Run Cold

by Ed Ifkovic

  “But why would you have a problem with that?” I was surprised.

  “First Amendment issues,” he said. He rolled his eyes. “Paul fought me. He said there’s a larger issue than the Constitution here.”

  I smiled at that. “You probably didn’t like that.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m a stubborn man. I’m an old newspaper guy—that kind of thing. But maybe I want the answer before the police find it.”

  “Did you find the anonymous letter some crackpot sent to Sonia? A threat on her life.”

  He seemed surprised. “Sonia showed you that? You know, she received all sorts of nasty letters. She…enflamed passions.”

  “But a death threat.”

  “The cops took it—thought it untraceable. Empty threat.” He sucked in his breath. “I went through Sonia’s papers before the police got to them.”

  “I know, Hank. That seems questionable.” I looked around the office.

  “I suppose that’s true, Edna. I’ve been thrown off by this.”

  The door opened, and Paul came in. He seemed surprised to see me sitting with his father. “Ah, Miss Ferber.”

  Paul looked hesitant, standing back until I pointed to a chair. “Paul, please.”

  Finally, Paul asked, “What are we talking about?”

  Hank sucked in his cheeks. “I was just berating Edna for spending all of yesterday with Noah West.”

  Paul stared at him. “Dad, please, for God’s sake.”

  “We’re just talking, Edna and I.”

  “Obviously, you’re not,” Paul countered. “Miss Ferber can do what she wants.” He turned to me. “How is Noah?”

  “As well as you’d expect. He feels betrayed by your family.” Blunt, to the point.

  Paul made a tsking sound. “Not by our family. Not all of our family.”

  Hank was following the exchange. “Edna wants to convince me that Noah West is innocent.”

  “I don’t think I need to,” I said, flatly. “Common sense…”

  “She’s just told me that Noah believes the murderer is someone close to our family. Someone—an acquaintance maybe. A spy in the bowels of Fairbanks.”

  An edge to my voice. “I said—someone who knew Sonia’s plans, her business.”

  Paul frowned. “Well, of course.” He nodded at me. “It stands to reason, no?”

  Hank seemed surprised by that. “Who else knew Sonia’s plans that night…her appointment with Edna?” Hank’s voice got thick with sarcasm. “Only probably everyone in The Gold office. And, ironically, possibly Noah himself.”

  Paul whispered, “Not here, Dad. Not here.”

  “Then where?” He looked around the empty office. “At home, where we pass by each other in the hallways like ghosts?”

  “Christ!” Paul thundered.

  Hank rubbed his temples. “I’m really tired.”

  “Then maybe we should not be doing this now.”

  “No one is here,” Hank said.

  “I’m here,” I said, sitting forward and interlocking my fingers.

  “But you already know all our dirty laundry.”

  A heartbeat. “Not all of it.”

  Hank looked at me. “What does that mean?”

  “Somebody is not telling me something.”

  “What?” asked Paul.

  “I don’t know,” I went on. “If I did…”

  Hank smiled. “Now you’re being mysterious, Edna.”

  “Look,” I declared, exasperated, “I’m involved with this, whether I like it or not. The lobby of the Nordale is noisy, and everyone stares at me like I’m some dark nemesis come to haunt Fairbanks.” I stared into Hank’s face. “Answer me something, Hank. You told me you burned some of Sonia’s papers, including her journal. I wonder why.”

  Surprise in his voice. “I told you. It was nothing.”

  “Then why burn them?”

  “I wanted no one else to be hurt.” The line exploded in the air.

  “What does that mean?”

  Hank frowned. “I didn’t want the police going through her letters. Yes, I know it was wrong. A whole part of me kept saying—stop, stop. But there was nothing in those pages that pointed to a murderer, or I wouldn’t have burned them. Believe me. I’m not a fool. But you know how Sonia was—she said some nasty things about the anti-statehood people, about others, about Preston and Tessa in particular, well-known folks, even about our family. A private journal, so she talked to herself. It would be all over Fairbanks.” His eyes got moist. “I didn’t want people to remember her by her secret words.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you,” I told him.

  That surprised him. “What else could it be? I was protecting our family. It had nothing to do with the murder, I swear.”

  “How do you know?” Fire in my voice. “You set yourself up as the one and only judge. Unfair to her, no?”

  “I know. I wasn’t thinking, really. I was filled with…” He sighed. “She said stuff like: ‘Tessa raised Preston to be a dishonest coward.’ Okay? I remember that line. So I burned her journal.” A hesitation. “And she wrote some pretty graphic stuff about guys she knew—a little too lurid.” He shivered. “Her writing about Noah, in particular—too candid.”

  “And you think that he murdered her?”

  He looked away from us. “Her rambling about sex with him was, well, too colorful…and embarrassing. I wouldn’t want people reading that. Chief Rawlins.” He locked eyes with mine. “My daughter, Edna.”

  “A grown woman who made her choices.”

  Hank’s fist slammed the table. “I don’t care.”

  “Does Chief Rawlins know you burned the papers? I’m assuming he does. He’s not stupid.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “You’re a journalist,” I offered.

  Hank sat back as his face tightened. “I’m a father first.” A pause. “Anyway, enough.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Paul”—he glanced at his son—“I want to say something. Something I just told your mother this morning. She’s sitting home now. Unhappy with me. But I can’t help that.” He took a deep breath. “I’m leaving the paper, Paul. I’m retiring. Over. I’m walking away from it.”

  “What’s this all about?” Paul turned pale.

  His voice was scratchy. “It no longer matters to me, I’ve decided. You and your mother both know I’ve been losing steam these past years, and Sonia’s death was the final straw. The paper, the corporation, my investments—none of it matters now. Statehood will happen within the year, I suppose, but that doesn’t matter. I mean, I want it, of course I do, but I don’t care. I’m happy it will happen. But do you know what I want to do?” He actually grinned. “Head back to the Yukon, go fishing, trapping, hunting. Me—maybe Clint. Not have to face another edition of newsprint.”

  “This is nonsense,” Paul said.

  “It’s time. It’s not a big deal.” He drew in his breath. “You can take over.”

  “Me?” Paul scoffed. “What?”

  “This was Sonia’s empire,” Hank answered. “What she wanted someday. She wanted to be publisher. Everything she did moved her in that direction. The paper was her baby—she breathed journalism. You know that.” He nodded at his son. “So Paul, now it’s yours. It passes on to you.”

  Paul half-rose from his chair, his face red. “Do you hear yourself?”

  “I’m tired,” Hank was speaking over Paul’s words. “There’s a fishing pole that…”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Paul yelled.

  “I got all the money in the world. What it got me is a murdered daughter.”

  Paul roared, “The money didn’t kill her.”

  “It’s time. I—”

  Paul interrupted. “Stop it, dammit. You’re not listening to me.” He looked at
me. “God, I am the cipher in this family.”

  I stared into my lap. A family, I thought suddenly, is nothing but a wound that you can’t heal.

  I started to gather my things. This was nowhere I should be now. But Paul, watching me, put his hand on my sleeve. “Stay.”

  “I don’t…”

  Paul laughed as he turned to his father. “Dad, I don’t want your empire.”

  “Of course, you do. I’ve groomed…”

  Paul’s hand flew up, palm out. “No, I think you got that all wrong. You groomed Sonia to take over. My sister. She’s the one who wanted it.”

  “But what difference…?”

  Paul spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell you what the difference is. Sonia wanted to be in control of things. To be in the center of things. Sonia as epicenter of a solar system she created, her in the middle. ‘Look at me. Look at me.’ The beautiful Sonia Petrievich, belle of the Fairbanks ball. I was the little boy in the backyard catching one more winter cold and praying for sunshine.”

  Hank twisted his head to the side. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you what it means. How many decisions at The Gold were made in your office with Sonia…and I’m not even there?”

  “But now you have a chance.” Hank looked baffled.

  “Christ, you don’t get it, Dad. You just don’t. I’m not second best. If Sonia wasn’t dead, we’d never be having this conversation. You know, all my life I played by the rules, the good boy. Even at The Gold. Do this, do that. The twin born about a minute after Sonia. And I’m ignored.”

  “It’s because we trusted you. Never worried about you, Paul.” His father’s voice was mournful.

  Paul looked to the door, seemed ready to leave. “And this last nonsense with Noah. I like Noah, always have. We go out to dinner, we laugh over coffee, we travel together, he calls me up, and he asks me what I think of things. He’s my friend, Dad. And what do you do? You accuse him of murder. Probably the only man who ever really loved Sonia. Wanted to care for her.”

  “People kill out of love…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard that come out of your mouth before. Just stop it—it sounds pathetic. But not Noah. Not the way he’s built. Shit, Dad, you know him.”

  “I don’t want to discuss Noah today.” Hank closed up.

  “Yeah, let’s wait until they hang him. Front page in The Gold. Well, I won’t be publishing that edition, let me tell you.”

  “Your sister…”

  Paul held up his hand. “My sister was a frail, faulty woman who could be funny and charming and loveable. But she stuck her nose into everyone’s life. We had our good times, the two of us. She was bright, clever. She got a little crazy, maybe a lot crazy, power mad, and she liked to hurt people. She obviously hurt someone to the point that they murdered her.”

  “Enough.” Hank looked around the room.

  “No, not enough.” He leaned forward in his seat, then stood up, faced his father. “This is my last oration on the subject. Chapter and verse. You closed your eyes to Sonia’s weakness. Even her affairs. Lord, I remember how you condemned Maria West, years back, when she was selling her body on The Row to drunken Indians and horny miners in from the Bush. I remember how you told Noah to his face—‘Can’t you do anything about your slutty sister?’ Poor Noah! How embarrassed he was, sitting there, unable to talk back to you, his master and benefactor. So I guess he repaid you, right, by killing the one thing you loved?”

  Hank stood now, eye to eye with his son. His slapped Paul on the side of the face. Then, madly, he bulldozed into Paul’s chest. The man expelled air, gagged, and toppled into the doorframe. Hank grabbed his neck, throttling him, and Paul slipped to the floor, thrashing about but not fighting back, his hands covering his face, his head turned away. Hank, on top, pummeled him, short jabs to the neck. Blood squirted from the corner of Paul’s mouth.

  Dizzy, I tried to find the word “Stop!” but was surprised that I had lost my voice.

  Suddenly Hank stopped, that spurt of anger dissipated. He toppled back into his chair. I noticed a smear of blood on his skinned right knuckle, and glancing at Paul, then pulling himself up into a sitting position, his arms cradling his knees, I saw a thin line of blood on his cheek. He rubbed it, looked at the trace of blood on his fingers, whimpered, and looked ready to cry.

  Paul sputtered, “Say nothing. Do you hear me?”

  I stared at the sheets of papers knocked off Hank’s desk onto the floor. Sitting up, my foot shuffled some papers, and, leaning down, I picked up a snapshot of Noah West, Noah as a young man, standing in the Arctic wilderness, his arms cradling a huge king salmon. What was the photo doing on Hank’s desk? I wondered. Noah, the handsome young man, virile, rough, beautiful. That shock of black hair. The sunburned neck and chest. A man in his early twenties, perhaps. I held it in my hand. I tucked it into my dress pocket. A thief. I’d become a common thief.

  I didn’t care, because I wanted that picture.

  I needed to end this. “Paul, it’s best you leave.”

  He turned to go. I noticed blood on his sleeve. His parting shot: “I have an announcement, too. I’m leaving Alaska. My health is one reason, to be sure—I’ll die if I’m here one more winter—but not the main one. I’ve been planning to tell you for some time, but Sonia’s death stopped me.” He looked at me. “But maybe this is a good time. I’ve got myself a job on The Oregonian. You know why I went to the Lower Forty-eight a month back for a long weekend—and you wink wink wink thought that I hung out at a whorehouse—I was interviewing for a job. Which is now mine. So that’s that.”

  “Leave.” From Hank, furious.

  Paul walked out, slamming the door.

  Silence. Hank and I sat there quietly. Hank was staring over my shoulder at nothing, I stood up, put on my coat, and said goodbye. He didn’t answer me, nor did he look up.

  As I opened the door, I looked back. Hank hadn’t moved, a big heap of a man reduced to hunched shoulders and ashen face. Just before I closed the door behind me, I glanced back again. Hank sat there, frozen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had second thoughts about flying to Fort Yukon with Noah in his Super Piper Cub. He’d called me the night before, charmed me—“an adventure, and only mildly dangerous”—and I’d reluctantly said yes. Changed my mind—“No, really”—but finally said yes. “It’s only thirty below there now.” Yes, I noted, I’d been above the Arctic Circle in even lower temperatures. “Then, you’re an old pro.”

  “We’ll see,” I grumbled.

  “Chief Rawlins cleared my leaving Fairbanks, though reluctantly. So long as I’m not flying into exile to the Lower Forty-eight.”

  Sitting in the lounge with Clint, he scrunched up his face. “Mighty cold up there, Edna.” He mock-shivered.

  Setting a cup of tea at my elbow, Teddy mimicked Clint’s shiver. “Ain’t Fairbanks cold enough for you, Miss Ferber?” Laughing, he dangled a foot in the air. “Frostbite can take a foot. Or maybe a little toe.” In an annoying singsong, he said, “This little piggy lost a toe on the way to an ice-box church.”

  “Or a life,” Clint added. “Icebound.”

  “You two aren’t helping me.”

  But the next morning, around ten, the air clear though frigid, windless, with just an occasional ice crystal slapping my face, I stared at the flying crate he’d talked of, parked in a busy hanger at Weeks Field in a line of similar battered Cessnas and Piper Cubs, all looking like gerrymandered junk heaps. He’d bought the plane, he told me, from a bush flyer who’d gone south—that is, to the Banana Belt, around Kodiak. Flaky red paint, strips of what looked like gleaming silver duct tape—worse, bits of faded canvas flapping in the slight breeze. To me, it looked a frivolous play toy, some little boy’s abandoned model plane left in the family garage until, years later, it was ready to be hauled to the trash bin. Noah wa
tched me eyeing the relic. He’d been talking about its value as a bush plane, its low-cost maintenance, its durable tail, its…

  I closed my eyes. “Noah…”

  “It’s not how they look on the outside,” he promised, “but what’s inside. It’s like the people you write about, right? Insides more important than outsides?”

  “I have been known to make that comment.”

  “I know. I read that in a biography of you in the library.”

  I stared into his face—he was grinning. “You surprise me.”

  “Well, they did teach me how to read.”

  The inside of the plane, though cramped, looked obsessively neat, indeed sleek, despite the piles of boxes and packages filling every available corner, including my unwitting lap. Noah was bringing some medicines and foodstuffs to his grandfather and others in Fort Yukon. But, as well, there was a part for a generator for a neighbor, a bolt of fabric for a woman, boxes of candy for some children, some ammo, and a stack of Reader’s Digests for an old woman who craved them. “In Alaska bush pilots are cabbies.”

  “You’re like an old-fashioned drummer from my childhood, piling his wares in a beat-up jalopy and heading out into the boondocks.”

  “You can’t get to Fort Yukon by road. And in winter, before the break-up, no boat comes down the frozen Yukon. It’s dogsled or plane. Ten years back, they built an airstrip. We used to land on ice or snow, dangerous because of hidden ridges in the ice, ripples, or sometimes even mushy springtime ice. Now, even with skis on my plane, it’s effortless.”

  I squirmed. “What about bad weather? The hotel said not to fly in winter. March, young man, is still winter. You do use the same calendar, right? God, up here, June feels like winter sometimes.”

  “You gotta trust me.” His eyes had a faraway look. “Given my bush pilot experience working for a small bush feeder airline, I joined the Air Force, was shot down in the Pacific, came back with a bum leg and a purple heart, a proclamation from the mayor, my photograph on the front page of The Gold and The Fairbanks Daily News-Miner, and the back-slapping gratitude of the First World War veterans of town.” A hint of sarcasm. “Look at me—now.”