Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel

by Heacox, Kim

  Somebody should rebuild this someday.

  It began to rain. Anne turned to leave when a strong light struck her in the face.

  “Stay where you are,” spoke a voice. She brought her hand to her eyes. “Keep your hands down. What are you doing here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Anne Bellestraude.”

  “Is that your NMRS boat down in the harbor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You armed or carrying a weapon of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “You alone?”

  “I was until you got here. Do you mind shining that light somewhere else?”

  The light didn’t move. “You got identification of some sort?”

  She dug into her pocket and almost handed him the Maui Wowie.

  “I could arrest you, you know?”

  “Arrest me then.”

  “For entering a crime scene.”

  “I wanted to learn more about Old Keb, to help find him. I’m worried about him.”

  The light dropped. “You and everybody else.” The cop looked at her ID, handed it back and said, “Some folks around here say they can’t believe nobody’s found him yet. Others say he’s a wise old raven, and he’ll never be found.”

  He was white, this cop, not Tlingit. Anne could tell from his voice. Many Tlingits spoke softly and musically, as Gracie Wisting did, with a rhythm a thousand years deep, sentences like waves. Can you put it on paper, a voice like that, a voice from the sea? This cop had a nametag, Stuart Ewing. He introduced himself as “Stu.” Deputy Sheriff Stuart Ewing, to be exact. Acting Sheriff Ewing until his boss got back. A big job, Anne imagined, with crime-scene tampering, crowd control, mayhem, arson. And that was the easy stuff. Try breaking up a broken-beer-bottle fight behind Shelikof’s Pizza. Anne had heard stories.

  “Glad to meet you, Anne,” Stu said.

  Anne said, “You think we could get out of this rain?”

  BACK AT HIS office, Stu turned on the television for Anchorage morning news, and the FM radio out of Juneau. Anne watched as he checked his voice mail, messages from Ruby Bauer and her son, Robert, “a Coca-Cola man from Atlanta,” Stu said, plus Harald Halmerjan and a mile-a-minute-talker named Truman. Nothing that offered any new information as to Old Keb’s whereabouts. Just inquiries. “Ruby and Harald call every day,” Stuart said. “This whole search is because of Ruby, you know. She has a lot of power and influence.” He turned on his computer and poured two cups of last night’s coffee. He warmed them in the microwave, added cream and sugar, and handed one to Anne. He took the other himself, and faced the moral dilemma of what to do with her.

  She sat opposite him and pulled the coffee to her lips. She could see him thinking, sizing her up. It surprised her how much she enjoyed it, having a man look her over.

  Stu entered his password, checked e-mails, stole a couple more glances at Anne, ran his hand through his wheat-colored hair. He sat amid stacks of paperwork, his file cabinets ready to burst. “Coffee okay?” he asked.

  “It’s good.” It was horrible.

  “You want anything to eat? I got bran muffins in a drawer.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s a bathroom over there, if you need it.”

  “Thanks. You going to arrest me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Detain me, report me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or just let me go?”

  “Probably.” He grinned.

  “I could be dangerous, you know. A bank robber, a serial killer. You got any banks in this town?”

  “No.”

  “You got a jail?”

  “A little one, in the back. You want more coffee?”

  “No.”

  The phone rang and Stuart answered, “Yeah, Dag . . . Uh huh, I know all about it . . . Yeah, he told me . . . No, he’s probably fine. Hey, I have to run.”

  “Busy, busy,” Anne said.

  Stuart shrugged. “Not really. Dag’s a goofball.”

  “Why’s he a goofball?”

  “He eats ice cream with a fork, he takes one shower a month, his favorite Beatle is Ringo.”

  “I sometimes eat ice cream with a fork.”

  “Everybody eats ice cream with a fork when they eat ice cream with birthday cake. Dag eats ice cream with a fork all the time.”

  “Is that a felony or a misdemeanor in this town, eating ice cream with a fork?”

  “A felony.”

  “And one shower a month?”

  “Felony.”

  “And having Ringo as your favorite—”

  “Felony.”

  “Tough town.”

  “Yep, you’d better watch yourself.”

  Anne laughed and watched Stuart appraise her, poorly masking his mild infatuation, if masking it at all. “You’re a firecracker,” he said.

  “Is that a felony?”

  “No.”

  “A compliment?”

  “Take it as you wish.”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “See, you prove my point. Boating alone into this town under the cover of darkness, a federal officer illegally entering a crime scene. You’re a firecracker.”

  “Somebody told me that the name of this town means ‘ten’ in Tlingit.”

  “Jinkaat? Yes, it does.”

  “What’s the significance in that?”

  “Long ago, maybe three hundred years ago, when a glacier advanced quickly over their home in Crystal Bay, and the Tlingit people had to leave, they came here in their canoes, and that first winter was really hard. They had no year-round village, no good shelter. It was bitter cold. They had little food, and many people died. Only ten children survived. Those kids were their future. The next winter wasn’t so bad, or the one after that, and soon they built a strong village and made a good life here, all because those ten kids survived. They were their future.”

  Anne could see Stuart get emotional as he told this.

  He elaborated, “Most Tlingit place-names come from the natural world, and translate into English names like ‘Sea Otter Creek,’ or ‘Grouse Hen Fort,’ or ‘Stream at the Mouth.’ That’s what makes Jinkaat special. It speaks to a profound moment in Tlingit history, a time of survival and hope.”

  “You’re not Tlingit, though, are you?”

  His smile reached for his ears. “No, but many of my friends are.”

  “Remember the night Old Keb and the others took off in the canoe? You were the only person who made any sense. Do you remember what you said?”

  “No.”

  “You said, ‘Keb Wisting is a good man, the media is making too much of this whole thing, and people need to calm down and take it easy.’”

  “I meant it.”

  “Take It Easy, it’s a Jackson Browne song.”

  “That’s right. It’s one of his early songs. He actually wrote it with Glenn Frey, from the Eagles.”

  “Are you sure? I know the Eagles recorded it first and made it a big hit, and I know Jackson Browne and Glenn Frey are friends, but I didn’t know Glenn Frey cowrote that song.”

  “He did. Jackson Browne started it, Glenn Frey finished it.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that.”

  “See, you have to come to this podunk little town on the edge of nowhere and drink my really bad coffee and be polite and tell me it’s good, all to get educated in American rock music.”

  Anne smiled, and let her hair fall over her shoulders.

  MORE PHONE CALLS. Stuart fielded them while Anne surveyed his office. He hung up and she asked, “What do you hear about Keb’s daughter, Gracie?”

  “She flew down to Seattle yesterday. She’s got big problems, bad kidneys, related to her diabetes. She probably needs to go on dialysis. It’s sad.” Stuart turned his attention toward the television, then turned back to Anne and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hear that? It’s not on the news anymore. Too much murder and robbery
in the big city to have time to talk about an old man and his canoe in Crystal Bay.”

  “You think he’s in the bay?”

  Stuart sat back and pulled a strange expression over his face, as if hiding something. “A lot of people would like to see him make it, go all the way to the glaciers or wherever he wants to go. They’re taking bets in Juneau and Strawberry Flats to see how long he can last, how far he gets. Pedr Clements thinks he went up Excursion Inlet and is hiking into Crystal Bay through Adams Inlet, or maybe he went up Lynn Canal and is hiking in through the Davidson Glacier, or through Endicott Gap. Dag thinks he’s hunkered down in a backcountry cabin somewhere. Mitch thinks he hitched a ride on a big boat and went to Lisianski, or Elfin Cove, and is lying low until the whole thing blows over. Vic Lehan, he’s the town barber, he thinks Old Keb jumped a luxury cruise ship and is eating like a king and dancing the cha-cha and telling stories and sailing to San Francisco. Hey, you sure you’re not hungry? You don’t want something to eat?”

  “I’m fine.” Anne was looking into Stuart’s dusty blue eyes, the way they shone, bringing up the dawn.

  “You need to make a telephone call or anything?”

  “I’m supposed to report into Bartlett Cove every morning at eight.”

  “It’s ten after eight now.”

  Anne shrugged.

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If you arrest me or not.”

  Stuart laughed, and for a moment Anne felt her summer self again, the happy person she used to be. Is this the Man Department?

  The phone rang. Stuart picked it up and fielded a question about the federal government boat down in the harbor. Got it handled, he said. Another call came in, same thing. Got it handled. He hung up. “People are talking about your boat. A bunch of them are probably down there right now looking it over. I could run you down there if you’d like; tell them you’re here to talk with me about the search for Old Keb. It’s up to you. I mean, you’re always welcome to stay here if you can’t make it back to Bartlett Cove, with the weather. It’s supposed to get bad.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “There’s an apartment behind this office where the troopers stay when they’re in town.”

  “Is anybody going to rebuild Keb Wisting’s shed?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “I think they should.”

  “So do I.”

  Suddenly the television had something to say: “We take you now to our Channel Two affiliate in Sitka for a report on the search for Keb Wisting, the ‘Old Man and the Canoe.’” Stuart jumped to his feet and cranked up the volume. “Yes, Lisa, this is Lynn Mills reporting from Sitka, where early this morning Alaska State Troopers boarded a fish buyer named the Silverbow. The skipper may have given Keb Wisting and his party a lift in Icy Strait shortly after they left Jinkaat, five days ago.”

  A trooper said the Silverbow was not under investigation. Then a full-faced, platinum-haired woman filled the screen. “You go up against the world and the world’s going to win every time,” she said. “We each have to die of something. Why not let Old Keb Wisting die his own way? Is that asking too much? Whose life is it anyway?”

  “Did you give Keb Wisting a ride?” the reporter asked.

  “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. Maybe I picked him up and took him into Crystal Bay in the middle of the night, and maybe I didn’t.”

  “Where in Crystal Bay?”

  “I’m not admitting anything.”

  “He could be wet and cold up there right now, and suffering, an old man in weather like this.”

  “Oh shush. He’s tougher than you and me put together. He’s clever; he’s wise. His traveling companions are strong and determined. With a light wind and good tides they can cover thirty nautical miles in a night. They’ll never be found. My guess is he misses the way things used to be. So what if he’s a little hungry and cold. Remember what Dostoevsky said, ‘Suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.’”

  Stuart turned off the TV and said, “If you really want to make the run back to Bartlett Cove, you need to leave now, to beat the storm.” His eyes said: Stay. Don’t go.

  Anne hesitated. Duty. Conscience. Arrrggh.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  BACK IN HIS Jeep, Stuart and Anne rumbled down the road to the harbor. He asked, “Are the Crystal Bay rangers looking for the Gant brothers?”

  “No. Should we be? Did they burn down Keb’s shed?”

  “The fire marshal hasn’t finished his report. There’s one eyewitness, Kevin Pallen, and he doesn’t talk. But he wrote out a statement that said it was Tommy Gant and Pete Brickman.”

  “Why would they burn down Keb’s shed?”

  “They were drunk. Drunk guys don’t think straight.”

  “Tell me about it. My stepdad was a drunk.”

  “There’s tension between Tommy and James; jealousy over Little Mac. She used to be Tommy’s girl, you know, and Tommy is still obsessed with knowing where she is and what she’s doing. As for James, he’s just trying to find his way after the accident, or whatever it was that happened on Pepper Mountain. It really made him angry and scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Himself. The difficult choices he needs to make.” Stuart said this with such tenderness that it made Anne’s heart swell.

  She asked him, “Do you speak Tlingit?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I guess if I find the old guy, I’d like to be able to say something to him in his own language. It seems the right thing to do.”

  “You got any lemonade on your boat?”

  “No.”

  “Get some. He loves lemonade . . . and moose stew, nagoonberry pie, and cornbread.”

  “Thank you for not arresting me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you this nice to all the women you meet?” Please say no.

  “No . . . I don’t meet that many women. This is a small town.”

  “I like it here, the lay of the land, the harbor—” You, everything.

  “Don’t go.”

  “I have to.”

  “Come back then.”

  “Okay.”

  The steady rain didn’t dissuade a dozen townspeople from milling about the dock to look over the Firn. A nice boat, if you liked government boats. Stuart parted the crowd and ushered Anne aboard. She collected their silent appraisals, and heard one Tlingit say to another, “Is she going to leave now? With the storm coming?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Stupid white woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  AN HOUR LATER she was in the thick of it, the Firn beating north-northwest where Port Thomas opened into Icy Strait, a crazy swell quartering off her starboard. Strong currents in a cross-grained sea. Windshield wipers working hard to stay ahead of the rain and sea spray. Damn. It had been only a light breeze when she left Jinkaat. She should have listened to Stuart, the marine forecast, the chatter on the dock.

  Anne set a GPS heading for Strawberry Flats. Forget Bartlett Cove, too far away. Fierce winds whipped water off the tops of big waves, the biggest waves eating away at her transom, the gale building beneath a dour, undertaker sea. Dryness gripped her throat. She saw Nancy’s pale face, a ghost, a raven’s wing, an old photograph of two sisters laughing at the camera. She saw her mom coming home from work after midnight, beat on her feet, a shadow after Nancy’s death, a silhouette, arranging things already twice arranged, cleaning the floor as if she could scrub it all away.

  Anne had a nautical chart but could hardly look at it for the concentration she needed to steer. The GPS said she was moving due north. Again and again she bucked big sets and shipped water, too much water. Sheets of sea washed over the stern and across her decks as the scuppers struggled to keep up. Something broke loose and slammed into something else. The engine sputtered, stalled, coughed back to life. She thought about Ta
ylor in bed with her boyfriend. The Firn lurched, corkscrewed, and began to list. No longer buoyant, it felt ponderous, slow. She fought to right it as another big wave hit, and another, and another.

  Shit.

  She wanted to call Stuart and ask for help, hear his voice. Had she seen a marine VHF radio in his office? His Jeep? He had to have one somewhere. If she called, everybody would hear a federal government NMRS boat calling the Jinkaat Police Station in distress. Not good. What to do? Take it easy . . . take it easy.

  That’s it. Fake names. Use names only he will understand. Make it sound like I’m calling another vessel.

  She grabbed the radio mic, took a deep breath, and in the most casual voice she could muster, she said, “Calling the Take It Easy, the Take It Easy, the Take It Easy, this is the Firecracker on channel sixteen, over.” She waited. She couldn’t see a thing. Gray-green seawater slammed into her. No horizon. It felt like the end of the world. “Calling the Take It Easy, the Take It Easy . . . this is the Firecracker on channel sixteen, over.”

  A pause, then: “This is the Take It Easy.”

  Anne almost burst out crying. “Take It Easy,” she said, “you want to meet me on channel seventy-four?”

  “Seventy-four . . .” Seconds passed, it seemed like forever. “Anne, you there?”

  “I’m here. I’m in a jam, in really big seas. I’m shipping water and cavitating. I’m losing control and I’m scared.”

  “Okay, stay cool. Make sure your scuppers are clear. Do you have an ELT?”

  “Yes, they’re clear, and it’s on.”

  “How about a survival suit?”

  “Yes, but I’m not wearing it and I don’t think I could get it on without losing my boat. I’m about three miles into Icy Strait. The farther north I go, the more fetch I’m exposed to and the bigger the seas get. I’d like to turn around and get back to you, but I’m afraid to make the turn, of taking big waves on my beam.”