Season of Death (25 page)

Using the handful of jacket as a source of stability, Ray righted himself and reached for the motor. As he did, the jacket slid out and he discarded it on the bottom of the boat. There was a thump, followed by an earsplitting shriek.

“It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” Ray consoled.

Cindy screamed again, this time inches from Ray’s ear.

“I’ve got it under control,” he told her. Apparently not convinced that this was the case, Cindy bolted upright and pressed against Ray, backing into him as if there were a poisonous snake loose in the boat.

“What’s all the ruckus?” Billy Bob asked through bleary eyes.

Ray goosed the motor, forcing the raft along the shore. Rocks raked against the bottom, pulling at the rubber. He groaned and fought to maintain control of the craft as Cindy hip-checked him again and then all but mounted him. No longer moping over a love lost, she was hysterical, shouting an indiscernible word over and over.

He was fending her off with one arm, steering with the other, when he saw the object of her panic. In the bottom of the Zodiac, rolling back and forth on the inflated floor, was a plastic sack containing a human head.

Lewis slowly uncurled, stretched like an old cat, and blinked at the Zip-loc bag teetering just inches from his face. He looked up at Cindy, squinting as she screeched bloody murder. “Èh …” He sighed with obvious disinterest. “It be okay. Just Fred.”

TWENTY-SIX

A
s
C
INDY FELL
against him, Ray realized what it was she was shrieking:
O God!
At the same moment, he realized that they were spinning. Cindy had knocked his hand from the throttle, and the motor had turned, adding its propulsion to the river’s already-impressive fury. The raft made a 360, hesitated, then did another 270 before they reached the chute.

The Zodiac leapt up from the river with a jerk, as if it had suddenly changed its mind and was now planning to fly the remaining distance to the village. When it did, bodies and packs were thrown skyward at odd angles, where they hovered for an instant. Still traveling north, sideways, airborne, the raft deserted them, returning to the relative security of the water’s surface. The flight abruptly aborted, the occupants of the boat dropped like rocks.

Billy Bob, his slight frame relaxed by the meds, landed in almost the same position he had left: spread-eagled, a silly grin on his face. Lewis, having achieved takeoff in a ball, bounced back into the Zodiac in a fetal position, a groan of pain escaping him on impact. Cindy landed like a cat: fingers gripping the rubber, body tense, legs wide apart.

Ray was the only casualty. Surprised by the maneuver, he had been tossed up and abandoned. When he came down, he managed to straddle the rear of the raft for a split second, clinging for dear life just inches from the motor, before slipping into the water.

The Zodiac continued its harried journey, bounding, bouncing, and yawing without a helmsman. A half dozen yards behind, Ray mimicked it, acting the part of a human pinball. He felt a rock crease his thigh and noted that he was rushing headfirst. Something punched him in the gut, and he instinctively gasped, sucking water into his lungs. Panic. His arms and legs churned, beating at the river, but he couldn’t keep his head from sinking below the surface. The Kanayut was on the verge of swallowing him.

If he lost consciousness, it was only for a moment. Suddenly he was rising, hands gripping his soggy parka. He heard Cindy ask, “Are you all right?”

He wanted to answer no, but couldn’t find the breath.

“He gonna be fine,” Lewis appraised. “Just wet. Knew I shoulda drived da boat.”

If he could have, Ray would have told Lewis to stuff it.

“Boy howdy,” Billy Bob said. “Cain’t ‘member when I had such a swell time.”

Ray pooled his strength to mutter, “Shut up.” Fingering his ribs, he noted that they were more than just tender. His left side was on fire.

“You’re bleeding,” Cindy told him. She dabbed his wrist with her sweatshirt.

“He gonna live,” Lewis pronounced. He had taken up position at the motor and was steering the Zodiac through a succession of wide, meandering bends.

Ray’s breathing slowly returned to normal, and he decided that Lewis was right. He would live. He glanced around the raft. “Where’s the pack?”

Billy Bob offered a lopsided grin, but no reply.

“It was right there,” Cindy said. “Next to the others.”

“Over da side,” Lewis suggested in a bored monotone. He was watching the river, clearly not interested in going back to launch a rescue mission for a backpack.

Pulling himself to a sitting position against the side of the raft, Ray surveyed the floor of the boat again and swore. “We lost Fred.”

Cindy’s face fell and she launched into her mantra: “O God! O God! O God!”

“You sure we lose ‘im?” Lewis asked, as if the head might be hiding somewhere on the small craft. “Maybe he just roll somewheres.”

Ray pushed at the remaining packs with his feet. “No. He’s gone.”

“O God! O God! O God!” Cindy was escalating, accelerating, the words rising in volume, intensity, and speed, approaching critical mass.

Ray lifted a hand to console her but winced at the pain this produced. “Maybe we should go back.”

Lewis glared at him, gunning the throttle. “Go back, look for head in da rapids?”

Ray sighed. It did sound ridiculous. “Fred” could be anywhere by now, halfway to the Beaufort, or stuck in the white water. Finding him would be virtually impossible.

Two minutes and a hundred or so “O Gods!” later, Cindy looked at Ray, her eyes communicating despair. “Where … did … you …?” she sobbed.

“… Find da head?” Lewis asked. He caressed the throttle before sniffing, “Up ree-va.” Lewis was obviously making a comeback, beginning to sound like Tonto again.

Cindy sobbed, “O God …” weakly, as if it might be the final time.

“Not so bad,” Lewis said. “Cheechako fight
aklaq.
Lose. Lose head too.”

Cindy sank into the bottom of the boat and covered her face with her hands. “I … think … that … was …” she stuttered through the tears, chest quaking,” … Mark.” Hit by a fresh wave of emotion, she convulsed and began to wail.

Two minutes later, when she finally began to regain composure, Ray asked, “Now what were you trying to …” His voice trailed off as it dawned on him. “Mark??” He looked aft, as if the head might be trailing after the Zodiac. Scooting closer to Cindy, he asked, “That was …
MarkT ’

Her lips drooped, quivering, and two sad eyes confirmed the statement.

“How could you tell?” In Ray’s mind, IDing “Fred” bordered on the miraculous. The head was in bad shape. Though preserved by its resting place in the icy glacial stream, the flesh had been ravaged by a wild animal of some variety, the features all but obliterated. It hardly appeared human, much less identifiable as a specific person.

Cindy breathed deeply, pushing her palms against her eyes. “The mole.”

“What mole?” Ray tried to visual Fred’s face. He could recall no distinguishing marks. There had hardly been enough skin left to bear a blemish.

“Next to his ear,” she whimpered.

“His ear …” Fred had only been in possession of one, the other torn from his skull. But … Yes, there had been a patch of flesh under the right ear. The mole escaped his memory, and he was puzzled by the fact that Cindy had seen it through a plastic bag as it rolled around the raft.

“Are you sure?”

Her hands flew into the air in a gesture of exasperation and her breathing grew rapid. She was on the verge of another outburst.

“It’s okay,” Ray said in a soothing tone. “Just relax.”

Cindy seemed to accept this. Inhaling slowly, she blew out through pursed lips. A minute passed. “I don’t know,” she finally said. She stared intently at the floor of the Zodiac before continuing. “Maybe I’m imagining things.” She shuddered violently. “It was such a shock to see that … that thing.”

“I understand,” Ray said, nodding. And he did. Finding “Fred” and carting him around remained shocking a day later.

“And that mole …” Cindy retched.

“Mark had a birthmark like that?” he asked when he decided it was safe.

She nodded, jaw clinched. “But I didn’t get a good look. Enough to make me nauseous. But not enough to actually … tell if …” She covered her mouth.

“So coulda been Mark … Coulda been just Fred,” Lewis remarked.

“Yeah …” She groaned. “I suppose it could have been anyone.” Wiping at her face, she apologized. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a mess.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Ray said. “Our entire trip has been a mess.” He glared at Lewis. “One disaster after another. You just happened to show up for the ‘disappearing head’ portion of the tour.”

“Dat’s not on da real tour,” Lewis protested. “Just dis pre-ti-cu-lar dry rehearsal.”

“Dress
rehearsal,” Ray corrected tersely. “It’s either dress rehearsal or dry run.”

“Aiiyaa …!” Lewis scowled at him. “Dat’s da last time I save your life.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to,” Ray shot back. He checked his watch. The village was probably another thirty minutes to an hour away, barring a mishap.

“So you
don’t
think it was Mark?” Ray asked. He was intrigued now.

Cindy frowned. “I don’t know. I’m not in a very dependable frame of mind right now. Back there … that shook me.” She sighed. “No. It probably wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him. Mark is safe and sound, filing papers at the state courthouse in Juneau.” Closing her eyes, Cindy announced, “I’m tired.”

“Me too,” Ray agreed. But sleeping wasn’t an option. Not on this river, with Lewis at the helm. And not after what Cindy had suggested. What if it had been Farrell’s skull that Billy Bob had reeled in? Except Farrell had flown out two days earlier. And even if something terrible had happened to him en route to the village, how could he, or his head, wind up miles upstream in the opposite direction from the archaeological camp?

Ray watched the mist-shrouded river carefully, listening for any telltale signs of impending white water as his mind toyed with the questions. Maybe a grizzly … No. Farrell was in a boat, floating to Kanayut. Unless he capsized and had to walk. Still, a grizzly wouldn’t maul him, then carry his body that far upriver. It would stuff him into a kill yard somewhere in its territory.

Shaking the disgusting vision away, Ray braced himself as Lewis gunned the motor. “Slow down!” he warned.

Lewis grinned back.

How else could Farrell have ended up in the glacial stream? Someone could have murdered him, motored him up there by raft, dumped him where they thought he would never be found. Left him for the scavenging predators to munch on.

Preposterous. Why would someone want to kill an archaeologist? An even better question:
who
would want to kill an archaeologist? Ray’s brain submitted an array of answers, as if it had been waiting for him to arrive at this juncture in the mental problem-solving session. The list was short: Headcase, Stubby and the specialist, Janice …

Ray blinked at the possibilities. Headcase? Sure. Farrell could have wandered into the nut zone and gotten himself shot. But would Headcase go to the trouble of shuttling the body south? Doubtful. He probably would have ground it up for fertilizer. Ray made a face at this.

Chung and Chang? Capable. Yes. But Farrell was their supervisor. They had been hired to guard the site, not knock off a university professor. Janice? Maybe she had Stubby and his pal do her husband in. Why? Money? Maybe he had just taken out a humongous life-insurance policy. Jealousy? Perhaps. But if Janice had killed Mark Farrell, why would she bother making eyes at Ray, with the express purpose of torquing her husband off? It made no sense.

What did make sense was the proposition that no one had killed anyone: there had been no foul play, the head didn’t belong to Farrell. Despite Cindy’s suspicion about the mole, Fred was most likely a hiker who had lost his head in the Bush and met with tragedy. Still … He would do some checking. At least contact Mark Farrell down in Juneau. Just to be sure. To rule out what was clearly a slim possibility.

He decided that when they reached the village, he would make a few phone calls, just to put his mind at ease.