Village of the Ghost Bears (26 page)

“That was an accident,” McAllister said. “I loved Viola.”

“An accident?” Active said.

“That dog.”

“Dog? What—”

“She told me about Tom Gage, and we got into it, and I hit her one, all right, but not that hard, not even with my fist, just the back of my hand. She didn’t even fall down, just her lip was bleeding a little. But then Dad-Dad jumped me, and I shot it before I could think about it. She loved that goddam dog, and when I shot it and it ran off yelping, then Viola, she jumped me, screaming in my ear, and then when I shoved her off she went down and hit a rock. She couldn’t wake up, so I put her in the plane to take her back to Chukchi, and then we went in the Utukok. It was an accident.”

“If you’re telling us the truth, then why was your emergency gear stashed on the creek bank?”

McAllister flexed his shoulders. “I heard they call you
naluaqmiiyaaq.
I guess you don’t know anything.”

Active heard splashing from the lower end of the lake and surmised Cowboy was crossing One-Way Creek on his return from the ridge. He looked down the lakeshore, saw nothing but snow and the ghostly silhouettes of trees, and turned back to McAllister.

“We know Pingo put water in your gas.”

“Ah-hah. I knew it was him, that
kinnaq.”

“If he’s such a
kinnaq,
how come a smart guy like you didn’t find the water?” Long said. “Whenever Cowboy does his preflight, he drains some gas out of his tanks to check for water.”

It was another protocol violation, but again the question made sense. Active waited for McAllister’s answer.

McAllister looked disgusted. “Yeah, I always check, all right. But it takes a while for water to work its way through the system. I think it kind of mixes with the gas at first. So I guess it hadn’t reached the drains yet when I was checking. I know that engine ran quite a while before it quit over the Flats.”

“And that’s why you burned up the Rec Center,” Active said. “To get back at Pingo and Tom?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Pingo saw you in there.”

“That
kinnaq
? He doesn’t know what he sees. From what I heard, he talks to Viola in his sleep.”

“The Troopers are searching your place in Chukchi for your safety-wire twister. I think our lab will match it to the wire you used on the door to the men’s locker room at the Rec Center.”

McAllister’s eyes got warier, and he was silent for a while. “You said I could have a lawyer, ah?”

“You can. But we’ll still have the wire twister. And Jae’s wallet that you left at Tom Gage’s place.”

“Is that what the
kinnaq
said? Too bad you don’t have him, ah?”

“We’ll find him.”

“Maybe you think so.”

“Think what?” Cowboy growled, emerging out of the mist like a ghost. He walked up to the fire and spread his hands over the flames. “Plane’s fine. Maybe you think what?”

“That we’ll find Pingo,” Active said.

“I dunno. Guy like that, he’s pretty good in the country.” Cowboy stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit it. “Plus, he’s got the four-wheeler now.”

“He doesn’t have any gear,” Active said. “What’s he going to do?”

“Go steal some, probably. There’s lots of camps down there along the Isignaq, and he’s got McAllister’s four-wheeler.”

McAllister snickered. “Yeah, and he knows where my spike camp is back in them hills.”

Active shook his head. “How much stuff is left up there?”

McAllister snickered again. “Anything he needs.”

“Should we go up there?” Long said.

“How far is it?” Active asked.

“Few miles,” McAllister said. “Too far for a
naluaqmiiyaaq.
You couldn’t find it in this snow and fog, anyway.”

“He’s right,” Cowboy said. “It’s like swimming in soup up there, plus it’s nearly dark now. If the weather clears tomorrow, we can find it from the air. Piece of cake.”

“Ah, he’s probably already been there and gone, all right,” McAllister said. “You won’t see the
kinnaq
again.”

Active sighed. McAllister was right. There was no reason to think they’d find Pingo in the spike camp, though it would have to be searched eventually.

Active pulled Long into the spruces again. “Thoughts?”

“I guess I’ve come around,” Long said. “Seems like it had to be McAllister, all right.”

“We’re going to have to guard McAllister,” Active said. “Do I have to stay up all night and do it myself?”

“I can take a shift,” Long said. “What happened with Pingo . . . well, it won’t happen again.”

Active nodded and they returned to the camp. Cowboy and Long crawled into the tent, while Active took the first watch at the fire.

“
Arii
,” McAllister said. “I can’t sleep on my hands like this. Put ’em in front.”

Active stripped off his gun belt and left it on the far side of the fire, then walked over to the lean-to, unzipped the sleeping bag, and checked McAllister’s wrists. There was no damage that he could see. “You’ll just have to gut it out. If you’re good, we’ll put them in front while you’re eating breakfast tomorrow.”

McAllister grunted and rolled onto his side, facing the fire. He drew up his knees, wriggled for a couple of moments, then settled down. The position might not be comfortable, but it didn’t look agonizing either. Certainly nowhere near prisoner abuse.

Active buckled the gun belt back on and dropped onto a boulder near the fire. The wind was still building out on the lake, but the camp was relatively sheltered. It was comfortable, but not enough so to put him to sleep, he judged. He settled in to ride out the hours until it was time to wake Alan Long for a turn.

But should he let Long take a watch? Was there any way even Long could screw up guarding a prisoner who was bound hand and foot? As Active knew from having tried it in training, the best pace a man could make with his feet shackled was a maddeningly slow, noisy, exhausting shuffle. A few inches per step; that was it. Hopping was faster, but, as he had also discovered, you couldn’t hop and maintain your balance with your wrists cuffed behind your back.

A gymnast or a contortionist, maybe, could work his hands past his feet or over his head and so get them around in front to make slightly better time. But McAllister was built more like a scaled-down linebacker, and he was wearing a parka and snowpants inside the sleeping bag. No, there was no way McAllister could escape. The big risk would be if he talked Long into unshackling him to answer nature’s call. Well, Active would give emphatic directions to be awakened immediately if McAllister asked for anything whatsoever. For insurance, he would take Long’s handcuff key into custody before leaving him in charge of McAllister.

“That Viola had a sweet mouth,” McAllister said from the flickering shadows in the lean-to.

“What?”

“It was like kissing a Hershey bar, even if she just woke up.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“NATHAN.”

Active heard the voice in his sleep, but didn’t wake. It came again.

“Nathan.”

This time he drifted up into awareness. The tent was shaking. Somehow he knew this was from someone tugging on a guy rope. But what was he doing in a tent? Where was the tent? Who was snoring in the other bag?

Then he opened his eyes and was awake, mostly. That was Cowboy in the other sleeping bag. The tent was on One-Way Lake. They had chased Dood McAllister here and caught him. It was light now, a dim morning light, and misty blue inside the blue nylon tent. And that was Alan Long’s voice saying “Nathan” again.

“Yeah.” Active rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Yeah?”

“You better come out here.”

Active pulled on his snow pants and Sorels, slung his gun belt over one shoulder from habit, and crawled out of the tent without his parka. The snow was still coming down and now lay perhaps three inches deep around the camp. Fog still blanketed the lake, and it wasn’t possible to see to the outlet at One-Way Creek. Well, maybe it would lift as the day came on. That had been the forecast as of yesterday, according to Cowboy.

The fire was out, he saw as he rose to his feet, and the bottoms of Alan Long’s Sorels and the knees of his snow pants were red. He puzzled over these things, trying to shift his mind out of low gear. “I need to piss. You let the fire go out?”

Long looked at him, wearing the same expression as when he had reported Pingo Kivalina’s escape. He pointed at the lean-to. Active saw that McAllister was still asleep, his back to them, the sleeping bag pulled up over his head. Active was remembering his promise to let McAllister have breakfast with his hands in front when he noticed there was a great deal of red in the snow and gravel around McAllister’s sleeping bag, the same red as on Alan Long’s Sorels and snow pants.

Finally Active’s mind kicked into Drive. He raced to the lean-to and knelt at McAllister’s side, dimly aware of putting his knees in the depressions left by Alan Long’s knees. He lifted the sleeping bag off McAllister far enough to see the slash across his throat and the dead pallor of his face. He felt for the left carotid, realized it was severed, and didn’t bother reaching under McAllister’s neck to look for the right.

He pulled the sleeping bag back up over McAllister’s head and turned on Long.

Alan Long, who had let their only witness get away. Who had the blood of their suspect on his knees and boots. The alpha pup who had wanted Jim Silver’s job. Active unholstered the Smith and Wesson.

“You did this.”

Long shook his head, backing away, hands raised. “What? Me? Are you crazy, Nathan? I fell asleep. The fire went out, and I got cold and woke up, and he was like that. It has to be Pingo. He came back and killed McAllister while I was asleep.”

“Bullshit! You and Pingo cooked this up together. He set the Rec Center fire for you so you could get Jim Silver’s job, and you were supposed to kill Dood McAllister for him because of his sister, right? Except Pingo’s lying out on the tundra somewhere, isn’t he? Now he’s dead, McAllister’s dead, and there’s no witnesses left. And you steered us toward Jae Hyo Lee because you knew he was already dead. Who killed him, you or Pingo?”

“No, listen—”

“Drop your gun. I’m going to give you your handcuff key back, you go over and get the handcuffs off McAllister, you throw me back the key, and you handcuff yourself to that spruce while I figure this out.” He waved the gun at the biggest tree around the camp.

“But, Nathan—”

Active raised the Smith and Wesson.

Long’s hands went to his belt and his own weapon—the Glock semi-automatic favored by Chukchi Public Safety— tumbled to the snow. Active tossed him the key. He walked over and knelt beside McAllister, unlocked the handcuffs and, in a few moments, had shackled himself to the tree.

Active pocketed the handcuff key Long had tossed back, then patted him down and recited the Miranda warning. “Care to take me through it, Alan?” he said.

“Listen to me. Think about it for a minute. If I would have known Jae Hyo Lee was up here dead, why would I have still tried to say he set the Rec Center fire after you and Grace found him in the lake? Of course I would have known he’d be identified. And why would Pingo set the Rec Center on fire and burn up Tom Gage? That was his best friend and his sister’s boyfriend. And why would anybody in their right mind throw in with that
kinnaq
Pingo Kivalina anyway? Nathan?”

Active turned it over in his mind, feeling certitude leak away.

“Just look in the snow.” Long pointed with his manacled hands at the end of the lean-to nearest McAllister’s head.

Active walked over and saw the tracks. Someone had come around behind the lean-to and knelt at the end, presumably to cut McAllister’s throat, then gone back the way he had come. The tracks were a couple of hours old at least, covered by an inch or two of snow. He compared them with Long’s fresher tracks around the lean-to. The killer’s were bigger.

He followed them from the back of the lean-to to the edge of the spruces and got a clearer look at the trail. The tracks crossed the little clearing to the lake and then headed down the shore toward One-Way Creek.

Cowboy emerged from the tent, tousle-haired and sleep-addled. “What the hell’s going on out here?”

Active pointed at the lean-to. “Alan fell sleep. Pingo snuck into camp and killed McAllister.”

“But why is Alan handcuffed to a tree?” Cowboy asked.

“A misunderstanding. And now Alan and I are going to go catch Pingo.”

“What?” Long’s eyes widened.

“Dammit, let’s go.” Active unshackled Long and raced to the tent, strapping the gun belt into place. He threw on his parka, then raced back to the boulder and sat down to lace his Sorels.

Long looked along the shore, into the gray wall. “But he’s got a couple hours’ start on us. And McAllister’s four-wheeler.”

“We’ll see,” Active said. “Let’s go.”

“Um, do I take my gun?”

Active nodded. “But you stay in front of me.”

Long lifted his eyebrows, strapped on the Glock, and set off down the lakeshore at what struck Active as a pretty good clip for who a guy who didn’t want to be going. Active sprinted after him, trying to ignore the protests from his bladder as his body revved up to full power, lungs burning, heart booming.

They lost Pingo’s trail in One-Way Creek, picked it up on the other side, and followed it over the ridge to where a set of four-wheeler tracks took off across the tundra. Active pulled up beside Long, panting.

Long was stooped over, hands on his knees, gasping. “See?”

Active peered into the murk. “Yeah, he’s gone.”

Long was silent for a moment.

“Sorry,” he said.

Active turned away, unzipped, and relieved himself onto the snow. “You learn to swim in the military?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Sure, but—”

“Somebody’s got to dive on McAllister’s plane and find out what’s in there. And it’s not going to be me this time.”

“No way. I—”

“You let him get killed. You get to search his plane.”

They climbed back over the ridge and started down the slope toward One-Way Creek, Long still protesting at the idea of jumping naked into the lake. He pointed at the steel-gray water, a few last flakes of snow still drifting down onto it, ice skimming the shoreline. “I’ll get hypothermia.”

“We’ll put you in the lean-to. Just like McAllister.”

After that, Long was quiet until they reached the spot on the shore nearest the grounded Cessna. There, he took one last look at Active, muttered “
Arii
,” and began stripping.

“What’s this?” Cowboy grinned. “Another naked cop? What’s with you guys?”

Active jerked a thumb at McAllister’s Cessna. “We have to get McAllister’s stuff out of there and search it. This time, Alan gets to swim.”

“Maybe we could go to Chukchi and get a raft or something and winch it out,” Long said.

“By then the lake will be frozen and we won’t be able to do anything till spring,” Active said.

“What could happen to it, way up—” Long caught sight of Active’s eyes and fell silent. Then his face took on a look of inspiration. “Maybe Cowboy’s got a winch in his plane.” He turned toward the pilot, who shook his head, seeming lost in thought.

Long sighed, slipped out of his snowpants, and was unsnapping the uniform pants underneath when Cowboy finally spoke.

“I don’t have a winch, but we might be able to make a come-along if we’ve got enough rope,” Cowboy said. “I saw a couple old guys from Ebrulik do it once to get a snowmachine that went through the ice on the Isignaq.”

They turned in unison to look at the Cessna in the lake. It had stopped with the left wing pointed to shore.

“If we could get a rope around the tailwheel, we could probably swing it around and drag it ashore,” Cowboy said.

“I’d rather do that than have to swim around inside the cabin,” Long said. “We got enough rope?”

“I think so,” Cowboy said. “I’ve got my tiedown ropes in the plane, plus we’ve got the ones McAllister was using, plus we’ve got a couple more hanks of camp cord that should work if we double it up. That oughta be enough.”

“I’ll get the ropes from the plane,” Long said. He took off down the shore, as if to get away before Active could veto Cowboy’s idea.

“You really think this will work?” Active asked.

“Pretty sure,” Cowboy said. “What we need is one standing tree for a fulcrum and a decent-size log for a lever.” He walked to a spruce a few feet from the shore and kicked it. It was perhaps six inches in diameter, big by Arctic standards.

“This oughta do for the fulcrum,” he said. “Why don’t I look for a lever while you trim the branches off this one to about yea high?” The pilot karate-chopped a spot at about waist level on the spruce.

Active fetched the saw from camp and went to work.

Cowboy disappeared into the woods and returned dragging a log nearly as big as the fulcrum tree. He dropped it in the snow, sawed off the branches, then trotted up to camp and returned with the cord from McAllister’s lean-to. In a moment, the big end of the lever log was lashed to the fulcrum tree, about three feet off the ground. Cowboy lifted the lever, swung it through a horizontal arc of about ninety degrees, and grunted in satisfaction. “That oughta work.”

Active looked from Cowboy’s come-along to the Cessna in the lake and began to think Cowboy might be right. If they could run a string of ropes from their lever to the tailwheel, the three of them might indeed be able to heave the Cessna toward shore a couple of feet at a time. It would take a while, but, from the look of the fog hovering just above water level, they couldn’t hope to get Cowboy’s Cessna off the ridge in the near future, anyway.

There was still no sign of Long with the ropes. Active wondered what was taking him so long. They returned to camp, where Cowboy rummaged in the food bag and came up with an MRE packet of peanut butter and crackers. He offered to share, but Active shook his head and walked into the spruces to forage for firewood, figuring they’d be there at least one more night.

When he dragged his load back into camp and dropped it on the pile by the fire, Long was just coming into view at the lake’s outlet, his shoulders draped with tiedown ropes. Active and Decker walked down the shore and met him at the fulcrum tree. He dropped the ropes and studied Cowboy’s come-along, then McAllister’s Cessna. Finally, he lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah, I see what you’re doing here.”

They knotted the ropes together, and Long took one last look at Active, then shucked out of his clothes, exposing his Eskimo spot in the process.

“Tie it good,” Cowboy said as Long waded out. “You don’t want to have to go back and do it over.”

Active watched as Long hit that spot where cold-water shock set in. He froze for several seconds, gasping, then started moving again.

Finding the tail was a little tricky, as it was fully submerged. Finally Long kicked over and disappeared, the rope in his hand. In less than a minute, he was back up, without the rope and looking a little confused. Active swore under his breath, figuring he was in for another swim, but then Long dove again. This time he was down longer and gave them a thumbs-up as he surfaced and began paddling for shore.

Cowboy took up the slack in the line and lashed it around their lever, a few feet out from the fulcrum tree. Long waded ashore, rubbed himself dry on the outside of his parka, as Active had done, then dressed and jogged in place.

“Come on,” Cowboy said. “This’ll warm you up.”

They applied themselves to the lever and heaved. The plane didn’t budge. “Tailwheel’s probably buried in the mud,” Cowboy said. He counted one-two-three, and they heaved again. This time they felt something give, and the lever swung through its arc.

“I think we got ’er,” Cowboy said in a satisfied tone. He moved the lever back to its starting position, retied the rope, and they arranged themselves for another heave. “One, two, three,” Cowboy chanted. “Go!”

Two hours later, the Cessna’s tailwheel was on the bank, the main gear still resting on the lake bottom, the cabin floor at water level. Active decided it would do, and looked at Cowboy, who, as he always did until real winter set in, wore hip waders folded down at the knees.

The pilot nodded, pulled up the boots, and stepped into the water beside the Cessna. He unloaded the cabin, ferrying the contents to the bank an armload at a time, then pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the little cargo compartment behind the cabin. It was empty, as was the belly pod.

They spread the waterlogged haul on the bank beside the fire: a trash bag with some MREs, a couple of sleeping bags, a stove and some other camping gear, a dappled silver sealskin pouch with aviation charts inside, a .30–06 rifle and two boxes of ammunition, and a gray canvas knapsack that Cowboy had pulled from the front seat.

Active quickly went through the other things, then opened the knapsack and dumped out the water that had collected inside. With it came a Colt semi-automatic pistol in a clip-on holster, a sealskin wallet, a little red booklet, and a fat, heavy pouch covered in sealskin like McAllister’s wallet and chart case. Active flipped open the booklet and realized it was a passport. McAllister’s picture was there, surrounded by a foreign script.