down!”

“Sort of.” Ray slid his parka off. As he pushed it aside, something fell out of a pocket. Billy Bob retrieved it from the floor.

“‘Holy Bible’ …” he read, raising an eyebrow.

Ray shrugged. “Margaret.”

The cowboy grinned like a contented rabbit. “Ain’t women the dinkdums. Once they get their hooks in ya, they can get ya to do just about any-thang, cain’t they?”

Ray ignored the remark. Even the Bible was preferable to one of Billy Bob’s long, droning monologues. He opened the front cover and eyed the list of books.

“Now me, I ain’t never had that problem. Not sayin’ I ain’t attracted to the ladies…’cause I am. But far as a serious relationship goes …”

“Didn’t you bring anything to read?” Ray asked.

“Naw. Wish I had. But me getting airsick and all, I didn’t thank it was that good an idear.”

Ray withdrew his contraband novel and handed it across the aisle.

“Tony Hillerman …” the cowboy wondered aloud. “I thank I heard a him.” He turned the book over and squinted at the back. “Ya know who I like?”

“No,” Ray replied, somehow certain that he was about to find out. He turned the page: The Old Testament. A page later he found himself staring at the opening of Genesis.

“Louis Lamour,” Billy Bob continued. “Ever read him?”

“No.” Ray scanned the account. It seemed vaguely familiar, like several of the creation myths he had studied in undergrad sociology—a dark empty that was suddenly intruded upon by a great light.

“Tell ya what, I’ll loan ya one a mine. That fella spins the best darn stories.”

“Uh-huh …”

“I tried readin’ Stephen King. You heard a him?”

“Yeah …”

“But he was too darn scary for me. I generally stick to Westerns.”

“Um-hmm.” Genesis reminded Ray of a Tlingit tale. In their version Raven created the world. After making the earth from the sand of the ocean floor, he took clay from the beach and formed the first man.

“‘Nother fella who’s real good is Red Graham. If ya don’t like cowpokes ‘n dusty streets ‘n campfires ‘n cattle drives, don’t guess you’d enjoy him much. But me? I …”

Ray reached over and tapped the novel. “You’ll like this.”

“Does it have cowboys in it?”

“No. It’s a murder mystery that takes place in New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?!” His eyes lit up, and he beamed at the book. “That’s down in my neck of the woods. It’s right next to Texas.”

“So I’ve heard.”

God spent the seventh day resting. A well-deserved respite, Ray decided. Creating the universe had to be exhausting. Raven, on the other hand, had chosen to fly around the world and appreciate his masterpiece. That was when he noticed that he had forgotten to give man fire. How he and Wood Owl brought fire was another story.

As he began fanning through the book, Ray couldn’t help wondering about Margaret. What was it about this collection of fairy tales and poems that so fascinated her?
Transfixed
was the word. She was nearly obsessed with the religion spelled out on these pages. Why? Margaret was an intelligent woman. A college graduate. She was getting her law degree, for Pete’s sake.

“Didja ever see
Tombstone?”

“Huh?” Ray looked up, realizing that Billy Bob was waiting, expecting an answer.

“Tombstone
,” he repeated. “Kurt Russell, Val Kilmer.” He paused to shake his head. “Boy howdy, now there was a jim-dandy movie.”

Ray looked at him, wondering what had prompted this.

“Don’t wanna run down yer book, here, but …” Billy Bob glanced down at the paperback with an expression that implied pity. “I done read two chapters already. Only one fella died. And they don’t know exactly how. Not too excitin’.”

“It’s a mystery. It’s supposed to be … intriguing.”

“Wall,
Tombstone
was plenty intrigin’, I tell ya. Nearly ever-body got shot up.” He flipped the novel with his thumb. “Shorely somebody else’ll get killed pretty soon.”

“One can only hope.” Returning his attention to his own book, Ray tried to decide which was worse, discussing the murder mystery genre with Billy Bob, or dredging through the Bible. Reaching the New Testament, he examined the next heading: The Birth of Christ. Somehow, he didn’t feel up to Jesus, infant or otherwise, right then.

In the front, Lewis produced a silver thermos, presented it for their approval, then began pouring coffee. The first cup was offered to Jack. The pilot shook his head, grumbling something about a head wind. That was typical. There was usually a strong wind blowing off the mountains, pushing onto the plain. Jack urged the throttle forward and the Beaver trembled in response, the engine noise rising to a constant, deafening thunder.

Lewis handed the cup back to Ray, spilling a full third in the process, most of it on Ray’s boot. Thankfully, he had recently waterproofed this pair. Billy Bob accepted a cup anxiously, blowing and sipping as if it might hold the antidote to his nausea.

“Part of da service!” Lewis shouted back at them through a yellow grin. “Here’s to da trip!” He reached to “clink” his Styrofoam cup against Ray’s and Billy Bob’s. “Gonna be great! Real great!”

Ray lifted the cup and sniffed at the contents, wondering if it was as bitter and pungent as the stuff Lewis brewed at the station. He was about to sample it when Lewis yelled, “Aiiyaa!”

His face became hyperanimated, features spread in an exaggerated, almost comical expression of sheer delight. “Aiiyaa!” He pointed left, almost poking Jack in the eye. “Nomads of da north!”

Ray glanced out the window and saw the source of Lewis’s jubilation: several dozen white dots scattered like grains of salt on the carpet of deep brown tundra. The trail led along a river and into the foothills, where entire rises seemed to be snowcapped, the ground eclipsed by brilliant white summer coats.

“Aiiyaa! Gonna be great hunt!” Lewis bellowed.

“Are them white thangs car-ee-boo?” Billy Bob asked.

Lewis nodded enthusiastically and nudged Jack. “Get us close?”

Without warning, the plane banked hard left, toward the parade of migrating animals. Ray’s coffee leapt from the cup, splashing into his lap. He swore, patting at the hot liquid with his parka.

Jack was still flexing the stick to the left, coaxing the Beaver toward the caribou, when Ray heard something. It was distant and weak, but distinct from the groaning, overwrought engine. He heard it again. There was an electronic element to it. He checked his watch. No. The alarm hadn’t sounded. On the third pulse, he remembered the phone.

It rang again before he could dig it out of his jacket. Flipping it open, he punched the power button. “Hello?” There was no response. Or at least, he couldn’t hear one.

“Hello?” Pressing his ear against the device, he thought he could make out static. “Hello?”

Jack put the Beaver into a dive, apparently to give them a better look at the caribou. Out the window, the white dots became white dots with legs, and the herd dispersed randomly, without direction, fleeing from the bothersome floatplane.

Ray was about to hang up when he made out a word fragment: “… call …”

“Hello?” He held the phone away from his face and examined the keypad. There was a button marked volume. He pushed it until the LED said
HIGH.

“Ray?” The voice was far away, speaking through a hurricane of static.

“Margaret? What’s the matter? Is everything okay?”

“It’s better than …”

Ray missed the rest of the sentence. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

“I … said,” she repeated, overenunciating, “it’s … better … than … fine.”

Ray blinked at this. What was that supposed to mean?

Jack pulled back on the stick and the Beaver whined, fuselage quaking as it leveled off and raced toward a wedge between two sharp limestone peaks.

“I’m glad,” Ray said into the phone. It was all he could think of. “Listen, honey, we’re airborne … maybe an hour from the lake. How about if I call you back.”

“Guess who called?” she asked.

He wasn’t in the mood for games, but she sounded so happy. “Aunt Edna?”

“No. The lab … at the doctor’s office.”

“The doctor’s office??” Ray wondered if he had misunderstood. He watched as the Beaver sliced its way into the valley. “What doctor?”

“My … And guess …?… says …”

“What?” The signal was breaking up, the
NO SERVICE
light blinking.

“We’re … Ray!… believe it!”

Before the line went dead, Ray managed to make out one more word: four simple letters that sent a chill up his spine.

“Baby?”

FIVE