A Night Too Dark

by Dana Stabenow

  The Suulutaq Mine, on the other hand, was a gold mine, fifty miles south-southwest of town, inaccessible by road—so far—and a going concern. Two years before, Global Harvest Resources Inc. had discovered forty-two million ounces of gold, as well as commercial quantities of copper and molybdenum, on state leases in the middle of the Iqaluk Wildlife Refuge. They had, last time Kate checked, a hundred people on site, primarily engaged in drilling core samples in a continuing attempt to define the boundaries of a deposit that had thus far refused all limitation. They were also assembling the studies and documentation for their environmental impact statement. When the EIS was completed, accepted by the powers that be, and ratified by all the relevant state and federal agencies, as Kate had no doubt it would be, Global would go into production and their on-site population would rise to an estimated two thousand.

  “Abandon hope, all ye who enter the Park,” some wag had written on the Roadhouse wall in big black Marks-A-Lot letters. “Global cometh.”

  Not without effort, Kate put the thought aside. It would be years before a producing mine came to pass, years of attorneys representing Global and the Sierra Club and fishermen’s associations and miners’ guilds and the state government arguing their clients’ causes in one court after another. Sufficient unto the day would be the evil thereof. In the meantime, she was in search of her errant trooper. “Okay,” she said, “what’s going on up at the Kanuyaq, then?”

  “Wasillie Kvasnikof called in a report that some of the off-shift Suulutaq guys were partying up there and wrecking stuff.” Maggie was pulling off her dress jacket as she spoke. “It’s still private property, you know.”

  “I never said it wasn’t,” Kate said. “What’s with the fancy dress?”

  Maggie’s mouth turned down at the corners, and she tossed the blue jacket with the Alaska State Trooper insignia on a chair. Hurled it, more like. Mutt, standing on Kate’s right, cocked an apprehensive ear. “Since Jim is on call, I had to drive the Blazer in the parade.”

  Translated, this meant Sergeant Jim Chopin had taken the first opportunity that came his way to dump leading the parade off on Maggie Montgomery, his clerk, dispatcher, and warden. “If you were in the Blazer, what’s he driving?”

  “He went up with whoever it was that came whining into the office,” Maggie said. She wasn’t in a good mood. “You should see the call sheet since they went into full gear out there, Kate. Nothing but trouble. We don’t even get goddamn holidays off anymore.”

  Maggie didn’t often use profanity, and “out there” was understood by Kate to be the Suulutaq Mine, not the Kanuyaq. “I know. Jim hasn’t made it home for the last three nights.” That came out a little more forlorn than she had meant it to, and she said, “Bobby says you can’t hardly get in the door of the Roadhouse these days.”

  For a moment it looked like Maggie was going to burst into tears.

  “It’s jobs, Maggie.”

  “I know,” Maggie said, with an emphasis that brought Mutt’s ears up. “I know,” she repeated in a more subdued tone. “It’s just that—”

  All anyone ever wanted to talk about anymore was the goddamn Suulutaq Mine and what the mine was going to do to the Park. It was especially all anyone ever wanted to talk about to Kate, who, as the reigning chair of the board of directors of the Niniltna Native Association, the largest governing body in twenty million acres of Park lands, might be imagined to have some say in the matter.

  My life used to be so simple, she thought now, and she interrupted Maggie without compunction. “Anybody in back?”

  Maggie was hurt, and let it show by the curtness of her reply. “Petey Jeppsen. Oh, and Willard, of course.”

  “Willard” was Willard Shugak, Kate’s second or third cousin, or maybe her first cousin once removed—she could never remember which. There were a lot of Shugaks in the Park. There were a lot of Shugaks in Alaska, come to that. One thing she couldn’t and didn’t ever forget was that Willard was Auntie Balasha’s grandson, that her daughter and his mother had been an alcoholic, which made Willard a victim of fetal alcohol syndrome. He was a simple, uncomplicated soul with a gift for the inner workings of the internal combustion engine. He couldn’t read a Chilton manual to save his life but he could fix anything on four wheels blindfolded. Kate walked back to the cells.

  Willard, tall for an Alaska Native and carrying an increasing amount of weight, greeted her with his trademark beaming smile. “Hey, Kate! You come to get me out?”

  “What are you in for this time, Willard?”

  Willard’s beam failed and his brow creased. “I don’t know, Kate.” Short-term memory was not Willard’s strong suit. His long-term memory was even worse.

  “Were you bothering Cindy again?”

  He hung his head and mumbled something at his shoes. “I don’t remember.” He peeped at her and looked away again. “Hey, Mutt!” He reached through the bars to give Mutt a rough pat. Mutt’s tail gave a halfhearted wag.

  The thing about Willard was he really didn’t remember, or he didn’t remember much. Jim had probably locked Willard up more for Willard’s own safety than because Cindy had caught him stealing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from her store again. Cindy had threatened to shoot him last time. “That Chopper Jim,” Kate said, shaking her head. “He sure can be tough on a guy.”

  “He sure can, Kate,” Willard said mournfully. “He sure can. But he’s a nice guy anyway, you know?”

  Kate had extensive, detailed personal experience as to just how nice Sergeant Jim Chopin, pride of the Alaska State Troopers, could be. With an effort she kept her face solemn as she nodded back. “Where’s Howie, Willard?”

  Howie Katelnikof, amateur blackmailer, professional thief, and practicing weasel, was Willard’s roommate. His one redeeming feature was that he took care of Willard. He took good care of him, as even Kate, unwilling to grant Howie the slightest virtue, had to admit. Howie saw to it that Willard was dressed in clean clothes appropriate to the season, had at least one hot meal a day, even if it was nuked out of the freezer, made sure his sheets and towels were clean once a week, and, when Howie wasn’t off stripping a carelessly parked snow machine for parts, Howie was Willard’s constant companion. Given the low life expectancy of most FAS/FAE victims, Howie was the main reason Willard, now in his early forties, was still around. Since no one wanted to see Auntie Balasha burdened with Willard’s care, Howie had a free get-out-of-jail card with most Park rats.

  Of course, should he cease caring for Willard in the style to which the Park had become accustomed, said get-out-of-jail-free card was liable to be revoked, immediately and without notice. “Where’s Howie?” Kate said again.

  “I dunno,” Willard said. “Around somewhere.” He brightened again. “Say, Kate, you know Maggie, up front?”

  “I do know Maggie, Willard.”

  “She’s got some of those Girl Scout cookies, you know, the ones with the chocolate in ’em?”

  Willard was always hungry and he had a fatal predilection for anything sweet. “You want some?” Kate said.

  Willard nodded, his head bobbing so hard he knocked Anakin Skywalker out of his shirt pocket. His eyes went wide with dismay and he caught the little action figure in clumsy hands just before it crashed on the floor. “Wow,” he said, patting Anakin on the head and tucking him back into his pocket with reverential care. “That was close.” He looked at Kate. “So will you ask her, Kate?” Cookies he could remember.

  “I’ll ask her,” Kate said.

  Willard beamed again.

  Turning, she caught sight of Petey Jeppsen in the opposite cell. “Hey, Petey.”

  Petey, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling, said, “Hey, Kate.”

  “What for this time?”

  Petey was tall and thin, with deep-set dark blue eyes, hollow cheeks, and stiff dishwater-blond hair cut short in no perceptible style. He wore worn jeans and a dark blue fleece over a plaid shirt. His voice was deep and low and would have been pleasant on
the ear but for its suggestion of a whine. It was only a suggestion, though, a distinct improvement from the last time she’d had any serious contact with him, when the whine was threatening to take over his entire world view.

  He had closed his eyes at her question, willing her away. She stood where she was. He sighed and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling again. “Howie Katelnikof knew a guy who—”

  “Yeah, you can stop right there,” Kate said. “Come on, Petey, you know better than to hook up with Howie for any reason whatever. What the hell were you thinking?” Not to mention that Petey was here and Howie wasn’t. She was proud of the mercy she showed by not pointing that out.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. He sat up, slowly. He leaned forward, slowly, to rest his elbows on his knees. He raised his head to look at her, slowly. “What the hell else am I supposed to do, Kate?”

  “Get a job?” Kate said.

  He snorted, but there wasn’t much life in it. “Nobody wants to hire a felon.” He was gathering steam and in spite of the subject matter she was glad to see there was some life left in the kid. He was only—what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? “Nobody wants to hire a felon, or rent them an apartment, or make a car loan to one, either.”

  Have you ever been convicted of a felony? The question was on every job application, every loan application, every rental agreement. “There are programs,” she said. “Your probation officer—”

  He laughed. There was no amusement in the sound. “My PO. I check in with him once a week just so he can tell me how worthless I am. Yeah, he’ll get me set up with a program, all right. He probably gave my name to Howie when Howie went looking for someone to help him clean out that garage. And his first call right after that was probably to Chopper Jim.”

  “Your folks—”

  “No,” he said, his voice rising. “They told me never to come back. I don’t want to, anyway. I’ve had about all I can stand of preaching.”

  The Jeppsens were born-again Christian fundamentalists who had moved to the Park twenty-some years before. Except for a dispute with the Kreugers over a common property line that had escalated into a shoot-out at the Roadhouse four years before, and a Jeppsen sister named Bonnie who had aced a Krueger out of the postmistress’s job, the Jeppsens generally tended to stay down on the homestead. Kate knew them by sight, and because of Bernie’s bitter comments about being deprived of a potential starting forward for the Kanuyaq Kings she knew that Petey had been homeschooled, but that was about it. “You should have—”

  “I know that, Kate,” he said, angry now. “You don’t have to say it, I know what I should have done. I said so, in court. I testified against the other guys. I thanked Judge Singh for the short sentence and I promised her I’d walk the straight and narrow when I got out. But I can’t get a job, which doesn’t matter because I don’t have any way to get to it, and I don’t have anywhere to go after the job’s done for the day anyway. What the hell, I might as well go back to jail. At least I’ll have a bed and three squares.”

  He flopped back on the cot and put his arm over his eyes.

  “You won’t forget about those cookies, will you, Kate?” Willard said, anxious.

  She turned and walked to the outer office. “Maggie, could Willard have some of those—” She was interrupted by the door opening.

  Auntie Vi walked in—with something less than her usual bounce, Kate noticed—followed by another woman, a stranger to Kate. She was tall, at least five ten, and slender with a smooth fall of dark blond hair that cupped her chin in a controlled wave. Her forehead was high and narrow, her eyes were an indeterminate blue, her nose long and thin, and her mouth straight and firm. She wore a black Windbreaker with the Suulutaq sunburst embroidered on the breast.

  Her eyes considered Kate, passed on to Maggie and took in the uniform shirt. “Are you the trooper dispatcher?”

  “Yes. Maggie Montgomery.”

  “Holly Haynes. I work for Vern Truax out at the Suulutaq Mine.”

  Kate and Maggie exchanged glances. “Superintendent Vernon Truax?”

  Haynes smiled. “That’s my boss. I’m the staff geologist, and Vern’s number two. I understand you’re also a notary public?”

  Maggie nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “Great,” Haynes said. “Ms. Moonin and I have a bill of sale we’d like to have notarized.” She looked at Kate. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a witness, Ms.—”

  “Shugak,” Maggie said. “Kate Shugak.”

  Haynes’s hand in Kate’s was cool and smooth, her nails clean and clipped, her cuticles neat and under control. “Kate Shugak,” she said. “The same Kate Shugak who is chair of the board of directors of the Niniltna Native Association?”

  “There’s only one,” Maggie said, and maybe only Kate heard the “thank god” that was implicit at the end of her sentence.

  “Good to meet you,” Haynes said. “I’ve heard a lot about you, I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  Kate released Haynes’s hand and looked at Auntie Vi. “What are you selling, Auntie?”

  Auntie Vi’s face was a sight to behold, the expression on her round, wrinkled face registering such a complex mix of emotions that Kate was hard put to identify them all. Fear, triumph, relief, defiance, and that was just for starters. Was it actually, physically possible for Auntie Vi to feel embarrassment? Kate would have bet large against it, and she would have lost.

  “I sell mine my boarding house,” she said.

  Auntie, what the hell are you doing?”

  Kate had pulled Auntie Vi into Jim’s office and closed the door behind them.

  “I sell mine my boarding house.” The diminutive eightysome-thing stood straight as a board, looking rather as if she were facing a firing squad of one.

  “Okay,” Kate said, “I got it the first three times you said that. Why?”

  Auntie Vi tried for an insouciant shrug and almost pulled it off. “They pay my price. No haggle, I ask, they write check.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and brandished it.

  The number of zeroes on the end of the amount made Kate blink. “Didn’t they want an appraisal, or an engineer’s report?”

  Auntie Vi shook her head. “They need beds for mine workers going in going out. Get stuck because of weather maybe, got business in Niniltna maybe, only house in town with enough beds for sure.” Head jerk toward the outer office. “She say save them money to buy instead of rent. She ask price. I tell her. She write check.”

  Kate’s mouth opened and closed a few times with nothing coming out, which pretty much expressed her immediate reaction. Viola Moonin, lifetime Park rat, one of the original founders of the NNA, one of the grand dames of her mixed tribe of Aleuts, Athabascans, Tlingits, Haidas, and one lone Tsimshian. Not to mention the stray infusions from Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia, and South America. Subsistence fisher, hunter, trapper, net mender, world-class quilter, and all-around entrepreneur, owner and proprietor of the village of Niniltna’s first and only bed-and-breakfast establishment.

  Viola Moonin, one of the four aunties, the de facto moral center of the Park, the court of its first and last appeal, and for a brief moment mercifully past, its Star Chamber.

  Viola Moonin, the first to speak out against the Suulutaq Mine and the danger it represented to the environment and the lifestyle of the Park.

  Viola Moonin, the first to sell out.

  Outside the door Kate heard Mutt give a whine with the hint of a growl on the end of it, audible enough that she must have her nose jammed into the crack. Mutt didn’t like being shut on the other side of any door between her and Kate. “What are you going to do?” she said.

  Another jerk of the head. “Run it for them. They pay me.” Auntie Vi smiled, and the resultant baring of teeth engendered a remarkable resemblance to the half husky half wolf on the other side of the door. “They pay good.”

  Haynes and Maggie turned their heads when the door to Jim’s office opened again. Mutt thrust her
nose beneath Kate’s hand and the feel of that thick gray pelt against her skin steadied her. She took a deep breath and looked at Maggie. “She’s made up her mind. It’s a fair offer. Let’s get this done.”

  Maggie notarized the bill of sale, Kate witnessed it, and Maggie made copies for everyone.

  Kate folded hers into quarters and was tucking it into a hip pocket when the front door opened again. All four women looked around and beheld Father Smith, who removed his stained leather hat with undeniable grace. “Ladies.”

  “Mr. Smith,” Maggie said, accent on the honorific. Kate nodded, Auntie Vi stared right through him, and when no introduction was forthcoming Haynes said, “Holly Haynes, Suulutaq Mine.”

  “Father Smith of Beaver Creek.”

  In spite of his attention to his manners Father Smith looked less affable than usual. In fact, Kate thought, he looked downright worried.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Smith?” Maggie said.

  “I found an abandoned truck on the road into my homestead,” he said.

  They listened to his story in silence. Maggie looked at Kate. “I don’t know when Jim’ll be back.”

  “You go find that one now or dead him,” Auntie Vi said. “Maybe dead already anyway.”

  Haynes’s eyes widened, but as usual Auntie Vi had summed it up in a manner that would have pleased Strunk and White. “When was the last time you were down that road, Mr. Smith?” Kate said.

  He thought. “Ten days ago.”

  “Your family been into town since you been gone?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. Nothing to come into town for.”

  He met her eyes with a bland expression, and whatever opinions Kate might have had about his family’s need to leave their remote homestead she had learned the hard way last year to keep to herself. “So, the pickup might have been abandoned there an hour after you left,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Or an hour before you got there.” Kate looked at Maggie. “I’ll go get a Grosdidier, and then we’ll go up and get Dan O’Brian.” The four Grosdidier brothers were the Park’s EMT team, and Dan O’Brian was the Park’s chief ranger.