Season of Death (5 page)

“W
HAT’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.

‘A canoe?” Ray tried, shooting Lewis a dirty look.

“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.

Watching Billy Bob drift away, awkwardly dipping first one end of the paddle, then the other into the lake and rocking wildly in the process, Ray considered his options. Call in, have Jack turn right around and pluck them out of the lake before tragedy struck? That was the safest, smartest plan. Or go along, do his best to watch out for the cowboy, and hope that Lewis rose to the occasion.
Lewis?

The time to choose was now, before they left the lake. Downriver, the only option other than floating was portaging.Ray sighed at the vision of the three of them dragging the kayaks along winding, overgrown caribou and moose trails in a desperate effort to make the meet with their punctual bush pilot.

Fifty feet ahead, Billy Bob used his paddle like a rudder, and the kayak turned to face his companions. “You fellas comin’?”

Perhaps Ray was overreacting. The cowboy seemed game enough, willing to accept the challenge. As long as he didn’t mind cheating death on a Lewis Fletcher Authentic Native Bush Adventure and Hunt, why should Ray?

The flash of optimism proved to be short-lived, vanishing as Billy Bob lost his balance and began to thrash. Beating the water with his paddle, he drew a single swearword out until it became a lengthy exclamation that echoed across the lake, off the walls of the surrounding canyon. The shout ended in a wet gurgle as his craft flipped.

Ray hesitated, hoping his student would remember the brief lesson and spin his way back to the surface. The kayak bounced, jiggled, but remained upside down.

“Lewis!” Ray prodded. “One of your
clients
is bottom up.”

“Yeah.” He swore, clearly perturbed. “Gonna be tough on da river, with him along. Gonna take forever. Never get to da caribou.” He shook his head at the inconveñience of the situation.

Billy Bob finally appeared … momentarily. Gulping down air, he tried to say something, but his message was muffled as his head spanked the water again.

“Should we help ‘em?” Lewis wondered. “Uh?”

Ray was already on his way, stroking urgently. “No. Let’s wait until he’s dead. Get over here!” He reached to retrieve Billy Bob, twisting the kayak.

Choking, the cowboy was frantic, on the verge of hysteria. He began fighting to free himself from the boat.

“Relax,” Ray told him. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

Billy Bob was wheezing, liquid draining from his mouth, ears, nose …

Ray sighed at Lewis. “I think we’d better call this whole thing …” He was going to say “off.” Instead he said, “Ouch!” Billy Bob had swung at him, smacking him in the face with an arm. Still intent on extricating himself, the cowboy was struggling to embrace Ray, to climb onto his kayak. Thankfully, the walrus-skin gasket prevented this.

“Hey! It’s okay,” Ray said, ducking another blow.

Billy Bob didn’t seem to hear this. After emitting a breathy, high-pitched squeal, he took hold of Ray’s parka sleeve and yanked.

“Lewis!”

The boats clunked together like wet, deadened drums, hollow wood beating against hollow wood, and, without warning, both capsized.

SIX

C
OLOR WAS SWALLOWED
up in darkness: a fleeting whirl of green, brown, and blue quickly replaced by an all-encompassing black. Sound retreated with sight, becoming dull, indistinct. He could hear his own heart pounding, his lungs expelling air, and a thrashing noise, like a fish frantically fighting a hook and line.