Season of Death Page 3
“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
“WHAT’S THE MATTER?”
Ray was fumbling with the phone, punching in numbers, stabbing the SEND button, cursing at the NO SERVICE light, mashing on END, starting the process again.
“What’s the matter, partner?” Billy Bob repeated. “Ya look kinda … funny.”
“Huh? Oh … uh … I’m fine.” That is, if you don’t count the nuclear bomb that just went off, he thought. His entire universe had just been forever altered by a simple, two-syllable disclosure. Maybe he had misunderstood. Maybe she had used the word as a term of endearment. Except that she didn’t do that. Margaret occasionally called him honey, even sugar. Never baby.
He tried the number a fourth time, a fifth time. The plane was hedged in by mountains now, buzzing through a narrow valley. The green NO SERVICE light continued to mock him.
Lewis turned in his seat and watched for a moment, smirking. “Been gone few minutes … gotta check in with da ball an’ chain. Poor avinnaq.”
Ray ignored him. He tried speed dial, listening as the cellular beeped and chirped: no service. Swearing softly, he went back to manual, pressing each button slowly, to ensure full contact with the keypad electrodes. This time there was a crackling sound: the circuit connecting!
She could have said “maybe,” he decided as he waited. Or “gravy.” With all the static and engine noise it had been difficult to make out. But the heavy sense of anxiety that was quickly draping itself around his shoulders, clutching at his neck, told him differently. It told him that there was nothing wrong with his ears, that Margaret had, in a cheery, lyrical voice, said “baby.” Add that to the fact that she had received a call from the lab at the doctor’s office, that she was contacting Ray with good news, and that she had intimated a surprise … There was no other way to look at it. Ray was going to be a father.
There was a click, then … the NO SERVICE light blinked on. Ray resisted the urge to beat the device against the side of the plane. Reaching forward, he nudged Jack. “How much longer?”
“‘Bout twenty minutes,” the pilot grunted without turning his head.
“Twenty minutes!” Billy Bob exclaimed. He began fussing with his pack, digging out his “Bush” clothes.
Ray leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the phone drop into his lap, not sure he could last twenty minutes. It was an eternity. He needed to talk to Margaret NOW!
Taking a deep breath, he tried to consider the bombshell objectively. So they were going to have a baby. Okay … It wasn’t that big a deal. Couples had them all the time, didn’t they? And as Margaret had been reminding him, she and Ray were the right age, even on the farside of the childbearing window. This was natural … to be expected … a wonderful development … a door opening upon a new season in their life together … He should have been shouting the news, sharing it with his hunting buddies. Instead, he was on the verge of panic.
A father? Was he ready to be a father? He grimaced. It was a little too late to worry about being ready. In nine months, ready or not, he and Margaret would be thrust into the role of caretakers, accountable for an innocent, totally helpless human being! The question was no longer would. they be parents, but what sort of parents would they be?
It was an odd sensation, a combination of absolute terror and pure joy. He and Margaret were about to be parents!Parents! Ray felt small, unworthy, yet indescribably happy, thankful for the privilege that had been afforded him by biology, the tuungak, God, the stork … whoever or whatever was ultimately responsible for sending babies into the world.
The confusing mixture of emotions continued to swirl through his mind as the Otter began its approach to Shainin Lake. Jack brought the plane in low for two quick passes, surveying the surface for hidden obstacles, scrutinizing the banks, noting the position of the taller trees. On the third pass, he adjusted the flaps, and the Otter tilted back, pontoons reaching for the water. The landing was gentle, almost effortless. The prop reversed itself, and the engine roared angrily, bleeding speed.
Jack parked the Beaver a half dozen yards from the beach. Killing the engine, he sniffed, “Here you go.” With that he snapped open the door and got out to set an anchor.
“Gonna be great!” Lewis gushed.
Billy Bob was panting, almost finished changing clothes in the cramped compartment. He looked more like a hunter now: plaid flannel shirt, worn jeans, wool socks … The felt Stetson was cocked back on his head.
Ray stuffed the phone in his pocket, replaced the tiny Bible, and popped his door open. He waited as the cowboy tied his boots, then the two of them set the packs on the pontoon. Lewis was already crouched on a float, unstrapping the kayaks.
Jack stood watching, arms crossed, face screwed as he sucked his cigar. Apparently unloading wasn’t part of his job description. “That it?” he grunted when the boats were in the water, the packs stowed. He seemed anxious to be on his way.
Lewis glanced inside the cabin. “Dat’s it. We be seein’ you Sunday.”
Jack nodded, sleepy-eyed. “Where the Kanayut meets the Anaktuvuk, just north of the village. Nine A.M. I’m gone by ten, canoes or no canoes.”
“Kayaks,” Ray corrected.
“Whatever. You fellas’ll have to boat yer way to the Beaufort if you don’t show by ten.” He sniffed again, eyeing them suspiciously, as if they were lunatics and their trip amounted to a suicide mission. “Good luck,” he told them gruffly, climbing back into the Beaver. The engine roared to life and the prop began to rotate seconds later, spurring Lewis, Ray, and Billy Bob into their kayaks. Jack waited until they had pushed off and were ten feet astern before gunning the throttle. The Beaver raced across the lake away from them, trailing a pair of glistening, parallel wakes, as it fought to make it up and over the tree line.
When the wake reached them, Billy Bob shouted, “Hey …!”
It was all he got out before disappearing. The kayak flipped, presenting its chipped, faded bottom to the bright morning sun.
Lewis found this hilarious. “Da cheechako’s pretending to be a duck!”
“Da cheechako’s drowning,” Ray said, paddling to Billy Bob’s rescue. He took hold of the pointed bow of Billy Bob’s boat and twisted. The cowboy popped up, gasping, limbs flailing, hatless. “You okay?”
Mouth agape, hair dripping, Billy Bob nodded. He was soaking wet, his face sagging along with his clothes. He reached a hand up and felt for his Stetson. “Tarnation!” Twisting his head, he searched the water frantically, as if he expected drenched felt to float. “That was a Caballero.”
“Now it’s a Caba-outta-here,” Lewis chirped.
“Have you ever floated a kayak?” Ray asked.
“Naw,” he panted, spitting lake water.
“Naw. Been in a bass boat …” he answered between breaths.
“Might want to take that into consideration, Lewis,” Ray chided. “Whether or not your clients can kayak, if they can swim …” He turned to Billy Bob. “Can you?”
“Shore. But I don’t thank it would do no good, what with ma legs stuck in this contraption.” He scowled at the boat, as if it had intentionally tried to do him in.
“You insured for all this?” Ray asked Lewis.
“Oh, sure.”
“I’ll bet.” Ray spent the next ten minutes giving Billy Bob a crash course in kayaking. Having been raised in and around kayaks, umiaks, and various other water craft, Ray hadn’t even thought to ask the cowboy about his skill level. Obviously neither had Lewis, the expert guide.
Soaking wet from head to waist, Billy Bob practiced the maneuvers obediently. Paddling back and forth, he smiled at his newfound ability and began making wide, wandering circles around his companions.
Ray watched, ready to perform another rescue. Extracting the phone from his parka, he tried Margaret. The IN USE light illuminated, the circuit connected. Seconds later, he got a busy signal. Another try brought the same result.
“Whipped,” Lewis observed. “Da ball and chain, she gotcha whipped.”
Ray frowned and entered the number again. Busy.
Pulling between the two kayaks, Billy Bob announced, “I’m ready and rarin’ ta go.” He paddled forward, backward, did a half turn. “See?”
“Take it slow and easy,” Ray cautioned. He pointed across the lake. “See the gap in those trees? That’s the Kanayut. It’s not bad, as rivers go. Relatively smooth. But it’s still a river. That means it moves, it has a current, and it doesn’t particularly care if you’re head up or tail up. Either way, it’ll carry you downstream.”
“Gotcha. I’ll need ta be plenty careful. No problem, partner.”
Yeah, right, Ray thought. This was just the sort of idiocy he had expected from Lewis. The guy’s guide service would last about one trip. Someone would get hurt or even killed, and Lewis would be sued.