Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  “Since when does Barrow PD care if an oil worker freezes to death?”

  “Not that simple. The guy’s inside a pipe.”

  “So? …” He sighed melodramatically into the mike.

  “So the company called Anchorage and—”

  “Good for them. Let the city cops fly in and take a look.”

  “Except the Deadhorse airport is closed. And according to the weather reports, it won’t open again for a couple of days, maybe not till midweek. So the Anchorage PD can’t get in.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me it’s that bad.”

  “Apparently even the Bush pilots are nervous about risking it. Not so much the cold as the wind. Gusting to fifty or sixty miles per hour at times. Pretty nasty stuff.”

  “Yeah. But I still don’t understand why you’re calling me, Betty.”

  “Captain wants you to go over and check it out.” She sounded impatient now.

  “What about Lewis? Or the sheriff over at Deadhorse? What’s-his-name …?”

  “Lewis is here in Barrow. You’re a hundred and fifty miles closer to the scene. As for the sheriff, his name’s Mattheson …”

  “Right. Let him—”

  “And he’s Outside. Went to Hawaii for a couple of weeks. He’s got a deputy working for him, but—” “Can’t the deputy—”

  “Apparently the kid is wet-behind-the-ears, can’t even wipe his own nose without the sheriff being there to hold the tissue.”

  “Aw, geez … Betty … Come on!”

  “Eh …. Shut up!” Grandfather urged from somewhere down the dark hallway.

  “Captain’s orders,” Betty explained.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Where do you think he is at this time of night, Raymond? He’s in bed.”

  “I have time off coming,” he whined.

  “I know.”

  He paused, listening as the random noise on the channel surged in time with the wind outside.

  “What camp? ARCO? BP?”

  “Davis Oil.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s an independent. And it’s not at their camp. It’s at an ice rig. Number seventeen. Off Oliktok Point.” She read him the map coordinates. “Got that?”

  “Yeah …” He let up on the button, swore softly, pushed it again. “Please tell me it can wait until morning.”

  “Sorry, Raymond. You’re supposed to meet the deputy out there ASAP. Guess they’re still trying to get the guy out of the pipe. If you hurry, you can be there for the unveiling ceremony.”

  “Ha-ha,” he groaned. “Officer Attla out.”

  “Dispatch out.”

  He switched off the radio and sat on the bed, clutching at the blanket as he considered his luck: the middle of January, in the middle of the night—the first night of a well deserved four-day vacation—a full half-hour of sleep, a violent storm raging outside, temperatures diving toward record lows … He listened as a gust approached, shook the sod house, then continued on, moaning across the frozen tundra.

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than saddle up and go on a tour of the ice floes ….”

  He carried the lantern to the mirror and examined himself. Yep. He looked about as good as he felt: lousy. That was one thrashed face staring back at him: eyes riddled with bright red veins, dark bags drooping toward gaunt, stubbly cheeks, a jet black mane that would have made Medusa jealous. No time to bathe or shave, not when both activities required going to the kitchen and heating a tub of water over the Coleman stove. It was times like this that he wished Grandfather had forsaken the traditions of the People. He was one of only a few Inupiats who still lived in ivruliks—primitive earthen structures with few modern conveniences. A little running water and electricity would come in handy right about now. Of course, there was no way to convince Grandfather of that. Not only was he one of the elders, a keeper of the old ways, he was as stubborn as a fence post.

  Gathering his long hair together with one hand, Ray used a leather band to tie the locks together, creating a ponytail that dangled down between his shoulder blades. He climbed into a second set of insulated underwear, then a flannel shirt and jeans before pulling on a RefrigiWear suit and a parka. Fishing a topographical map out of his pack, he studied the coordinates of the ice rig and plotted a course: across the frozen Colville Delta, northeast along the coast to a forsaken knob of land approximately thirty miles west of Prudhoe. He had just refolded the map and was in the process of breaking down the radio and stowing it in its waterproof pouch when Grandfather shuffled in.

  “Where you go?”

  “Gotta go to work.”

  “Work? Now?”

  “Duty calls.”

  “Duty? Duty to People?”

  “Not exactly.” He was in no mood for another lecture about the debt he and every other Native owed to their ancestors.

  “You take parka.” The old man turned and disappeared, feet scraping the floor.

  “No, Grandfather. Mine’s fine.”

  The old man returned, heavy, halting steps scuffing across the dirt. He was carrying a caribou parka: thigh length, burnished brown fur, sleeves and hood decorated with beads.

  “Really, Grandfather,” Ray protested, adjusting his own jacket. “This one’s fine.”

  His grandfather lifted the lantern and examined the parka skeptically. Fingering the down-filled Gor-Tex, he said, “This one crap. Who dis ‘Eddee Bawa’?”

  “That’s who made the coat,” he sighed, resisting the urge to remind the old man that he had given him an identical parka for Christmas. Ray wasn’t sure whether Grandfather was forgetful, senile, or just ornery. Probably a combination of the three.

  “Never hear dis Edee Bawa.”

  “Mmm …”

  “Never hear him!” he repeated angrily.

  “It’s not a him, Grandfather. It’s a company. In the lower forty-eight. Okay?”

  “Hmph …” The old man frowned at this, his face a maze of stiff creases. “What he know ‘bout make parka? It sixty minus—wind angry. You take mine.”

  “I gotta go Grandfather. I don’t have time to …” The look on the old man’s face stopped him. It was an odd, pained expression, as if he had just seen or felt something terrible. “What’s the matter? Are you okay? Is it your heart?” Ray reached out to assist him. “Here, sit down on the bed. I’ll get your medicine. Where is it?”

  The old man pulled away from Ray’s grasp. “My heart … yes. But not this one.” He thumped his chest with a bony finger. “This one.” Here he tapped his temple. “I see something, with my heart eyes. You no go tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Bad. You no go.” He was shaking his head, brown eyes wide.

  “Grandfather, I have to. It’s my job.”

  “No go. I see somethings.”

  “What?” Ray asked, growing irritated. “What do you see?”

  Grandfather closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Adiii … In my heart eye … I see tuungak … piinjilak … a anjatkut … evil … very power … but liar … very lying …”

  Ray rolled his eyes, waiting for the old man to run out of steam. Spirits, ghosts, shamans. It was all very spooky, especially at this hour with the wind howling outside, but he was no longer a kid and he had work to do.

  “Taiku,” Ray said, taking up his knapsack and the radio. He patted Grandfather affectionately on the shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern. Listen, I’ll try to get this cleared up quickly. Be back by noon or so, hopefully. We can wait and make the trip to Barrow on Sunday.”

  “We? Why I go Barrow? I not go Barrow.”

  “The party, Grandfather. Remember?”

  “Par-ty?” He grimaced, making it sound obscene.

  “The Messenger Feast,” Ray reminded. It wasn’t a Messenger Feast. It was a wedding shower. But the term had helped to convince the old coot to make the trip.


  “Ah! I practicing drum for feast.”

  “Yeah, I know. See you this afternoon.”

  Ray turned to leave, but the old man caught him, two gnarled hands gripping his shoulders like a vice. Grandfather took a deep breath, then began to chant in a raspy singsong voice. It was a blessing, something he had sung over Ray since he was just a child. Ray’s mind automatically translated the phrases, anticipating and finding comfort in the familiar words.

  Walk with strong legs, like those of the caribou calf

  Walk with strong legs, like those of the little hare.

  Be careful not to go towards the dark

  Be careful to always go towards the day

  “Taiku,” he responded when the old man had finished. Pulling away from his grip, Ray slipped on his gauntlet mittens and secured his face mask, hood, and goggles. “See you later.”

  Opening the door, he slid through and shut it behind him. As he loaded his sled and mounted the snow machine, he was struck by the irony. Grandfather had just advised him to steer clear of the dark, to seek the day, exactly the opposite of what he was doing. But the pithy bit of wisdom was obviously symbolic. Going toward the day meant practicing good, as opposed to evil. Didn’t it?

  Twisting the throttle, the machine shuddered under him, then shot forward, leading the sled down the short trail, into a featureless black sea of wind-packed drifts. With only the single headlight, a thin beam swallowed up in blowing snow, to guide him, the night seemed extraordinarily empty and dead: precisely the conditions that brought hostile tuungak and piinjilak up out of their hiding places to visit death and sickness on The People.

  Or so the elders said.

  THREE

  THE POLARIS HAD been plowing along for nearly an hour, skating along icy, one-lane tracks, blasting through crusty snowbanks, when Ray stopped to orient himself. A quick check of his compass and map told him that he was traveling in the right direction, northeast into oblivion.

  He had to stop two more times in the following twenty minutes, both times to free his trailing sled from deep powder drifts. The sled was his lifeline—a 14-foot-long wooden emergency basket on outrigger skis. It was piled high with spare snow machine parts, extra fuel and oil, tools, a shovel, a tent, a down sleeping bag, dry and canned food, a kerosene lantern, a first-aid kit, his 30.06 rifle. Without a sled, a trip like this one was worse than foolhardy. It was a death sentence.

  He was eyeing the gas gauge, wondering if the rig had a supply of unleaded, when he noticed the miniature constellation twinkling on the horizon. Glinting lights formed an upside-down T. Support buildings formed the low crossbar, he decided. The tall stem had to be the derrick. The tiny, earthbound stars winked and disappeared in a gust of snow, then materialized again, surging brighter before vanishing completely.

  Above, the sky was a black void. Beneath the runners of the Polaris, snow swirled on blue ice, a frantic dance in the beam of the headlight. Under the thick layer of cobalt lay the extreme, outer edge of North America. Either that or the Beaufort Sea. It was difficult, if not impossible, to tell where the ground stopped and the ocean began. For nine months a year, the Arctic merged into a singular mass: salt-water, ice, and land becoming one.

  While he watched, the drilling platform continued to play hide-and-seek, lights swelling, dimming, flickering out. Suddenly the Polaris lurched and dove away, abandoning Ray. He was thrown back, then forward, the padded seat ramming him between the legs. He gave the breaks an urgent squeeze and realized that he had dropped onto the haul road, a double-track trail that had been pounded into the ice by diesel trucks, four-wheel-drives, and the rubber feet of a Cat train. He followed it across the wide, flat expanse, maneuvering carefully through frozen potholes and ruts.

  Five minutes later, the rig materialized for good, bathed in a wavering pool of halogen. On one side of the oval yard was a two-story, prefab building. The camp, Ray thought, where the workers ate, slept, and spent what little free time they had. There were a few other structures, probably equipment and vehicle hangers, but the main attraction was the derrick itself: 180 feet of steel, cable, and pulleys. The bottom quarter was boxed in by wood, the remaining section rising into the wind, lights decorating the tower at ten-foot increments.

  The entire encampment was temporary, seated on ice. Every November, when the temperature fell to minus 30 or so and the surface of the coastal inlets froze, the companies came out and created these platforms. Sea water was drawn from holes in the ice and sprayed from high-pressure hoses until an island was formed: a manmade iceberg that rested firmly against the bottom of the Beaufort Sea, thirty feet below. When it was finished, the island would sustain the weight of a rig, trucks, support vehicles, equipment, and the camp itself.

  Ray knew the rigs were out here, that the Reserve on the North Slope was the largest, most productive petroleum field in North America, but that was about the extent of his knowledge of oil exploration at Prudhoe Bay. That, and the fact that Grandfather considered the companies and their work an abomination. Of course, to Grandfather, nearly any form of change, especially that which concerned the Land, was anathema.

  The concept of progress was lost on the old ones. To them living from the Land was the Inupiat way. They viewed the North Slope development as another in a long line of hostile intrusions upon their simple, even holy, lifestyle. The first intrusion had been the arrival of the Russians in the 1700s. Their presence had introduced the practice of trading, and with it, Grandfather contended, greed. The second intrusion took the form of miners, men obsessed with defacing the earth in their relentless quest for gold. The third was bom on the shoulders of the missionaries. Representatives from the Friends Church, Quakers, journeyed north offering medicine, education, and an alternative religion. Whether intentional or not, the succeeding waves of invaders had effectively stripped the People of their unique identity. At least, that was what Grandfather claimed.

  Of course, not all Natives shared Grandfather’s hypercritical sentiments. Many of the People welcomed change. Diseases that had once wiped out entire villages in a single season had been eradicated by antibiotics and vaccines. Starvation was no longer a routine problem. Food stamps, federal welfare checks, Native corporation dividends, permanent fund shares, longevity bonus awards, and unemployment benefits had seen to that. Thanks to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Hootch consent decree, every village had a school, and most of the People were now literate. They could read and write, though not in their own language. As for the oil companies, some saw them as a boon. Oil money meant better schools, better homes, better food, better salaries, more financial assistance—a more prosperous life for the People.

  Ray had mixed emotions about what was happening to the Inupiat and to Alaskan Natives in general. Orphaned at the age of three, he had been raised by his grandparents. Grandfather, an umialik, a skilled whaler and esteemed leader of the People, had brought Ray up to honor and value the old ways. Ray’s childhood had been spent learning to harpoon bowhead, stalk game, seine for sheefish, hunt for seals. He had been trained in the art of the drum, taught the ritual dances, made to participate in the celebration of the seasonal festivals. Much of that had fallen away, though, when he left the village and started high school in Barrow. Most of the other teens he met there were more American than Native, reaching for the new ways as if they were a coveted prize.

  The transition was solidified in college. Attending the University of Alaska in Anchorage, he was exposed to people, books, ideas, and philosophies that chipped away at his heritage. Over the course of his study, he found himself adopting a very different perspective from that of Grandfather’s. It was broader, more modern … more white. When he returned to Barrow, he brought with him more than simply a degree in criminal justice. He brought a new worldview that challenged the ways of the elders.

  In Grandfather’s estimation, the last hundred years had been a curse. Ray wasn’t so sure. Yes, there was something disturbing, even sad, about watching an al
ien culture swallow an entire people. And yet, there were so many benefits: though still linked to the Land, the Inupiat were quickly becoming high-tech hunter-gatherers. After harvesting a whale and celebrating the catch, village residents would return home in their 4x4s, to microwaves and cable-equipped televisions. It was an odd mix of new and old, a culture in process.

  The transition wasn’t over. Far from it. The two societies were still at war, a lopsided battle in which one was molding the other into its image.

  What would be the fate of the Eskimo? Ray considered the question as the oil derrick rose before him. He didn’t have an answer, but he did know one thing: survival at the close of the twentieth century meant accepting change, going with the flow, rather than fighting the current. It was a lesson Grandfather and his kind would never learn.

  The thought chased him the final mile to the rig. As he approached, blue letters on a wide white sign proclaimed: Davis Oil. The colors matched the trim on the rig and the camp building. Slowing, he urged the Polaris up an eight foot embankment, onto the island, and pulled into the yard. A half dozen diesel trucks were lined up in a neat row, pickups and 4x4s parked next to the camp. The place was quiet. Ray began to wonder if everyone was in bed. Passing the shed, he spotted a crowd of men in blue RefrigiWear suits huddled next to the rig platform. They seemed to be watching something. Switching off the engine, he dismounted and joined them. It was then that he noticed the sparks: a shower of orange fire arching into the air before being scattered by the wind. A man wearing a welder’s helmet was bent, one knee to the ice, his torch ripping a long, straight gap in a pipe.

  The onlookers were entranced, audience to a taut suspense thriller.

  Ray glanced at the pipe, then asked, “Can someone direct me to the supervisor?”

  A trio of heads swiveled in his direction, six eyes giving him the once over through slits in the neoprene masks. “Who’re you?” one of them asked.

  “Officer Attla, Barrow PD.”

  A gust stole his words.

  “Who?”