Snowblind (3 page)

Jake's face had gone white. He stared speechless at the radio. The hunter had slammed it with the butt of his gun, knocking it loose from the console.

Jake looked up at him. "That little yell o’ yours is the most you've said all day."

The Inuit, standing bent in the low doorway, wiped his long moustache again, glaring at Jake.

Jake looked past the hunter into the cargo hold. It was crammed full of bags, crates, packages, and mail. "Look, Shocky, or whatever-your-name-is, I don't know what happened out there to your friend, but you captured this goddamn lunatic and now me and my partner gotta take him to the Chief. So why don't we see if we can strike ourselves a little bargain here."

Jake moved gently past him into the cargo hold. He pulled a large box out of a sack and ripped it open. "It's coming on Christmas, Shocky. Why don't we celebrate a couple weeks early?" Inside the large box was another box wrapped with ribbons and gold paper. Jake tore it open and pulled out...

A Dustbuster.

He held it up for the hunter, turning it in his hands. "Whaddya think, Shocky? Your wife, maybe? Tidy up the igloo real—"

The Inuit swung his rifle, batting the Dustbuster, crashing it against the wall. He anchored the gun on his shoulder and advanced toward Jake.

Jake crawled backward in terror, stumbling over the mounds of baggage and boxes. "Wait a minute!" he cried desperately. "I’m sure we can work somethin' out!"

The hunter aimed his gun.

Jake grabbed a stuffed duffel bag and hugged it to his chest. "Donny! Help! Somebody! Please!"

Shakshi noticed something and relaxed his hold on the rifle.

"What... what is it?" Jake stammered.

The Inuit was staring at the top of the duffel bag.

Jake looked at the opening. A small furry white tail was sticking out. "What...this? This here?" Jake clawed open the bag. The Yakuutek's face widened in amazement.

A litter of half a dozen snow-white fur balls spilled out onto Jake O’Donnell's lap. They couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.

The Yakuutek stared at them, his mouth agape. This proud hunter from the Arctic Circle had apparently never laid eyes on a cat.

Jake held one out in his trembling hands. "You like the kitty, Shocky? She’s one o’ Lily's litter. Lily is Frank Dieter’s cat. We were taking 'em back to the pound in Fairbanks."

The Yakuutek hunter set down his rifle. He took the tiny creature into his arms as if some great miracle of the Earth Mother had been handed him, a precious gift from the White Spirit of the North. A small smile crossed his face, a smile of awe that Jake thought he'd probably not forget for a long, long time.

"You all right in there, Jake?" he heard Donny shout.

"Yeah," he called back.

He watched the Inuit cradling the kitten. "What do you say, Shocky. Wanna trade the monster for the kitties?"

The snowman had no head.

Three children, bundled in parkas and scarves and boots and gloves, were on their knees rolling a ball of snow across the white-blanketed schoolyard. They stumbled over each other like puppies, the sound of their laughter echoing sharply off the high brick wall of the schoolhouse.

Kris could hear them from the parking lot. She was sitting in the car with her mother, Linda Carlson, a 42-year old widow whose raven-black hair had already begun to gray. Linda was talking to her, but Kris was no longer listening to her words. Carried away by the echoing shrieks of the children, she had drifted off to another time and place, far away in a distant corner of her memory, where her tiny brother Paul was searching for a carrot he'd dropped in the snow.

Gradually she became aware of her mother speaking her name.

"You see, honey, that's exactly what I'm talking about."

"What?" said Kris irritably, turning from the window. She wore a stylish pair of sunglasses that reminded Linda of pictures of her own mother from the 1950's.

"Now don't get defensive. You weren't listening, that's all."

"I was listening."

"You were a million miles away."

"No, I wasn't," Kris mumbled. In her mind she saw Paul gleefully holding up his carrot.

"I'm not going to argue," said her mother. "We've already decided about this."

"
You
decided about it."

"You had your say. I listened. I determined that you're just giving up. I won't let you do that."

"Mom, I'm eighteen years old. I can make my own decisions. I always have to do it your way."

"That's not true. You didn't want a dog. Did I force you to get a dog?"

"I don't like dogs," Kris said emphatically. "And they don't like me."

"Honey... the Burton's Shepherd didn't know you, that's all."

Kris rubbed her hand nervously. "I don't want to depend on an animal like that."

Linda looked at her daughter. She reached out, took one of her hands tenderly in her own. "It's okay to admit you're afraid of dogs. There's nothing wrong with being afraid." She continued to hold her daughter's hand, gently caressing it. "Don’t you think that might be what's happening here, too?"

Kris pulled away. "Spare me the psychotherapy, Mom."

"You loved the cross-country. What's so different about this?"

"What's wrong is that this is what
you
want. You couldn't care less about what I want. You're treating me like a child."

"Well, maybe if you didn't act like such a..." She stopped herself. "Someday you'll thank me, Krissy."

"Right, Mom.
So
original."

Linda sighed. She yanked on the door handle and climbed gruffly out of the car. Kris heard her walk to the trunk. She's probably forgotten something, Kris thought. She's always forgetting something. She didn't used to be like that...

"Kris, where's your bag?" She was rifling through the messy trunk.

"I put it out, Mom. Did you take it?"

"I thought I told you—. Oh. Here it is."

Linda slammed the trunk shut, walked around and opened Kris's door.

"Give me your hand."

For a long moment, Kris didn't budge. Then she suddenly remembered something, the reason she'd finally agreed to come here at all. She reached for her white cane, took her mother's hand, and climbed carefully out of the car.

"Mom?" she asked as her mother shut the door. "Do you see a Beetle in the lot?"

Her mother looked at her, puzzled. "A beetle?"

"Yeah, you know, the car, the old Volkswagen Bug."

"Oh, uh..." She scanned the parking lot. Next to the schoolyard, where the children were jamming a stick nose into the snowman's eyeless head, she spotted a rusty, mustard VW Bug.

"Yes, over there, there's a yellow one in the corner."

Kris's heart skipped a beat.

"Why?" her mother asked. "Whose is it?"

"Oh... nobody," said Kris. Her mother eyed her inquisitively as they headed into the school.

"I wish you'd sit down and relax." Andrea Parks had been watching Linda pace the floor since she'd come into her office.

"I'm fine," said Linda.

"You don't look fine. You look worried."

Linda stopped walking and turned to her friend. Andrea, as always, looked cool, casually elegant, and efficient. She wore a short white blazer, a fitted skirt, and a pale blue silk scarf beneath her short blonde hair. Sitting, legs crossed, on the edge of her desk, she looked like a woman in complete control of her life.

Linda had felt that way, once. She wanted to feel that way again.

"What?" asked Andrea. "What is it?"

Linda shook her head. After a moment she started to speak, but was interrupted by the ring of the telephone.

Andrea reached across her desk. "Director Parks. Oh, hi George." She raised her finger and nodded to Linda, indicating the call would be short.

Linda turned to the window that overlooked the training room. A fifty-foot-long simulated ski slope dominated the enormous room. Slick white carpet covered the slope, with a handrail along one edge and safety nets mounted under each side. Two blind children, not more than ten years old, were clinging to the railing halfway down the slope, their skis splayed out awkwardly beneath them.

At the bottom, loudly coaxing them on, stood a compact, muscular African-American woman with extremely short-cropped hair, wearing Spandex and bright red high-top basketball shoes. Linda had seen the woman before at the school.
Andrea had said she was a veteran of Iraq. She was surrounded now by half a dozen children of various ages, all in skis, flopping about like penguins while waiting their turn on the hill. Linda could not find Kris among them, and wondered if she was still in the waiting room.

The Blind Learning Center was the only one of its kind in the entire state of Alaska. The school was widely renowned for the range of its programs and the quality of its well-trained staff. Many of the students' families had moved to Fairbanks from other parts of the state so their children could regularly attend.

Linda and her daughter lived in the town of Healy, at the northeast corner of Denali National Park. Fairbanks was only 70 miles away, an easy drive up Highway 3 along the frozen banks of the Nenana River. Linda had made the drive a thousand times. She was a part-time social worker carrying a case load at a community mental health clinic in the city. A year after Kris lost her sight in the accident, she'd begun taking her along on the commute, leaving her for cross-country lessons at the school while she went to work at her job in town. It had been good for Kris, she'd thought. It had helped her to forget.

"Well, at least you've stopped pacing."

Linda turned.

Andrea was hanging up the phone. "Won't you please sit down?" she said.

Linda shrugged. She took a seat on a Wassily chair beneath a framed poster of a sand beach rimmed with palm trees.

"I want you to stop worrying," Andrea insisted. "Kris had a great time cross-country skiing with us."

"She did," said Andrea. "But lately she's been... I don't know — pulling back again. She won't take even the slightest risk. It's like she's lost all her self-confidence."

"You know that's not the least bit unusual at this stage. It takes years—"

"It's been four years since the accident, Andrea. She's stopped making any progress. She sits around moping, feeling sorry for herself. I can't seem to do anything right. I'm walking on eggshells."

Linda stood again and walked to the window. She watched the kids on their skis, tacking their way down the make-believe hill. "You didn't know her before," she said thoughtfully. "She was so... exuberant. So full of life. Just like her dad."

Andrea left her desk and walked over to stand by her friend. They'd known each other for three years now and the two women had grown close. "I'm sorry, Linda," she said. "I know how you feel. But it takes
time
. You know that better than anyone."

Linda sighed, nodding in acknowledgment. "I think the downhill might help. She needs a real challenge. I remember the cross-country trip was the first time I saw her really come out of her shell." Linda looked back down at the kids. "She used to love skiing so much," she said wistfully.

"She was a great competitive downhiller," said Andrea. "It made the accident all the more tragic."

"If she could just find her spirit again..."

Andrea smiled at her.

There was a knock, and Josh Marino, the commuting pilot from Anchorage, poked his head in the door. "Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted you to know I'm here, Andrea."

"Oh, great, Josh. Did you bring the new gear?"

"Sure did. I'm setting up downstairs."

"I'll be down in a few minutes to take a look. Have you met Mrs. Carlson?"

"No, I... Oh — you're Kris's mom."  He introduced himself and shook her hand. "Kris is a great girl — and a really good student, too."

Linda looked a little surprised. "Well, that's good to hear."

"Josh has developed some wonderful new technology," said Andrea. "It'll have your Krissy back on skis in no time."

"Then it must really be something," Linda said.

"Maybe we can try her out on it today," Josh said, heading for the door. "I'm anxious to see it work myself." He smiled a good-bye and slipped out.

"He looks so familiar," said Linda. The young man's dark hair and lean good looks had reminded her of her husband, back when she'd first met him on a hiking trail twenty summers ago.

"He's been teaching part-time here for a year and a half," said Andrea. "He's worked with Kris a number of times."

Linda gathered her coat. "I better let you get some work done. I need to run over to the office, I'll be back in an hour or so to pick up Kris." She headed out the door, then stopped abruptly and turned to Andrea. "Do you know what kind of car he drives?"

"Who?"

"Josh."

"A VW, I think. Real junker. Why do you ask?"

"Oh... no reason." Linda turned and headed into the hall. A tiny smile crept across her face.

The Douglas DC-3 was airborne, two thousand feet over the Gates of the Arctic, the towering south cliffs of the Endicott Mountains. Jake O'Donnell and his copilot had picked up their strange cargo on the broad North Slope of the Brooks Range, and now, as they crossed the peaks to the south, they found themselves peering through the windshield into a relentless barrage of whirling snow.

"The tower failed to mention we’d be running into
this.
"

"Weathermen," said Donny disparagingly. His voice sounded tiny in the headphones. Donny handed Jake his half-eaten Snickers Bar. He was braiding copper wires together with a long-nose pliers, attempting to reattach the connections that had been torn from the radio. His fingers were stiff with the cold, and he kept dropping the tool to the floor, where it slid under his seat. This time it had slid all the way back into the hold.

"What's that smell back there?" he asked as he returned to his seat. "The skins?"

"Nope," Jake said, chewing loudly. "That's Frosty."

"He's a scary motherfucker," Donny said. "Big as a grizzly."

"He's big and he's smart. Chief said he's got a high I.Q. Probably why he's so fucked up in the head."

Donny looked up from the wires he was twisting, stared out into the snow. "When you look in those eyes, it's like... it's like there ain’t nobody home."

"The poor son of a bitch can't close 'em. Lost his eyelids to frostbite."

"
My God
," Donny said, dropping his pliers. "How'd it happen?"

"He led a hunting party up in the country. They got caught in an avalanche on Black Mountain. He was buried under snow for 17 days until he finally managed to claw his way out."

"
Jesus,"
Donny said, fishing under his seat. "Didn't he starve to death?"

Jake glanced at his partner. "You don't want to know."

"What?"

Jake finished chewing before he answered. "When they found the other bodies, they... Let's just say there were a few parts missin’."

Donny stared at Jake in disbelief. Jake offered him the last bite of the candy bar. Donny curled his lip, slowly shook his head. Jake popped it into his mouth and continued.

"Even after they thawed him out, Frosty wouldn't talk. He was suffering from frostbite and hypothermia. He'd just stare."

Donny looked intrigued. "Maybe his brain froze."

Jake tossed the candy wrapper and glanced at his copilot. "At the hospital, when they tried strappin’ him into his bed, he went berserk. Killed the doctor and a couple nurses." Jake glanced over his shoulder toward the cargo bin, then spoke to Donny in a quieter voice. "They say it was savage what he did to those people. They locked his ass away in a Hospital for the Criminally Insane."

"No shit... Who the hell let him out?"

"Nobody — he escaped. That was two years ago. For a long while, nobody heard nothin'. Then they started gettin' strange reports."

"From who?"

"Inuits, mostly, and a few whites. Up in the country, in the mountains. Bodies kept showing up dead. Mangled. Pieces missing. Heads cut clean off. According to Adashek, the Inuits claim he killed thirteen people. At least... him or the wolves."

"Wolves?"

Jake shrugged. "They claim along with
his
tracks there were
wolf
tracks around the bodies."

"You mean... What're you saying?"

 "I ain't sayin' nothin'. You know those goddamn Eskimos. They believe all kinds o' shit."

Donny looked at him, stunned. "Yeah... but they sure as hell know how to read tracks." He turned and stared out the windshield at the battering snow, an expression of wonder on his face. "That flesh-eatin’ Snowman’s been huntin' with wolves!"