Season of Death Read online

  CHRISTOPHER LANE

  SEASON OF DEATH

  AN INUPIAT ESKIMO MYSTERY

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  PRELUDE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  GLOSSARY

  Other Inupiat Eskimo Mysteries by Christopher Lane

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PRELUDE

  A DISTANT RUMBLE. Water rushing north. Boots thudding against wet tundra. Rhythmic panting. A moaning gust of wind. Willows trembling and bowing. A raven cawing sleepily from its perch atop a leaning, stunted pine.

  He pauses, legs burning, lungs unable to suck in enough air. Glancing over his shoulder he sees … nothing: squat alders, the snaking, thorny vines of berry bushes, a sea of autumn leaves, limestone peaks, cirrus clouds floating like brush strokes across a deep blue sky. No movement. No evidence of hostility or danger. But he is certain that the enemy is coming.

  Running again, he stumbles down a moose trail, thistles and prickles tearing at the skin of his arms and face. He bleeds, but doesn’t care. He has to get to the river. The river is his only hope.

  Slowing for the final embankment, he slips and slides his way down a steep wall of scree, hands waving in a frantic effort to maintain his balance. At the bottom, with only a dozen yards remaining between himself and the raft, he sneaks another look back. The wilderness is pristine, innocent, without guile. Unbridled, untouched by man.

  For a split second he wonders if he has lost his mind. Maybe he isn’t being pursued. Maybe he really is alone. Has he imagined the threat to his life? Is this mad dash merely an overreaction? A paranoid delusion gone wild?

  Then he hears it: a shout. It comes from the direction of the trail. A single word. A name. His name.

  Sprinting to the raft like an escaped convict, he drags it to the water’s edge and pushes it out, wading forward until he’s wet to the waist. Gasping, he climbs aboard and pulls the rope on the motor. It coughs once and dies. He swears at it and gives a second pull. The Evinrude belches, then revs enthusiastically. He swears again, simultaneously thanking God and cursing his situation.

  Another shout. Closer. His name again.

  Has he been spotted? Grasping the throttle, he scans the hillside, then peers downstream. After a long moment of indecision, he guns the motor and forces the raft into a reckless 180.

  Upstream. It’s unexpected. Even daring. No one will think to look for him there.

  For the twenty minutes that follow, he allows himself to relax slightly, to rest in the knowledge that, for the time being, he is safe. What he will do next, he isn’t sure. Eventually, he will have to go back downstream. To the village. But how?

  He’s brainstorming through this, trying to formulate a plan, when he hears the whine: another Evinrude, this one working harder to propel its host against the river’s current.

  Panic!

  His own engine hiccups. He twists the throttle. It balks, burps, knocks again. He curses it. Beats it with the soft of his fist. Then notices the gauge. Gas! In his hurry to get away, he didn’t bother to check the tank.

  Aiming for the bank, he beaches the raft and clambers out. He splashes across a shallow eddy and sprints uphill, into the woods, into a vast, merciless wilderness that stretches for more than thirty-five million acres.

  He has no idea where he is going, only that he is running. Running away from death.

  The girl jerked upright in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her skin was clammy, her sweat-soaked nightshirt clinging to her body. The sheets were twisted and coiled around her like a fabric snake. She was wheezing, suffocating.

  “You dream Evil One? You dream Nahani?”

  Turning her head, she saw her uncle. He was sitting in the corner of her room, arms crossed, watching her. She nodded timidly, still out of breath, still shaken by the horrible images.

  “I dream him too.”

  “Mine was awful, Uncle.”

  “Nahani alway awful. But you not done.”

  “Not done?” She blinked at him, then cringed as the nightmare returned, assaulting her open eyes in Technicolor waves: the man running, fleeing for his life. He was terrified. Being chased by someone. Someone evil. Nahani. She could feel his fear. It was rushing over her, through her, squeezing her chest.

  “You watch. You ‘member.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” she answered in a whimper, wishing she could do something to make the vision stop. The man was slowing, fatigue setting in as the adrenaline peaked and began to subside. Nahani was closing, gliding through the brush like a skilled predator running down its prey. Oblivious to the physical toll the hunt was taking, he was driven by a demonic resolve. However, this was no otherworldly monster, she realized as the supernatural movie continued. This Nahani was human: a fleshly shadow, trailing long hair.

  “No be afraid. No be afraid,” her uncle offered in a soothing tone.

  She nodded imperceptibly, paralyzed by the montage. The man had tripped, fallen. He was shrieking. Nahani was upon him. She flinched as Nahani swung a weapon, narrowly missing the man’s head. The man rolled away from his attacker. Rising, he dodged another swipe.

  “No be afraid. Raven send help. Send Light-walka. He come. Light-walka come.”

  Clamping her eyes shut, the girl concentrated on Lightwalker, on the protection he would offer when he arrived. In her dream, the man sloshed into a brook, drunk with terror, and collapsed on a sandbar. Nahani rushed toward him. Palms lifted over his head, the man begged for mercy, sobbing, pleading … A single blow silenced him. But the assault went on: swing after swing, chop after chop, mud and gravel flying, the ax savagely desecrating his body. The movie was silent now, except for the dull blows and the piercing, cackling laugh of Nahani—the evil woodsman.

  The girl held her breath and prayed for Lightwalker to come quickly.

  ONE

  THEY CAME AT dusk: silent specters advancing mistlike through crooked stands of gold-leafed willows and flaming poplars. Flashes of white, brown, glimpses of black, blurred without edge or definition.

  Backed by the last hints of daylight, the marauders and their drab, elongated shadows circled cautiously, noses sampling the air, steely eyes and pointed ears probing the brush for danger. Darting, pausing, listening, cueing one another with body language and eye contact …. Weaving
down the hillside, they continued their studied march toward the river, spurred by a wordless summons borne to them on the wind: blood.

  The scent was like an aphrodisiac, arousing an ancient, instinctive desire for raw flesh. In fall and spring, they followed the caribou herds as they migrated to and from the North Slope, separating the sick, the aging, and the very young by boldly charging the skeins and attacking the less fortunate with swift, merciless fury. But when the opportunity presented itself, as it seemed to have done now, they were certainly not above resorting to carrion. In order to survive in the Arctic, carnivores had to be flexible, to take what they could get, when they could get it.

  At the edge of the river, the alpha male hesitated. Growling softly, anxiously, he surveyed the landscape: mud bars, gravel, a thin rank of birch … There. The carcass. In the waning amber light it almost blended into the sand. But there was no mistaking the smell. The alpha gave his mate, the alpha female, a glance before leaping off the bank. The rest of the wolves, his own offspring and those of two other families, followed suit, springing boldly in response to his lead.

  When they reached the carcass, the pack waited as the alpha assessed it. His nose went to work, analyzing the smell of death, eyes still scrutinizing the shore. A minute later he offered a clipped howl and sat back on his haunches. It was the signal: the find was safe, the area was safe, permission had been given to approach the remains.

  The entree was quickly devoured, arms and legs peeled, muscles torn away, organs mined and consumed. When they had finished and every member was satiated, the alpha yipped and sprinted for the trees. The others took up their places behind him and the pack evaporated like a mirage.

  On the sandbar, bones were scattered in the gravel, bits of skin and ligament left to less-discerning scavengers. The flannel shirt was gone, part of it downriver, the rest hidden beneath a crust of blood and what remained of the rib cage. Tufts and scraps of shredded denim decorated the smooth mudflat. The boots were together, one sitting upright, still connected to the ankle and lower leg. The head was absent, severed, chewed on, and rolled playfully into an eddy ten yards from the rest of the carcass.

  Tonight the already-swollen river would continue its rise. Unseasonably warm temperatures were wearing away at its glacial source, and recent upstream rains would soon help it overthrow its banks. Before long, the body would be stolen away, bloodstains mopped up, bones buried by the cold, gray, silt-laden water. Though nature had played no role in the taking of this life, it seemed predisposed to cleanse the environment of an unsightly blemish.

  Just hours earlier, it had been alive, an intelligent creature capable of rational thought. The physical body, the only real proof that this man had occupied a place in space and time, was disappearing into Mother Earth, swallowed up by the cruel, painfully constant cycle of life and death. Evidence of his very existence, much less his murder, was quickly and effectively being erased.

  TWO

  “YOU’RE LATE, RAY! Better get up!”

  Ray sat behind the wheel of his Blazer, driving home from the grocery store. It was spring and Barrow was awaking from a long winter’s hibernation. People were out washing their cars, repairing their homes, using any excuse to soak in the light.

  A glance in the rearview mirror buoyed his heart. There he was, Ray’s firstborn, his own piece of the sun, snuggled into the car seat, attention focused on a stuffed animal. He pulled the Blazer into the driveway, a man without a care, a man upon whom great blessing had been bestowed.

  He hopped out and began carrying bags of milk, mayonnaise, and bread into the house. They felt weightless. He felt weightless—airy, vibrant, invincible. He found Margaret hunched over the stove, preparing dinner. After setting his load on the cabinet, Ray embraced her firmly, pressing himself against her, demanding a kiss. She consented, giggling, then asked, “Where’s your son?”

  Ray swore. He had left him in the Chevy, neglected him like an extra sack of groceries. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he turned and hurried back to the truck. The boy would probably be howling by now, scared stiff at having been forgotten.

  When he reached the drive, it was empty. Panic! Racing to the street, he saw the Blazer, two houses away, rolling backward down the street. He sprinted after it, his heart threatening to leap from his chest. The truck was headed for a busy intersection. Ray ran harder, his legs heavy, seemingly made of lead. The Blazer continued rolling, picking up speed. Closing the distance, Ray leapt onto the hood and slid through the driver’s side window like an accomplished stuntman. Once in the seat, he pressed on the brake. Nothing. The Chevy was accelerating. He tried again and again, stomping with all his might.

  The intersection was fifty yards away … forty … thirty … cars, buses, diesel trucks … all rocketing through at high speed. Ray gave up on the brake. He would rescue his son, jump out of the vehicle, use his own body to shield the boy, hope to survive. Twisting, he slid into the back and reached to unstrap … a wolverine? The car seat was overflowing with fur—a stiff brown coat occupied by an angry creature with narrow eyes and sharp teeth.

  Cursing, Ray reeled backward, into the front seat floorboard. To his dismay, the beast managed to escape from its bonds. Growling, fangs bared, it pounced.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  His ears caught the admonition, but he was busy fending off the crazed animal. He was yelling now, kicking at the beast, beating his arms frantically against …

  “Ray …!”

  A series of severe jolts caused the wolverine to disintegrate. Opening his eyes, Ray gazed up at a face: broad nose, round cheeks framed by ebony, full ruby lips pursed in an expression of concern … and the eyes. They were two brown, oval windows that seemed to peer directly into his soul.

  “Are you all right?” Margaret’s voice was soft, soothing, consoling, as if he weren’t guilty of doing odily injury to their son, as if the boy hadn’t just transmogrified into a wolverine and gone for Ray’s jugular.

  “I had this terrible dream about our …” His voice trailed off as reality began to filter back in. He and Margaret didn’t have any children … yet. Married only a year and a half, they were still getting to know one another. Which was fine with Ray. He was in no hurry to start a family. Margaret, on the other hand, seemed anxious. Concerned about their ages, both were now thirtysomething, and the fact that it sometimes took a while to “get pregnant,” she had begun to press him to start “trying.” According to her doctor, the process involved a wide array of charts, thermometers, and cycle calculations. It sounded like a lab experiment to Ray. It also sounded like a good way to turn lovemaking into a form of drudgery. Beyond that, Ray didn’t understand the need to rush out of the honeymoon stage, straight into midnight feedings, spit-up, and stinky Pampers.

  “About our what?” she asked, eyelashes fluttering as she looked down at him.

  Margaret was petite, naturally beautiful. Ray found her irresistible, sensuous and seductive, her inner spirit and personality magnetic to the point of peril. Cindy Crawford, Sharon Stone, and all the other celebrity sex symbols didn’t hold a candle to his wife.

  “It was … totally ridiculous.” He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Did you go to class without your clothes again? Or forget your locker combination?” she joked.

  “Worse.”

  “What was it?” She was grinning now, clearly intrigued.

  He considered recounting the skewed, tangential dream, but decided against it. There was something disconcerting about having a nightmare involving a child that had yet to be born—or even conceived! “Nothing. It was … nothing. Just … a bad dream.”

  “The ice cream,” she announced confidently.

  “Huh?”

  “The ice cream you ate last night. If you wouldn’t eat junk food before bed …”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Ray argued. “Besides, I always get the munchies after … after we … you know …”

  “You know makes me hungry t
oo.” She shot him a mischievous grin. “In fact …” Grasping his shoulders, she forced him back onto the mattress and stretched out on top of him. Her eyes sparkled wickedly as her hands performed a slow, scintillating dance, fingers caressing and massaging his bare chest, arms, and neck before cradling his head. When she finally pressed her lips against his, Ray drew her closer and wrapped his arms around her. The kiss stretched, intensified … They rolled sideways, sheets twisting around limbs, breath coming in pants.

  Ray was fumbling with her robe, tugging at the sash, pulling terry cloth away from her shoulders, when she suddenly broke away, and said, “I’d really love to, but …”

  “But what?” Ray whined. “Come back here!” He reached and caught a wrist, but she spun out of his grasp. “But what?” The plea was almost desperate. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re late.” She delivered this information with a smirk.

  Ray glanced at the clock, his mind fighting to catch up. It was Saturday. His day off. They always slept in. “Late for what?” he wondered aloud.

  Margaret nodded at the backpack leaning against the closet.

  Ray cursed. He looked to the clock again before repeating the expletive.

  “Mind watching your language there, Mr. Attla?”

  Throwing the sheets back, he raced to the bathroom. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I did.”

  “Earlier …” he grumbled. He splashed his face with cold water and gathered his long, black hair into a ponytail. After fastening it with a band, he asked, “What happened to the alarm? Did it go off?”

  “Did you set it?”

  “I thought you did.” Returning to the bedroom he muttered a four-letter word and began hopping into a pair of pants.

  “Don’t worry. They won’t leave without you.”

  “You’re probably hoping they will,” he shot back as he pulled on an undershirt. “You still don’t want me to go. That’s why you didn’t wake me up.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she retorted with a peaceful smile. “I don’t like hunting. It’s barbaric.”

  “This from an Inupiat Eskimo whose forefathers lived by subsistence for thousands of years,” Ray mumbled, threading his feet into a pair of tube socks.