“His name is Weinhart?” Ray asked.
“Yeah. Hal or … Harry …”
“Hank,” Musclepig suggested.
“That doesn’t sound right. Anyway, his last name’s Weinhart.” The driver shot another glance at the sketch. “There’s a resemblance. Except …”
“Except what?”
“Except this is a picture of the stiff, right?”
“Right.”
“So it can’t be Weinhart.”
“Why’s that?”
“All the wheels left yesterday morning,” Musclepig told him. “They took the company jet out of Deadhorse. Got out just before this storm hit. Lucky bums.”
“And Weinhart was on the plane?”
“Yep.” The driver downshifted to navigate through a section of deteriorated ice. “At least, he was supposed to be.”
TWELVE
A TREMENDOUS BLAST of wind found the Forerunner and they were suddenly traveling sideways, studded tires grating angrily against the ice. The vehicle rocked wildly on groaning shocks and threatened to perform a 180.
The driver responded nonchalantly, twisting the wheel to counter the spin. When the Toyota was under control again, he said, “Didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m Tom Reynolds. Head of security for Davis.” Turning in his seat he offered a hand.
Ray shook it. The grip was firm, confident, a fitting complement to Reynolds’s demeanor.
“Greg Leeland,” Musclepig said. His hand was large, the thick, sausagelike fingers and fleshy palm threatening to crush Ray’s hand. Leeland was not the kind of guy you wanted as an enemy. Ray wondered if a carbine would so much as slow this horse-of-a-man down.
“You’re out of Barrow, huh?” Reynolds asked, eyes on the sheets of snow assailing the glistening haul road.
“Yeah.”
“Is that where you’re from?” Leeland asked. “I mean … I know you’re a—a—a … But are you from Barrow?”
“No. I grew up in Nuiqsut.”
“Huh. Never heard of it.”
“West of here about seventy miles,” Reynolds reported. “As the crow flies.”
“Right.” Ray was warm now, his cheek stinging, the wound on his head throbbing. “What about you guys?”
“I’m from Fairbanks,” Reynolds said. “Grew up there, served at Eielson Airforce Base. Greg here’s from Washington.”
“D.C.?”
“No. State. I was born in Ballard. Lived in Seattle until about two years ago.”
Ray looked out the side window. The glass was wet inside the cab, frozen outside. “What brought you guys to the Slope?”
“Money,” Leeland replied. He flashed Ray a Cheshire cat smile. “Big money. No other reason we’d come to this godforsaken armpit.”
Ray waited, wondering if either of them would catch the insult in the remark and realize that this “godforsaken armpit” was his home—the land of his people.
“I don’t know how them Eskimos can …” Leeland’s voice trailed off. Bing! “Oh … Uh … Hey, man, uh …”
“You’ll have to forgive Greg, here,” Reynolds advised in a fatherly tone. “He suffers from foot-in-mouth disease.”
Obviously, Ray thought. He’d had enough chitchat and was ready to get back to the business at hand. “Deputy Cleaver called you guys?”
Reynolds nodded. “Yep. Said the two of you were headed down from seventeen and he lost you somewhere along the way.”
“He say why he didn’t come back for me?” Ray asked, trying to mask his anger.
“The deputy had car trouble too,” Leeland reported. “Slid off the road about two miles from camp. A truck was pulling him out when we left to find you.”
“I appreciate the lift,” Ray told them. He began working his feet out of the bunny boots. “Mr. Simpson, the supervisor up on the rig, he said you guys were supposed to come up this morning, to check out the body, assess the situation …”
“We were,” Reynolds grunted. “The response plan was to send the whole security crew up with the emergency medical team. Problem was, the EMTs high-centered about ten minutes out of Prudhoe. The idiots were in an all-wheel drive van.” He shook his head at this. “If it ain’t a four-by-four, it shouldn’t be up here. That’s my opinion.”
“We spent three hours getting them out of the drift,” Leeland lamented. “We’re talking cold. Darn cold. Nearly frostbit my …”
“By then,” Reynolds interrupted, “visibility was in the toilet. Zero, if that. And we got the report that the body at seventeen wasn’t in need of medical assistance. The man was dead. So Red called us back to camp and told us to wait out the storm.”
“Red?”
“Mr. Bauer, supervisor of Davis operations on the Slope,” Leeland said. “Everybody calls him Red.”
“You’ll see why when you meet him,” Reynolds said.
“Maybe he could tell us about Weinhart. Whether he was on that plane or not.”
“I can find that out for you right now,” Reynolds announced. “Or at least, get the ball rolling.” He reached for the radio mike. “Home Sweet Home, this is Pilgrim-one. How do you copy?”
As the static surged, keeping time with the wind, Leeland told Ray, “Tom here is ex-Marine. Came up with all the code names himself. If you couldn’t tell.”
Reynolds ignored this. When there was no response on the radio, he tried again. “Home Sweet Home, this is Pilgrim-one. How do you copy?”
Five seconds later a tiny voice responded through the audio noise. “Pilgrim-one, this is Home Sweet Home. I read you, but just barely. Try another channel.”
Reynolds reached for the radio. “Switching to channel twelve.” He twisted a knob, then repeated his mantra. “Home Sweet Home, this is Pilgrim-one. How do you copy?”
“Better,” a clearer voice said. “Not perfect, but I can actually hear you now, Tom.”
“Grace?”
“Yeah. What’s your location, Tom?”
“We’re about …”—he let his thumb up and asked Leeland—“You see the cut off to ARCO yet?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean we haven’t been by it.”
“We’re maybe five miles out—give or take. It’s hard to tell. But we’re creeping our way home.”
“Did you find the missing police officer?”
“Ten-four. Got him in the backseat. He’s fine. Listen, Grace, I need you to get Houston on the horn. Have them fax a passenger list for the company jet—the one that left Prudhoe yesterday A.M. See who was on it.”
“I can tell you that. Three VPs, the regional director, and Mr. Parker, the manager of California/Alaska operations. The only exec who hung around was Makintanz.”
“Chief Makintanz?” Ray wondered aloud.
Reynolds nodded. “I know the whole gang was supposed to be on the plane, Grace. But we need to know who actually got on board in Deadhorse and who got off down south.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes. I’ll try to have that for you by the time you get here.”
“Oh, and Grace? You know Weinhart, the VP? What’s his first name?”
“Hank,” she replied without hesitation.
“Told you,” Leeland said.
“Thanks. See you in fifteen. Pilgrim-one out.”
“Home Sweet Home, out,” Grace’s distant voice replied.
Ray watched Reynolds replace the mike, then asked, “What’s Chief Makintanz have to do with Davis Oil?”
Leeland blew air at this. “Everything.”
When there was no further explanation, he prodded, “Everything?”
“Makintanz is on the board of directors,” Reynolds said. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, concentrating on staying on the road.
“Since when?”
“Since about … oh, maybe a month ago.”
“How’d Davis ever convince Makintanz to sit on their board?”
“Money,” Reynolds replied.
Ray considered this. “Money? The chief may be greedy, but …
He’s been giving the oil companies a hard time for years. Isn’t his son-in-law still the president of Arctic Slope Regional?”
Reynolds nodded.
The Arctic Slope Regional Corporation, or ASRC, was a Native corporation, one of thirteen that had been formed under the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act of 1971. The purpose of the corporations was to manage the money and land bestowed on the Natives by the government. In Ray’s mind, the Native corps were on one side of the fray; British Petroleum, Arco, Exxon, Davis and the rest of the oil interests on the other. The former acted as a landlord—protecting the environment while accepting a healthy “lease fee.” The latter was relegated to the role of renter, paying handsomely for the privilege of sucking crude oil from beneath the permafrost.
“Guy’s playing both sides of the deal,” Leeland observed.
Still nodding, Reynolds added, “He’s tight with a group that manages the Slope. You know he’s gotta be raking in the bucks, especially since ASRC just raised its lease rates. They’re making the oil companies pay big time to get their petroleum. And at the same time, he’s getting a big fat paycheck from Davis, just for riding the jet down to Houston and promising to make the annual shareholder meetings.”
“I can’t decide if they hired him for his clout or his skin,” Leeland grumbled. “Must look pretty good having an Eskimo at the conference table. A token klooch, if you know what I mean.”
Ray did, and wasn’t particularly fond of Leeland’s choice of words. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”
“Exactly,” Reynolds conceded. “That’s what everybody thinks. Including the North Slope Borough, the FTC, the BLM, and the State of Alaska. Consequently, he’s being sued by a dozen interested parties—breach of trade agreements, conflict of interest, breaking various and sundry laws.”
“Why hasn’t this been in the news?”
“The whole thing’s been pretty hush-hush,” Leeland pointed out. “Somehow they kept it out of the press mostly.”
“The only reason we know is cause we work for Davis,” Reynolds confessed. “The guys in camp got a pool going—how long Makintanz will be working for Davis, whether or not he’ll get the shaft in court, that sort of thing. I’m betting he’ll squeak through, get off clean and that much wealthier, as usual.”
“Especially with the Davis legal eagles fighting for him,” Leeland added.
That Chief Roger Makintanz was experiencing legal difficulties was no surprise to Ray. The man was famous—or rather infamous—for his flamboyant, and often illegal, business ventures. Though he was Tlingit, born in Southeastern Alaska, the chief had adopted the far north as his home back in the 60s, presumably because the open, Wild West atmosphere was conducive to his wheeler-dealer lifestyle. It was a land ripe for exploitation. Head of his own tribe—a group composed solely of close relatives—Makintanz had bestowed upon himself the title of Chief and used it, along with his smooth, forked tongue to build an impressive empire of wealth and influence. In the past thirty years he had been accused of everything from real estate fraud to embezzlement to income tax evasion, yet never been convicted. Everyone in Alaska knew he was a crook, nothing more than a talented con man, a charlatan, but no one seemed able to slow his rise to power.
Makintanz had burrowed himself into the landscape like a tick, securing a place in the thick hide of the Last Frontier. He was unwelcome, yet inescapable—a pushy uncle with bad breath who had come for a visit and wouldn’t leave. No one liked him. The whites were jealous of the way money seemed to flock to him. The People resented his attempts to play the Eskimo, dressing in wolf parkas and mukluks, pretending to be an elder, despite his heritage. Still, he was tolerated because he served a purpose. The money he made stayed instate, most trickling its way into Native businesses. And in recent years he had proven to be a very effective lobbyist for various Native corporations, helping to bleed more and more economic benefits from the government and the oil companies. Though he was not altruistic in the least, what was good for Chief Makintanz turned out to be, in the long run, good for the Inupiat.
Why would Davis put the chief on their board? Ray wondered. It was tantamount to making the devil a cardinal and inviting him to take an office in the Vatican. Maybe Leeland, the bigot, was right. Maybe the chief was a token klooch, placed on the board to bolster public image—to make Davis seem empathetic toward the Natives. Even so, why would they provide him with legal assistance? Ray was about to submit these questions to his hosts when the main camp flickered into view: a scattering of halogen lamps winking at them through driven snow.
“Home Sweet Home,” Reynolds announced.
“Depressing, ain’t it?” Leeland grumbled.
Actually there was a depressing aspect to it, especially in this weather. The camp was bigger than the one at the ice rig, but just as bleak. Despite the lights, the collection of low buildings appeared lonely and deserted in the blowing snow—drab, gray structures that could have been abandoned days, even months ago.
Ray was used to it, however. To him, it was more a scene of seasonal inactivity than of hopelessness. Barrow was every bit as lifeless in the dead of winter. At this latitude, human beings were aliens, creatures out of their element. In order to survive, they had to build cocoons, to seek out warmth and shelter and remain protected.
Understanding the circular rhythms of the land made the harsh, often brutal environment more tolerable. Recognizing that each season was limited, inevitable, and served a distinct purpose was the key. Denial of these fundamental truths led to discontent, even insanity. The Inupiat had long accepted that their world fell under a frozen spell of darkness for eight months. This was a celebrated event, an integral part of their culture. Such was the case with spring, the thaw bringing great joy to the People. Summer above the Arctic Circle was fully appreciated, perhaps more than anywhere else on the globe. The month-long growing season was honored, even as the return of fall was embraced—and with it, the approach of death.
“Least we got good facilities,” Leeland was saying. “You should see the weight room.” He paused to punctuate this with a curse.
Ray imagined that Leeland spent his every off-hour there, lifting slabs of calibrated lead. It had to take several hours a day to satisfy that hyper-buff physique.
“Nautilus, free-weights,” Leeland continued, his voice laden with praise.
“Is that right?”
“Chow’s tops too,” Reynolds said. “Davis has the best cooks on the slope. You like pastries?”
Ray nodded politely. Actually, despite his occupation, he wasn’t a big donut fan.
“You’re in for a treat, then,” Reynolds told him. “Sticky buns, apple fritters, bear claws, eclairs …” He licked his lips as if he had just sampled these.
“I’m starving,” Leeland panted.
They passed a wooden sign half buried in snow. The trembling placard announced their arrival at Davis Oil—Prudhoe Bay. There was no formal entrance, no fence, but the buildings formed an uneven circle, like wagons circled against an Indian attack.
Reynolds navigated across the yard, past an array of diesel trucks and pickups, before pulling to a stop in front of a wide, two-story modular. It was almost identical to the camp back at the rig—the same stocky, trailerlike outershell but incorporated more windows and occupied perhaps three or four times more square feet. A thermometer next to the door read minus 48.
“At least it’s warmer here,” Ray offered, gathering his gear.
As Reynolds switched off the Forerunner, he shook his head at the thermometer. “That’s wrong. Off by a good ten degrees.”
“Yeah,” Leeland said, frowning. “Probably more like minus fifty-eight. Crank in the chill factor and it’s maybe a hundred below. Cold enough to freeze your …”
“Come on,” Reynolds urged. “We’ll introduce you to Red.”
“Then get some grub!” Leeland insisted.
The doors popped open and they made a dash for the entrance. As they did, R
ay realized that the security guards were right. The thermometer was way off. Having neglected to re-don his mask and goggles, he could feel the skin of his face freezing. When they reached the door ten seconds later, his chest was already aching from sucking frigid air directly into his unprotected windpipe.
The men hurried through the entrance, escaping into a warm, bright womb. It was more luxurious than Ray had expected: attractive tile in the entryway, generous closets with hinged wooden doors along the side walls, two paintings of wintry oil rigs adorning the back wall, a couch and chairs that looked brand new.
After discarding his cold weather attire and boots, Reynolds offered Ray a pair of polar-fleece slippers with leather soles.
Ray stared at them, puzzled.
“Take ‘em. Everybody wears ‘em inside. Saves wear and tear on your socks.”
Leeland had already pulled his on and was waiting at the door. Having shed the bulky parka, the man magically swelled in size, his shoulders broader, his neck even less apparent.
“Ready?” Reynolds asked. Though trim and clearly in good shape, he was dwarfed by his partner.
“Yeah.” Ray followed them down a carpeted hallway into a spacious atrium. It was like something in a hotel lobby: glass skylights, ferns, several couches and overstuffed armchairs. A coffee table held a neat fan of oil-industry journals and two worn copies of last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
“Meet you in the office,” Leeland said. “I’m gonna get some chow.” He peeled off to the right, striding like a man with a purpose
After traversing another corridor, this one lined with handsome art—mostly horse-mounted cowboys gazing at distant oil rigs—Ray and Reynolds reached an outer office area where a secretary was busy on a computer. She was in her early twenties with a trim figure, an attractive face and well-kept auburn hair.
“Say, Judy. The boss in?”
When the woman looked up, her expression changed from one of concentration to one of amusement. “Yes, he is, Tom,” she replied, eyelashes batting. “I suppose you’d like to see him.”
“Yes, ma’am. If he’s got a minute.”
Elements of Kill Page 10
