Grandfather glared at him and pointed to the couch with a bony finger. “Coffee later. First, sit!”
Ray obeyed, while Maniilaq launched out on another depressing chant, this time singing about the dangers of dark anjatkuts.
Fifteen minutes later, the shaman’s hoarse, off-key voice finally found the end of the song. He exhaled loudly, blowing out air as if a sharp instrument had just punctured him. Opening his eyes, he looked directly at Ray. The man seemed dazed, sedated. Ray stared back, wondering if old George was high on something.
It was another two minutes before Maniilaq whispered, “Tuungak.”
“What about them?” Ray asked, his voice edged with irritation. This was taking too long. “Tuungak speak.”
“And what do they say?” he prodded. Still staring at Ray, Maniilaq offered an impassioned reply, in Inupiaq.
“Tuungak afraid,” Grandfather translated. “Afraid? Of what?”
Maniilaq supplied a paragraph of garbled, nearly indecipherable words. When he had finished, Grandfather nodded, his expression grave.
“Tuungak afraid evil anjatkut. Afraid he make do … Do bad. Do evil.”
Ray almost rolled his eyes at this. “Could you be a little more specific?”
Maniilaq responded with a raised voice. It echoed from the sod walls.
“Afraid much killing. Much killing,” Grandfather began translating. “Afraid …” He paused, the blood draining from his face.
“What?”
“Afraid anjatkut kill three. This night … three …” “Three? Three more?”
Grandfather shook his head. “You. You three. Afraid anjatkut kill you … this night.”
NINETEEN
“HOW MUCH?” RAY asked with a sigh.
Maniilaq seemed genuinely puzzled. The old man turned to Grandfather and shrugged, muttering an Inupiaq phrase.
“I’m in danger. He can protect me,” Ray deadpanned. “Ask him how much he wants.”
Grandfather conferred with the shaman in hushed tones, then replied, “He no understand.”
Ray scoffed at this. Maniilaq was nothing if not clever. The man could speak patois—village English—as well as anybody else. Strange how he was suddenly unable to comprehend a simple statement when money was at issue.
“It’s a shakedown, Grandfather,” Ray grumbled. “Maniilaq has information that I need. How much does he want?”
“Adii!” Grandfather bellowed. “Raymond, no respect. No respect Maniilaq. No respect tuungak.” He paused, his face falling in an expression of utter disappointment. “No respect me. No respect People.”
Ray was in no mood for this. “I’m just trying to move things along. If there’s a powerful anjatkut after me, I need help,” he said, making an attempt to sound halfway sincere. “Maniilaq here is my only hope,” he lied. “How much would be appropriate to procure his services.”
The two men discussed this at length. When they were finished, Maniilaq grunted, “Twenty dollar.”
As reasonable as any other informant, Ray thought. Fishing out his wallet, he laid a twenty on the floor in front of the shaman.
“You no got change—smaller bills,” Maniilaq complained.
Ray almost laughed. Instead, he forced himself to keep a straight face as he traded the twenty for two five’s and a ten.
“How’s that?”
The shaman nodded appreciatively.
“Now, what can you tell me about this … anjatkut?”
“Much powerful,” Maniilaq replied, still nodding. “Much powerful.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a name … a description, maybe?”
The shaman’s nose wrinkled up—the nonverbal cue for no.
“Is it a man?”
The eyebrows rose, the eyes widening: yes.
“Does he work for an oil company?”
Again the eyebrows jumped toward the ceiling.
“So he’s not a Native?” Ray clarified.
Maniilaq’s lips formed a pronounced frown. “Is he a Native?”
His eyes grew wide.
“Okay. Male, Native, works for an oil company.”
Maniilaq groaned, then uttered an explanation in Inupiat. Ray caught a few words: responsible, many, powerful, evil, many …
When he was finished, Ray turned to Grandfather. “What did he say?”
“If you study ways of People, you know.”
“Grandfather!” Ray insisted. This wasn’t the time for a lecture on keeping the old ways and language alive.
Grandfather blew air at him. “Aiyyaa … He say anjatkut make killing. Many help.”
“Many help? What’s that supposed to mean? How many anjatkuts are there?”
The old man raised a thin finger toward him. “One just. But many evil. Army. Much killing. Maybe.”
“Army? Are you telling me this guy is military?” Ray immediately thought of Reynolds.
Grandfather shook his head, clearly annoyed by the question. “Anjatkut kill. Others help. Much powerful.”
Ray’s head was beginning to ache—from lack of sleep, from this convoluted, veiled description of the murderer, from sitting in an ivrulik with two senile old men. Rubbing his temples, he clarified, “So one man did the killing, others helped him. Did he force them to help? Did he threaten them? Or did they want to help? Is this some sort of conspiracy?”
Maniilaq mumbled something to Grandfather. The old man listened, then said, “You make … twisted. But no. Not twisted. Simple.”
“Simple, right.” Ray shook his head at them.
The shaman cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Anjatkut end life. Much evil. Naluaqmiut serve. Honor anjatkut power.”
Ray closed his eyes and tried to think through the gibberish. A Native oil worker had murdered a man—Hank Weinhart by the looks of it. Possibly two men, if Driscoll fit the MO. Then white men had helped cover the killings up. Why? Because of the Native’s power? That ruled out the roustabouts. They had no power whatsoever. They were the low men on the totem pole. Who was in a position of authority? Simpson? Bauer? Wrong race. Finally, a face materialized in his mind: chubby brown cheeks, cheerful olive eyes, thick lips and a smile that revealed a mouth full of sharp yellow teeth. Chief Makintanz?
It was a good guess. The only problem was, as usual, motive. Why would Makintanz kill a Davis Oil VP? Makintanz was now on the Davis board. Killing Weinhart would be like shooting himself in the foot. And if he had committed murder, or double murder, why in the world would Davis people help cover it up? Answer: they wouldn’t. Especially if he had murdered two of their own. No. It made absolutely no sense, except that it fulfilled Maniilaq’s vague portrait of the perpetrator.
Ray stood, disappointed, more weary than ever, suddenly aware that he had actually been expecting this little conference to provide him with some sort of practical direction in the investigation. For some reason, he had allowed his expectations to rise, in the face of common sense, and had actually been hoping that Maniilaq would magically solve the case. That obviously wasn’t going to happen. He chided himself for being such a sap.
“I need some coffee,” he announced on his way to the kitchen. “Then I need to get back over to Prudhoe.”
A dented steel pot was quivering frantically on the propane stove, the hissing blue flame causing the liquid inside to bubble and gurgle. Removing it from the heat, Ray wondered how Grandfather kept from burning the ivrulik to the ground. He was growing more and more forgetful, more and more neglectful, more and more dangerous. Two months earlier the old man had left one of the space heaters on for three days while he went seal hunting. By the time he returned, the heater was nothing but a shell of melted coils and wires. That it hadn’t exploded or erupted in flames was something of a miracle.
Ray poured himself a mug of coffee and sipped it carefully. It was too hot, too strong, too bitter, slightly burned. Just the way Grandfather liked it.
He was in the process of filling two more mugs when Grandfather appeared at his sid
e. The old man watched him closely, as if he were performing some delicate task that required precision and skill. Finally, he whispered, “No go.”
Ray handed him a mug. “I have to. I have work to do.”
Grandfather rested a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I worry for Raymond.”
“I’m a big boy now. I can take care of myself.”
The old man shook his head, a grave look on his face. “This no bully. This evil. No go. Let Maniilaq talk tuungak. Help you.”
“Grandfather …” Ray groaned. “You asked me to come, I came. Okay? Now I have to get back.” Taking the remaining cup, he returned to the front room and handed it to the shaman. “Taiku. I appreciate your help,” he told him, only half seriously. Maniilaq frowned at this. The three men spent the next five minutes drinking their coffee, attending to the wind, watching wisps of steam rise from their mugs and curl playfully toward the ceiling.
When Ray’s coffee was nearly gone, he began climbing back into his cold-weather gear. The two old men sat glaring at him, scowls creating deep furrows in their leathery faces: the brothers glum.
Ray was pulling on his boots when Maniilaq muttered, “Doubt.”
Grandfather nodded thoughtfully, as if this one word pronouncement answered every dilemma that had ever faced mankind.
“Doubt cloud eyes. No can see.”
“No can see,” Grandfather repeated, still nodding.
Zipping his RefrigiWear suit, Ray pretended not to hear them.
“Tuungak say ground move. No steady, Raymond.”
“Is that right?” He pulled on his parka.
“No trust anyone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But you …” Maniilaq tossed his head back and issued a screech, something akin to a bird in pain. Ray stared at him. The guy was nuts, probably doing drugs.
“Tuungak afraid anjatkut.”
“So you said.”
“But they more afraid you.”
“Me? Listen, if you’re looking for another twenty, forget it.”
“They afraid you …” Maniilaq moaned. His eyes were closed again, his face toward the sod roof. “Great of Tuungak follow you.”
Fastening his hood, Ray pulled his mittens out of a pocket.
“Great of Tuungak …” The shaman’s voice cracked and he slid from his chair. He donned the grotesque mask with trembling hands before grunting, “Great of Tuungak.”
Ray sighed at this. Either the guy was going all out for an extra tip, or he was having a stroke. Whichever, Ray didn’t have the time or the energy for it.
Kneeling on the earthen floor, Maniilaq lifted two quaking arms into the air. His breath was coming in gasps, amplified by the mask. He was almost sobbing.
Okay, so the joker was convincing. Ray pulled out his wallet, removed the twenty, placed it on the floor. “There. And no, I don’t have change.”
Maniilaq never even gave the bill a glance. Hidden beneath the brittle face of twisted stone, he groaned, “Great of Tuungak … Great of Tuungak … He mark you.”
“Huh?”
“Mark you his own.” He mumbled something in Inupiaq, then added, “I see boy … full of dark … Listen doubt long time … Light come. He run away. Light chase. Hungry Light … Only Light … Light swallow him. He make like moon—reflect only Light in dark. No more doubt.”
Ray finished his coffee in a gulp. Whatever.
“Danger look you,” he continued. “Evil look you. But Great of Tuungak … Light … Only Light … He cover you … like blanket. You no die. But almost.”
“Hopefully I can flange this thing up in the next day or so,” Ray whispered to Grandfather.
The old man grimaced at him, as if in pain. “You stiff-necked. No listen to wise man.”
“I listened. But I’m responsible for investigating a murder,” Ray said, growing angry. “Two murders now. I appreciate your help but I really need to …”
Grandfather silenced him with a finger. “You listen!”
“Boy has foot in sea, foot in river,” Maniilaq continued. “Sea is old, never change. River always new. Boy must walk crooked—part old, part new.” From beneath the mask, he whispered, “You crooked boy.”
The word picture, hokey as it sounded, struck a chord in Ray. Maniilaq might have been misguided, but he had hit the mark with that description. Ray was, after all, attempting to find a balance between the old ways and the new, between his Inupiat roots and the ever-changing world of white culture. Being an Eskimo at the dawn of the twenty-first century was both a blessing and a curse. Crooked …
Maniilaq removed the mask and rose awkwardly, like a man stumbling out of bed after a long sleep. Taking Ray’s hands in his own, he said, “Anjatkut mad. Crazy. Part him hiding. Salome … Salome betray him … dishonor him … in beauty. Make much angry. He hide in place of kings. You find. Go where all man go. To beauty. Salome in beauty. You find.” He paused, then, “You path uneven. Ground move. No trust—except Great of Tuungak. He guide. He protect. You no doubt, you no die.”
“That’s good to hear.” As Ray turned to leave, the shaman refused to let go of his hands. The grip was surprisingly firm. “You take,” he said. Reaching inside his coat, he removed a leather satchel. He spun Ray around and attached something to the ponytail hidden in the layers of his clothing. An amulet, Ray decided, unable to see it.
“You trust sign of Kila. Mighty Kila. You trust.”
“Okay. I will.” He shook Maniilaq’s hand, gave Grandfather a hug, and adjusted his goggles. “I’ll do that. Taiku.”
“Mighty Kila go with you,” Maniilaq said, his right arm outstretched. “Protect.”
Opening the door, Ray made his escape. Outside, it was bitter, intensely cold, yet to Ray it was almost refreshing. He would much rather brave the elements, hostile as they might be at present, than be badgered by a witch doctor, verbally berated for his lack of “faith,” treated like an ignorant, disobedient child who was not capable of comprehending the higher ways of the elders. The experience had left him frustrated, annoyed at having allowed himself to be swept up in such a silly charade.
Fruitless. That was the word that came to mind as he started the Polaris and urged it away from the ivrulik. Totally and utterly fruitless. Other than a confusing, nonsensical prophecy from a fake shaman, he had gained nothing from the venture. Nothing except a pounding headache—and a lighter wallet. Despite the coffee, he felt depleted. If only he could go home, go to bed, take that time off he had coming.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. Not unless one of two events occurred. He would either have to close this case, or the weather would have to break, allowing the authorities from Anchorage to make it into Deadhorse. Staring into the frenzied snow and the vacant sky behind it, he decided that the tuungak in control of this storm had no intention of providing relief anytime in the near future. So that left him with the first alternative: close the case. In order to do that, he would need to solve a puzzle that was missing a number of pieces, and which he was being forced to work on blindfolded.
He reevaluated the case as the Polaris plowed along the trail: the murder, the earmarkings of nigiluq, the disappearance of the John Doe corpse, the discovery of another body, this one the rig foreman … What did it all mean?
Motoring through the loneliness of Nuiqsut, Ray reflected on Maniilaq’s rantings. Great Tuungak … Great Kila … Going toward the light … Gibberish that didn’t offer so much as a shred of useful information. And the anjatkut … According to the shaman, the murderer was a powerful anjatkut, a Native with great influence. That still brought Makintanz to mind.
As he left the flickering mercury lamps of Nuiqsut behind, Ray tried to imagine Chief Makintanz “hunting” humans as if they were animals. The guy was a quack, a charlatan who liked to practice the old ways while living in white-man comfort and wealth. A pretend Eskimo. Still, was he clinically insane? Wouldn’t you have to be to slice a man up like that? And was the chief bodily capable of such an act? The last ti
me Ray had seen a picture of Makintanz in the news, the guy was about the size of a house: folds of flabby skin, thick, stubby limbs, grotesquely expanding waist … a four hundred pound advertisement for the horrors of gluttony. A heart attack waiting to happen. Motivation aside, Makintanz seemed an unlikely candidate for the suspect list.
Ray shook off the case and its impressive array of dangling loose ends as the Polaris continued skating east. The wind was changing, whipping the snow south, then reversing itself to blow the same pellets northward. Each gust rocked the Polaris on its skis, threatening to dislodge the sled from its hitch and send it cartwheeling into a drift
For the hour and a half that followed, Ray ordered himself to think of something else, to give himself a respite from the frustrating mystery. He occupied himself with images of Margaret, their upcoming wedding, the shower he was probably going to miss.
The lights of the BP camp were shimmering on the horizon, when a phrase floated into his mind: Hiding in beauty … That was what Maniilaq had said about the anjatkut. What was that supposed to mean? Probably nothing, just more animistic mumbo jumbo. It was nonspecific enough to bear almost any application—the trait of a good prophecy. It could never be proved, but then, it could never be disproved either. Hiding among beauty … Hiding in a place of kings … Maybe the murderer had fled the country and was hiding out in the Bahamas. No. Maniilaq had further explained that it was a place where all men go. Where did all men go? To work? To breakfast? To bed? To the can? And what was that business about Salome? Was that a name? Of whom? Maybe it was patois for an unfaithful person, a traitor. According to Maniilaq this Salome had betrayed the anjatkut. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? What a bunch of …
Ray felt more than heard the initial hiccup. The Polaris hesitated for an instant, as if momentarily unsure about its course, then continued on, confident and determined. Ten seconds later, the machine coughed, losing speed. Ray instinctively gave the throttle a squeeze. The Polaris responded by roaring forward. He eyed the gauges: the gas tank was three quarters full, the oil pressure and temperature needles perfectly centered. It was another mile or two before the next stutter. Ray urged the vehicle on with a twist of his wrist. This time, instead of accelerating, the machine began to hack. Soon it was having a seizure, bleeding speed, the engine fighting to remain alive.
Elements of Kill Page 16
