Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  He had begun to wonder if Huckleberry had been mistaken, if perhaps the shop was south rather than north, and was about to turn back when a gust of wind revealed the prize: faded, blue trim floating in a miniature pond of halogen. As he approached, Ray recognized the bays—three garage-style doors shut against the cold. A pickup was parked in the shadow of the building, a larger diesel truck hiding further back.

  The bay doors were closed and refused Ray’s attempt to raise them. They were either locked or frozen shut. He tried the metal door to the left of the bays. It was open.

  Inside, two of the three stalls were occupied by ailing vehicles. The workshop area was cluttered with hydraulic tools and winches, and to the side, a door led to a small office. A fluorescent tube over a tool bench provided the only light. Hoists hung motionless over the stalls.

  “Hello?”

  Ray listened for a response. Wind. The electric ticking of a space heater. Metal creaking. He started for the office. As he opened the door there was a mechanical click. “Hello? Mr. Driscoll?” Between the gusts Ray could hear the blood pulsing through his ears. And … breathing? His own? Or …

  “Hello?”

  He found the light switch and flicked it. The office was tiny, an 8 ? 8 space with a makeshift desk and chair. The desk was cluttered with automotive manuals, candy wrappers, screw drivers, an oil rag, empty pop cans. In the corner was a suitcase marked: FIRST AID. The center of the room was occupied by a wounded generator. The back had been pried off of the boxy unit and wires trailed out.

  Ray was in the process of kneeling to inspect the generator when he heard something. A thud. The wind? Or was it a footstep? His hand instinctively reached for his revolver and found nothing but air. He swore at this. The pistol and its holster were back in Barrow. He selected a large wrench, turned, and took three careful steps back into the shop. His eyes scanned the shadows for movement.

  “Hello?”

  The wind assaulted the building again, causing the metal to groan in protest. Ray laughed at this. Spooked by the storm, the dark, the hellishly isolated camp. He set the wrench down on the bench and chided himself for letting his imagination affect his judgment. Grandfather’s talk of ghouls and ghosties, and a lack of sleep, had obviously gotten to him. He was on edge. Ready to do battle against the wind. If he wasn’t careful, he might whack some poor, unsuspecting oil worker in a vain attempt to ward off an unseen and nonexistent evil. He took a deep breath. “Get a grip,” he muttered.

  Facing toward the entrance, he heard a cracking sound and managed to take one step before something jumped out at him. It hummed out of the darkness with smooth efficiency, streaking toward his head. Ray was in good shape and had quick reflexes. As a youth, he had won several ribbons in the Eskimo Olympics and in the years since, had managed to maintain a regimen of physical training, but none of that helped. There simply wasn’t time to react. The attack was too swift, wholly unexpected. In the instant before impact, his brain recognized what was happening but was impotent to direct his body to act. He couldn’t duck or bob away, only bend slightly to accept the blow on the top of the head. Thankfully, the hard hat was still there, secure beneath his parka hood.

  Ray felt the collision, noted the accompanying arrival of intense pain, and reeled, his legs wobbling. Before he collapsed, the room seemed to explode in light: stars and fireworks performing a shimmering dance. An electric mist descended. Purple, red, flaming orange and brilliant golden hues draped themselves over him like gentle wraiths attending a fallen spirit, as consciousness slipped away.

  TEN

  LIGHT …

  He longed for it, thirsted for it, was searching desperately for it, an instinctive reaction to the endless night that had eclipsed all matter, threatening to consume him.

  Alone in the umiak, he pulled at an oar, fighting the current. He could feel the boat surging forward, meeting resistance, falling back, drifting into oblivion. He was losing the battle.

  Weary arms fought to maintain the rhythm, stroking, resting, stroking … eyes scanning the future for light. Had he been floating for minutes? Days? Years?

  There was a splash, icy droplets tickling his cheek. He heard it surface, something large, something alive, breath escaping in a whoosh. Another splash. Fine crystals stinging his face. Reaching a trembling hand over the side, he felt it: wet skin, smooth and cold.

  “Where is it?” he implored.

  “What do you seek?” a deep voice responded.

  “Day … the Light.”

  “Of the deep, I know much. Of the Day, I am ignorant.”

  With that, the docile leviathan slid back into the sea, taking hope with it as its fluke sank beneath the waves.

  He was alone again. Alone and afraid of the night.

  Hours passed. The darkness seemed to swallow him, engulfing the umiak, drawing him toward the edge of an interminable chasm. He had given up, despair sapping his resolve, stealing away his will to live, when the craft suddenly met solid ground. An island. It was as black as the sea, yet its stability encouraged him like a forgotten promise.

  Climbing out of the boat, he stood facing east, waiting—for what, he knew not. Then it happened.

  Light …

  Ghostly at first. Dim, slender rays climbing the horizon. They multiplied magically, dividing, swelling, illuminating a dead, slumbering world.

  When the orb appeared, a rounded sliver balanced on the taut line of frozen water, it seemed to sing, to call the world to life, golden shafts urging the universe to celebrate.

  He smiled at it, squinting into the circle of fire as it rose, hovering upward, into the cloudless, passionately orange canopy. Loneliness and terror fled, chased away by laughter. His mission plain, his hope restored, he took his seat in the umiak and turned the bow east, toward the warmth, toward his destiny … toward the sun.

  Light …

  “Is he dead?”

  The light became more intense with each confident stroke.

  “No. He’s breathing. Got a pulse.”

  The sun expanded, Day reaching to embrace him.

  “Good thing he was wearing a hard hat.”

  Heat … Intense heat …

  “Lucky as heck. Otherwise his skull’d be bashed clean in.”

  Fire … Throbbing … Pain!

  “Officer Attla? Can you hear me?”

  Ray blinked, squinted, his eyesight weak. He was still floating, the world weaving, images merging. Light glared at him. The fire returned, flames licking at his head. Pain! He clamped his eyes shut against it.

  “His neck doesn’t seem to be broken. Back looks okay.”

  “Let’s get him up,” a voice advised.

  He felt himself rising, limp arms draped over phantom shoulders, shaky legs supported by invisible angels. He wondered if he were dead. The sharp stabs of electricity pulsing across his temples assured him that he was not. Maybe he had reached the sun. Maybe this was his reward.

  “Here. Let’s put him on the workbench.”

  “What happened?” He regretted the question even as it left his lips. Waves of harsh, pounding grief crashed over him, beating against his forehead, threatening to dislodge his eyes from their sockets.

  “You went one on one with a winch,” a southern voice drawled.

  “And lost,” another informed him.

  “Where am I?”

  “The shop.”

  He looked up at a blurry outline of Goofy: buck teeth; dull, stupid expression. Huckleberry Hound was next to him—silly, felt ears, slack jaw. Slowly, the faces took on definition, edges hardening until they became flesh. Billy Bob and the driller were hunched over him, thick heads highlighted by the hanging, fluorescent lamp above them.

  Ray glanced around, half expecting to see the sun, the sea, the umiak … They were gone. But not the pain. It was still there, more real than ever.

  A third man, someone Ray didn’t recognize, entered the frame above him. He was older, with graying sideburns, and wore an expression of
serious concern. Reaching a hand up, he pulled at Ray’s eyelids, examining the pupils again under the beam of a flashlight. “Responsive,” he grunted. “He’ll survive.”

  The new face exited the frame. Glass clanked. The face returned and began applying something to Ray’s brow. It stung.

  “Am I cut?”

  “Yeah. Not from the winch, though. From the fall after the fact.” Paper rattled. The man produced a square bandage and taped it into place above Ray’s right eye. “There. You’re as good as new.”

  Ray raised himself to a sitting position. His skull punished him by beating out a new, more energetic cadence. The room dimmed, a flurry of sparkles encroaching upon the outer edges of his vision. He cringed, shaking them away.

  “Man … my head …” he muttered.

  “Yeah,” the amateur doctor grunted, nodding. “It’ll hurt pretty bad for a few hours, maybe even a day or so. Probably feel like you really tied one on. But you’ll live.” He handed Ray a small, plastic bottle. “These’ll help,” he promised, closing the first-aid kit. “But go easy. They’re prescription strength. Knock you on your butt if you’re not careful.”

  Ray fought with the top, cursed it. When he finally managed to pry off the lid, he shook out three tablets and tossed them into his mouth, gulping them down without water.

  “Might want to see a doctor when you get back to Barrow. Just in case you’ve got a concussion or something.” With that, the Slope’s answer to Marcus Welby pulled the hood of his parka up and left the shop.

  “What are you trying to do? Double our insurance rates?” Simpson, who had apparently just arrived, asked.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t sue,” Ray replied. He reached a tentative hand up and pressed his bandage gingerly.

  After removing his hood and mask, Simpson glanced about the room, at the system of pulleys and hoists overhead, at Ray, at the dried blood on the gray, concrete floor, making a mental assessment of the event. “Beaned by the lift, huh? Those things can really crack your noggin.”

  Ray studied the chain and the mechanical components. They looked guilty but unrepentant, proud of the number they had done on his head.

  “That’s why we wear these blasted things,” Simpson told him, rapping on his hard hat with a mitten-clad fist. “Not the first time something like that has happened, you know.”

  “These things try to kill people on a regular basis?” Ray asked. He could feel the pills working already, dulling the pain slightly and giving him the curious sensation of falling backward through space.

  As Simpson continued blathering, spouting something about OSHA regulations and safety precautions, Ray recalled the dream. The plot elements returned to his mind in flashes of clarity. He realized that they were from another of Grandfather’s old stories—a legend about how a brave young man had captured the sun for his people, bringing Day to the Eskimo. That he had dreamed about folklore was a little disturbing, but understandable. He had grown up on the stories. That he had been the main character, that was downright weird. At least Margaret hadn’t made a cameo appearance this time. At least she hadn’t risen from the sea in the form of an evil sea monster and chased him toward the sun, snapping at his boat.

  “… it’s a wonder we can work at all.” Simpson followed this with a curse. “Government agencies, they’ll be the death of us.”

  “You say this has happened before?” Ray asked, attempting to stand. His knees buckled and he latched onto Billy Bob in an effort to avoid performing another face plant.

  “Whoa, there, partner!”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Simpson wondered, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Yeah.” He released his grip on Billy Bob and took two halting steps. “See?” The room seemed to twirl and bob around him. “About the hoists …”

  “Right. When the mechanics finish a job,” Simpson explained, “they pull the hoists back and hook them over here.” He pointed to a row of metal prongs. “So they can get the vehicles out. They’re supposed to lock them down. Sometimes, actually, usually, they get busy and forget. Problem is, in real cold weather, like we got this time of year, the metal gets brittle.” He stepped to the prongs and reached up to finger the third prong. Unlike the others, it was sheered off. Crouching, he ran a mitten over the floor. “Here you go.” He offered them the shard of metal. “Prong snapped. The winch came whizzing down. And you happened to be standing in exactly the wrong place when it did. Bad luck.”

  “Yeah. Guess so.” Ray was satisfied with that. Sort of. The only other explanation involved purposeful violence—that someone had actually attempted to kill him. In the absence of motive, that seemed farfetched. Or at least, Ray hoped it was.

  “Here.” Billy Bob handed him the hard hat.

  Ray examined the shell before putting it back on. It was made out of a tough plastic and fiberglass material. There was a black scuff, presumably where the hoist had collided with it, but otherwise it was undamaged, no crease, no dent, nothing. Ray silently thanked it, thanked the tuungak, even thanked Margaret’s white God that the barrier had been in place as he remounted it on his head. The blue hat was his savior, the only reason Ray was still among the living.

  Simpson led them out of the shop and across the darkened yard toward the camp building. The wind was gusting from the south now, pushing them back on their heels. It was just after nine a.m., but the sky above was an ebony mask. Snow assaulted them, pelting their parkas, playing at their hoods.

  When they reached the office, Simpson lifted the phone. “I’ll call Prudhoe. They got a nurse over there. She can check you.”

  “What about Driscoll?” Ray submitted. His own voice sounded distant, foreign.

  “Huh?”

  “I was looking for the drill foreman, Driscoll, when the winch snuck up on me. We still need to talk to him.”

  Simpson seemed puzzled by this. “Should be on the rig floor. Or in the doghouse. I’ll have someone check.” He looked to Billy Bob. “Can you run him to Prudhoe?”

  “I’m fine,” Ray argued. He wasn’t fine. He was flying, a human plane spinning out of control. The pain had receded, replaced by a groggy, growing sense of euphoria. He felt like he was accelerating upward, out of his boots. The walls of the office seemed to be in on the joke. They were extending skyward, getting taller. “Find Driscoll.”

  “Okay,” Simpson grunted.

  When the supervisor had left to attend to the chore, Ray reached for the phone. As he dialed, Billy Bob asked. “Ya sure yer okay?” The cowboy stared into Ray’s face. “Yer eyes look funny.”

  “I’m fine,” Ray repeated. He sank into Simpson’s chair, cradling the receiver to his ear as his stomach threatened to convulse. “Just kind of woozy. That’s all.”

  The line rang twice before a woman answered. “Barrow Police Department.”

  “Betty?”

  “Hey there, Ray. You still out on the ice with that popsicle murder?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed.

  “How’s it comin’?”

  He blinked away another wave of nausea. “Oh … kinda slow.”

  “Nobody confessed, huh?”

  “Not yet. The captain in?”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  “I think Mr. Simpson’s right, Ray,” Billy Bob drawled. “I think you oughta let me run ya to Prudhoe. Let the doctor give ya the once over.”

  Ray considered this. It was probably the smart thing to do, if only to rule out a concussion. He was about to answer the deputy when he noticed the computer screen at the center of Simpson’s desk. It was glowing, moving, drifting to the right. The desk was caught in the same invisible current. The entire room seemed intent upon slipping away from Ray.

  There was a rattle on the line, then, “Attla?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “Not much, sir. We questioned the men who found the body. And we showed the sketch of the victim around.” “No ID?”

  “No, sir. No one seems to
know how he wound up in the pipe. No one recognizes him. The going bet is that he was already in the casing when it showed up in camp.”

  “You buy that?”

  “I don’t know. Without an autopsy, it’s hard to …” His words trailed off, and with them, his concentration trickled away.

  “Attla?” the Captain prodded. “What’s the matter? You alright?”

  “I had a little accident.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “A bonk on the head. But I’m fine.”

  “You need to come home? I could send Lewis. Be a real pain in the neck logistically, air traffic’s still grounded, but we could arrange something. Cat train him over there maybe—”

  “No,” Ray protested. “I’ll stick it out.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.” In truth, he wasn’t sure. His head was throbbing and spinning, the pain a dull, faraway threat. He was exhausted, hungry, and sick to his stomach at the same time, disoriented, void of ambition. Returning to Barrow, to his own bed, to Margaret … It was tempting. But the trip itself would be a bear. And more importantly, he still had a job to perform. Ray wasn’t a workaholic. He wasn’t obsessive with his vocation. Still, he was dedicated, determined to finish what he had started. Grandfather had instilled that in him: a strong sense of duty and honor. Margaret called it a stubborn streak. Whatever it was, it would not allow him to simply give up and quit.

  “Okay, then, what next? Got any other leads?”

  “Not really,” Ray answered, “but I was thinking about heading to Prudhoe. Maybe somebody over there could ID the victim for us.” He purposefully left out the part about seeing a doctor.

  “Good idea. I been on the horn to the Davis people all morning. They’re in a swivet. Got some bigwig corporate execs coming in for an important meeting as soon as the weather clears. The locals are in a panic. Maybe you can settle them down a bit.”

  “I’ll try. Call you from Prudhoe.”

  As he hung up the phone, Simpson reappeared. “No luck. Nobody seems to know where Driscoll is.”