by Stan Jones
An Inupiat woman came out of the house, climbed on a Honda four-wheeler, and drove away. Active knocked and Clara Stone let him in, her brown face as rigid as a whalebone mask on a museum wall.
"I'm sorry for your trouble," he said.
She nodded and led him through the kunnichuk to the kitchen. "You want coffee or something?" She motioned at the dining table. It was covered with dishes sheathed in aluminum foil or plastic wrap. "Everybody bring food over when they hear about Aaron."
"Just coffee." He slipped off his parka, hung it on the back of a chair, and sat down. "Do you have someone to stay with you?"
She turned on a burner under a pot on an electric stove. "My daughter is coming in from Nuliakuk this afternoon with her kids. That will be good. Those grandkids sure keep me busy."
She sat down across the table and stared at her hands. "I hear you think somebody shoot Aaron."
"My report isn't done yet, but I think it will say there was no evidence of foul play at the scene."
She absorbed the information in silence. Her expression didn't change, but tears appeared on her cheeks. Active handed her his handkerchief. She took it absently and held it in her lap.
He wondered if what he had said was a lie. There was nothing that amounted to proof of foul play at the scene— maybe. But what about the spruce branch that didn't seem to have come from any of the trees near Aaron Stone's snowgo? What about the lack of boot tracks around the machine? Did those things amount to evidence of foul play?
"It's my fault," she said finally. "I should have let him get that snowgo."
"But he had his snowmachine with him when... he had it at Katy Creek."
"That's his old snowgo," she said. "He want new snowgo this fall when freezeup come, but I tell him we don't have enough money. He never know I'm really getting him new Yamaha for Christmas."
"I don't think he would hurt himself just because of a snowmachine," he said. She didn't react. "Otherwise did he seem all right? Did he have any problems at work?"
"He never talk much about work, but he seem happy," she said. "I think he's glad he don't have to hunt caribou to sell anymore. He never feel right about that, so he like it when Gray Wolf hire him. Then he can give away more."
The coffee pot began to simmer. She got up, poured a cup, and pushed it across the table.
"Only thing he ever complain about is how I won't let him get new snowgo," she said. She dabbed her eyes with Active's handkerchief. "He always say, 'Look like I'm the woman in this house now. Next thing I'll be sitting down to pee.' I sure laugh when I think how he's gonna see that new snowgo Christmas morning."
She blew her nose into the handkerchief, then balled it up in one hand. "I guess I better call the Yamaha shop now and cancel my order." The tears came again. "Arii, I sure miss him."
"I really don't think he would kill himself because of a snowmachine."
"I don't know. There's so many people killing theirself around here, I never know what they're thinking. Maybe they would do it because their snowgo was too old."
"Usually they do it because they get sick inside," Active said. "Their drinking gets out of control, they feel like they're nobody, and they give up. Did Aaron drink much? We found whiskey bottles at his camp."
The woman's head jerked up and she stared at him, hard.
"Aaron never drink," she said. "Never! He always say liquor is like poison, especially for Eskimos. I used to drink little bit when I'm young girl. But Aaron say I have to stop if I want to marry him, so I never drink again. If there's whiskey at our camp, somebody else leave it. Maybe somebody visit him?"
Active was silent, studying Clara Stone's eyes. "Maybe so," he said finally.
THE DOOR to Jim Silver's office was unlocked, so Active stuck in his head. "Busy?"
"Oh, just catching up on my paperwork and marveling at the number of people who have told me that you think somebody murdered Aaron Stone," the police chief said. "Coffee?"
"Black."
Silver pushed back from his desk and lumbered over to the coffee pot. "I'm further marveling to think you'd shoot off your mouth about it to the likes of Cowboy Decker. You might as well put it on 'Mukluk Messenger.' "
"Exactly," Active said. "And now I'm telling people there's no evidence of foul play at the scene. That way, everybody will get confused and go back to talking about the weather." He dropped into the chair in front of Silver's desk and shrugged out of his parka. "Except the killer, if there is a killer. He'll get nervous and screw up. I hope."
Silver set a Styrofoam cup in front of Active and shook his head. "For my money, there's no killer except in your head. But let's not get into that. Just tell me what you found over there at Katy Creek that moved you to unburden yourself to Cowboy Decker."
"Actually, it wasn't on the creek. It was by a lake a few miles south of Aaron's camp." Active walked to a map on the wall behind Silver's desk, studied it, then jabbed down a finger. "I think this is it. I don't believe it has an official name, but people call it Qaqsrauq Lake."
Silver swiveled his chair and looked at the spot. "Loon Lake." He shrugged. "I've heard people talk about it, but I've never been there."
Active described the scene at the spruce copse, flinging out his arms to portray Aaron Stone's frozen T on the seat of the Yamaha.
"But how could a killer set up the scene like that and not leave a trace?" Silver said when he finished. "Did he fly in and out like a raven?"
"Maybe he used a snowmachine." Active dropped back into the chair in front of Silver's desk and the chief turned to face him. "He runs into Aaron on the trail. They stop and talk like people do when they meet out in the country. He bums a Lucky Strike off Aaron. They have tea from Aaron's thermos. He asks how Aaron likes the .308, he picks it up to look through the scope, he turns around and shoots Aaron in the throat."
Silver thought it over. "Yeah, and leaves signs a blind man could read. His and Aaron's boot tracks, a hole where Aaron fell in the snow, blood all over the place. It would look like he butchered a caribou." He snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute, I'll show you."
Silver walked to a row of file cabinets against a wall and surveyed them, his hands on his hips, his belly hanging over his belt. "Shit, what was that guy's name? Oh, yeah." He reached into a drawer marked "T-Z" and pulled out a folder.
He walked back to the desk and scattered the contents in front of Active. "Tobias Westerman. Doctor from the hospital. Accidentally shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge by the pharmacist while they were ptarmigan hunting up at the north end of town three years ago. Look at all that blood."
Active studied the red snow. "Yeah, but this wasn't an instant kill. See how he thrashed around in the brush and sprayed blood everywhere? In Aaron Stone's case, the bullet destroyed the spine. I bet he didn't even twitch as he fell back."
"Maybe," Silver said. "But there would have to be some blood, plus all kinds of tracks in the snow."
"Yeah, but our guy's not done," Active said. "He cleans up the mess so it doesn't show unless you're standing on it. He pulls his snowmachine around in front of Aaron's rig, ties a rope to Aaron's skis, and tows him a few miles down the trail. He sets up the suicide scene and goes on his way. The snow and the thaw and the wind do their work and now you couldn't find the scene of the crime if you crawled along the snowgo trails with a magnifying glass and tweezers."
Silver swept the Westerman photos back into the folder. "I guess it's possible. But who would do it? And why? People around here don't plan to kill anybody. They just get drunk and it happens. And like I said the other day, nine times out of ten they head straight over here to tell me about it. Speaking of which, was there any sign Aaron was drinking?"
"Yes and no."
"Why don't we start with yes?"
"We found a couple of Jack Daniel's bottles in his cabin," Active said. "One empty, one half full."
"That's a pretty strong yes, I'd say. What's the no?"
"Clara Stone says Aaron never drank," Act
ive said. "Ever. So maybe he had a visitor who left the bottles behind. Maybe the same guy he met up with on the trail."
"Yeah, and maybe he didn't tell his wife everything. Some guys don't, you know." Silver walked to the file cabinet and dropped in the Westerman folder.
"Maybe," Active said. "Anyway, I'm going to have the bottles checked for fingerprints."
"Good luck. The crime lab in Anchorage is backed up two or three weeks, last I heard. But if they do recover any prints, I'll lay odds they'll all be Aaron's." Silver walked to the window and stared down at Third Street. "This mystery guy of yours would have had to be sober and plan way ahead and plant those bottles and... nah, I can't see it."
The phone on Silver's desk rang. He answered it and listened for several seconds.
"Yeah, I heard the same thing," he said. He listened again. "He's right here. Ask him yourself."
He handed Active the phone. "Roger Kennelly," he said, rolling his eyes. Active was not sure if the eye-roll was for the KSNO newsman or for himself.
"Can you give me a statement on Aaron Stone's death?" Kennelly said. "I hear he was murdered."
"Now, where would you hear something like that, Roger?"
"Everybody's talking about it."
"And did everybody see it with their own eyes?"
"No, but..."
"Then don't believe everything you hear," Active said. "Start your tape."
There was a pause and some clicks. "Go ahead."
"The Alaska State Troopers are investigating the death of Aaron Stone, whose body was found yesterday in the Katy Creek area," Active said. "At this time, the evidence does not suggest foul play."
He paused and cleared his throat. "How's that?"
"No evidence of foul play?" Kennelly said. "Are you saying it was another suicide?"
"I'm saying there was no evidence of foul play."
"So it was an accident then?"
"I'm saying there was no evidence of foul play."
"Gee, thanks a lot, Nathan," Kennelly said. "You're lucky the troopers don't pay you by the word."
Active handed the phone back to Silver, who hung it up and stared at him.
"See?" Active said with a wave at the phone. "More confusion, delivered to every radio in Chukchi, courtesy of Roger Kennelly."
Silver shook his head, looking disgusted. "At least you told him the truth, even if you don't believe it yourself. No evidence of foul play."
"OK, just a couple more things," Active said.
Silver held up his hand and scraped his chair back. "They'll have to wait. I'm going to George Clinton's funeral. You want to come?"
"His funeral? How can they have his funeral already? The autopsy can't possibly be finished."
"There won't be any autopsy."
Active stared at the chief. "But you said..."
"I know. But the coroner decided there wasn't any reason to do one and so the state won't pay."
Silver walked to the door and took a parka from a hook. "And the city's got budget problems, like everybody, so I decided I couldn't justify the money either. And why drag it out for his folks? It's a suicide. Like all the others."
"But..."
Silver opened the door and looked at Active. "But the only question right now is, do you want to go to the funeral with me or not?"
"Sure, sure."
"Good deal," Silver said. "We can take your Suburban. They're gonna bury him on the bluff across the lagoon and my van doesn't do too good on that road over there."
Active got his parka and followed the chief out of the office. "Aren't his brothers buried in the cemetery by the Dreamland?"
"It's full. That's why they started the new one on the bluff a couple years ago." Silver paused to lock the door, then headed downstairs.
"Anyway, there were a couple more things about Aaron Stone," Active said.
"You're worse than the west wind, you know that?"
"Suicide is for twenty-two-year-olds like George Clinton," Active said. "Aaron Stone was fifty-five. How many guys that age have you seen kill themselves?"
"Not many, maybe not any," Silver said. "But so what? Every winter, there's a couple days when the temperature hits a new low. It doesn't mean the climate is changing, doesn't mean the Great Perhaps is punishing us sinful children. It just means every so often, the old record's gonna get broken."
CHAPTER 7
Friday Morning, Bluff Cemetery, Chukchi
THEY CAME OUT OF the public safety building and inhaled involuntarily when the air hit their faces. In unison, they dived into the Suburban and slammed the doors.
"Jesus, what a day for a funeral," Silver said. "It must be twenty below. Not a new record, I guess, but at least the grave-side services should be brief."
"Let's hope," Active said. He started the Suburban and turned on the heater. The air it blew out was cold, but not quite as cold as outside. "How do they dig a grave after freezeup, anyway? They build a fire to thaw out the ground or something?"
"No," Silver said. "They dig them before freezeup."
Active twisted in his seat to look at the police chief. "Really? How many?"
"Usually about a dozen."
"How do they know how many?"
"I don't know how they know. Long experience, probably. Can we go now?"
Active put the Suburban in gear. It lurched forward, then died. "Needs to warm up more," he said, restarting the engine. "So, do they ever use all the graves up before breakup?"
"Geez, you're morbid," Silver said. "Yeah, sometimes they use them all up. Can we change the subject now?"
"But what if somebody else dies?"
"They put the coffins in a shipping van behind the hospital and pray the ground thaws before the departed do."
Active shuddered.
"Sometimes, it's better not to know the details," the chief said. He was silent for a moment, then chuckled.
"It did come in handy once, though," he said. "I had a guy who slashed his girlfriend's throat with her own ulu, but he didn't want to confess. So I arrested him, told him the jail was closed for repairs, and threw him into the van with her and a couple of other corpses that had piled up over the winter. Came back a couple hours later, and he was ready to talk."
Active shook his head. "Sounds cruel and unusual to me."
"Well, he didn't know enough to ask for a lawyer and I didn't offer," Silver said.
Active raced the engine of the Suburban. It sounded like it was ready to go. "Where's the service?"
"St. Mark's."
He put the Suburban in gear again. This time the engine stayed alive, and he pulled away from the public safety building. "No kidding. I didn't know the Clintons were Catholic."
"Yeah, going way back," Silver said.
"And they're giving him an official funeral? I thought suicide was kind of a touchy issue for the one true church." He turned onto Temple Avenue, jammed on the brakes to let a snowmachine cross, then drove on. St. Mark's was three blocks west, on Second Street.
"Father Sebastian is one of Annie Clinton's nephews," Silver said. "Besides which, if the Catholics got too persnickety about suicide around here, they'd be out of business. Like I said, sometimes it's better not to know the details."
"Speaking of details, George Clinton and Aaron Stone both worked at the Gray Wolf," Active said. "How many times..."
"Don't say it," Silver snapped. "How many times have two suicides in a row been people who worked at the same place? I have no idea. Never, probably."
"Plus, this is two suicides in a week," Active said. "That's a lot for a town of twenty-five hundred."
Silver put a big red weather-cracked hand on the trooper's shoulder. "Look, Nathan, there's always loose ends. But you've got to let this go or you'll end up as crazy as a white person who stays in the Bush too long."
He pulled the hand off Active's shoulder and punched him with it. "Anyway, here we are."
Active stopped the Suburban in front of a weathered gray two-story building
. St. Mark's looked big enough for its work of saving souls, but perhaps too old and tired for the job. The lot in front was becoming crowded with snowmachines, four-wheelers, and a few cars and pickups.
"Come on," Silver said. "I don't know why, but I always go to these things."
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, slipped into the chapel, and stood along the back wall. Red-tinted windows bathed the mourners in a peaceful ruby light and the word "sanctuary" came into Active's mind.
Daniel and Annie Clinton, Julius between them, sat on a bench at the front. George's coffin, covered by a white parka, stood beside them in the aisle between the two banks of wooden pews.
"Where do you like to sit?" Active whispered.
"I don't," Silver said. "I just stand back here. Being an unbeliever, it's against my religion to take up a pew that should rightly go to one of the faithful."
The room was starting to fill. People crossed themselves as they entered, then took seats or stood along the back and side walls. Perhaps two hundred and fifty people were crowded into the chapel by the time an Inupiaq in priest's robes came out to stand before the coffin.
"That's Annie Clinton's nephew I was telling you about," Silver whispered. "Sebastian James."
Active studied the man. He looked young and serious. Active wondered how he could face the burdens of ministering to the human soul in a place like Chukchi.
"Comes from a village upriver, but he went to Notre Dame," Silver whispered. "Very smart guy. Chukchi's lucky to get him."
Active looked around the chapel as Father Sebastian led the congregation through the funeral service. Some of the young women had babies inside their parkas, signified by humps on their backs and scarves tied around their waists. One of the humps started to cry, and the mother jiggled in place in an effort to quiet the baby.
When the cries continued, she lifted up the hem of the parka and worked the hump around to the front. The cries ceased and Active surmised the baby had been hungry.
"We expect the old people to die," Father Sebastian concluded finally. "But when the young die, it hurts us. The young people are the hope of the future and the hope of the old people."
