Season of Death (2 page)

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

“Y
OU’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 too.” 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.

“We don’t live by subsistence anymore,” she reminded him. “We live off of two paychecks. Pretty nice ones too.”

With even better potential, Ray thought.

Six months earlier, Margaret had enrolled in an on-line law-school program offered by the University of Alaska, Fairbanks. Already a social worker, she hoped to use the law degree to defend the defenseless among the People.

“And your point is …?”

“Besides being barbaric, hunting is dangerous.”

“I’ve hunted all my life: whale, caribou, bear, wolf …”

“And the Bush … anything can happen out there.”

“Grandfather took me into the Range for the first time when I was four. I’ve been back a hundred times. Nothing’s ever happened. Besides, Lewis is taking us.”

“That’s what bothers me.” The smile was gone now, the snappy repartee fading with it. Frowning, she declared, “He’s not safe.”

“Not safe? He just got his guide’s license.”

“So? That doesn’t make him safe.”

“Margaret …”

“And there’s another reason I don’t want you to go.”

“I thought this was settled.” Ray moaned, reaching for a shirt. “We talked it over. I asked you if you were okay with it.”

Margaret embraced him gently, sighed, then buried her head in his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Yeah. I’ll just bet you will.”

“It’s only three days. When I get back we can …” He lifted her chin with a finger and wiggled his eyebrows.
“You know.’”

After pecking his cheek, she started for the kitchen. “I may have a headache.”

“I read that
you know
can work wonders for a headache,” Ray called after her. “It’s actually been documented … scientifically.”

“Yeah … right,” she called back. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“No time.” Ray began a rushed, final inspection of his gear, zipping each pocket of his pack open, rummaging through the contents, zipping it shut. He examined the segments of his fishing rod, glanced at the reel, made sure the box of flies and extra line were in their place. Sliding his rifle out of the top of the pack, he popped it open, stared into the empty chambers, popped it shut, took a census of his ammo. Stepping back, he ran down the mental checklist: extra clothing, spare boots, knife, waterproof matches, rain attire, dried food, mosquito repellent, sunscreen …

Satisfied that he was ready, he lifted the pack. It was heavy, but Margaret was right. It was dangerous in the Bush, and you had to be prepared. The weather at this time of year could fluctuate wildly, shifting from freezing temperatures in the morning to drizzle at midday, followed by unbearable heat in late afternoon. When the floatplane dropped them off, they would be miles away from medical facilities, food, shelter—civilization in general. Small, seemingly insignificant events could become quite serious out there. Hence the overburdened pack.