• Tuesday, August 30 •
En route to Ivisuk
Cowboy’s new Cessna 185 roared off the float pond into a late summer dawn, blue and crisp. As they climbed away from the airport, a west wind scuffed up whitecaps on the gray slate of Chukchi Bay.
“Ivisuk?” Active asked through the intercom as Cowboy throttled back, leveled off, and swung the plane northwest toward the mouth of the Katonak River. “Why do they call it that?”
“I don’t know,” Kavik said from the back seat. “People just do.”
Active studied the terrain ahead. The Katonak crawled away from the coast for a few miles, then twisted through the Sulana Hills and crossed the Katonak Flats toward the Brooks Range.
“Still big,” Cowboy said.
As usual, his thoughts seemed to track Active’s. “Still empty.”
Cowboy pointed over the nose. “Ivisuk Creek comes into the Katonak over there where the foothills start on the far side of the Flats. Can’t land in the creek, too rocky and shallow, so I drop people on a little lake about a half mile in. You oughta be able to walk to his camp from there.”
“Assuming we find it.” Active studied his notebook. “He’s in an aluminum boat, one of those drop fronts, like a small landing craft. Big red Evinrude outboard, little canvas wheelhouse, with a Yamaha four-wheeler on board. And he uses a white wall tent.”
“And probably caribou hides to sleep on,” Kavik put in from the back seat. “Standard Eskimo hunting camp.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to say the E-word anymore,” Cowboy said.
Active looked to see if the pilot was grinning under his headset. He was.
“Does he mean ‘Eskimo’?” Kavik asked.
“Of course he does,” Active said.
“That’s right,” Cowboy said. “The feds banned it, is what I heard.”
This rang a bell with Active. He fished through his memory for the details, then it came to him. “Ah, no, they didn’t ban it exactly, they’re just not going to use it themselves anymore. Like in laws and regulations. They have to say ‘Alaska Native’ now.”
Kavik snorted from the back seat. “And what if the Alaska Native happens to be an Eskimo?”
“Don’t blame me,” Active said. “I wasn’t consulted.”
“Just don’t call my Grampa Billy a Native,” Kavik said. “When he was a young buck working the canneries in Southeast, some of the restaurants still had those signs that said, ‘No dogs, no Natives.’”
“Which would include Eskimos,” Cowboy said. “Right?”
“Maybe, but it’s not the same,” Kavik said. “At least they didn’t put it on the signs. Anyway, the canneries liked Eskimos. They were smarter than Filipinos, according to Billy. And they worked harder, too.”
They droned along in silence for a while. The north shore of Chukchi Bay passed beneath the wings, then the Sulana Hills.
Cowboy spoke again. This time Active could hear the grin in his voice.
“How about Inuit, then? That’s what the naluaqmiut backpackers call you guys, Inuit. Couple days ago, I dropped some kayakers way up on the Katonak, and one of the girls was just raving about how cool it was to see you Inuits up close and personal.”
“She oughta meet Billy,” Kavik said. “Inuit’s a Canadian word, and, as he would happily tell her, ‘I ain’t no fucking Canadian. I’m an American and I’m an Eskimo, American Inupiat Eskimo, goddammit, and don’t call me no fucking Inuit.’”
“I like your grandfather,” Active said.
“So,” Cowboy said. “Inupiat is okay then?”
“Always,” Kavik said.
“And Eskimo? I can still call you Eskimo too?”
“What do you think, Nathan?” Kavik asked.
Active put a grin in his own voice. “Once in a while. But don’t push it, naluaqmiu.”
Cowboy just grunted.
They rumbled on across the Katonak Flats, and the foothills around the mouth of the Ivisuk grew in the windshield.
“So, Paul,” Cowboy said over the headset. “He gonna be trouble?”
“Just a person of interest.”
“For what?”
“Police business, Cowboy.”
“What police business?”
“Do we have to go through this again?”
“Like I can’t guess. We bringing him back?”
“Not that we know of. I’ll call you on the satphone when we’re done.”
Active and Kavik were about a half mile from the lake where Cowboy had set down the 185, thrashing their way through a big patch of alders.
At least, Active reflected, mosquito season was past its peak with fall coming on, so this trek was nothing like the climb up the ridge above the Hawk River. Today, they didn’t even need DEET.
They came out of the alders and there, a quarter mile ahead, lay the camp they had seen from the air. A white wall tent poked up from a gentle rise, like a shard of ice on the gold-brown tundra that rolled away to a wall of gray and tan hills. Beyond, snow-covered peaks loomed blue and hazy in the early light.
There was no sign of Noyakuk, not from this side, but a Yamaha four-wheeler was parked beside the tent. Active thought he caught the tang of blood and perhaps fresh caribou meat under the scent of an overnight rain. He motioned to Kavik, they circled around to the front of the tent. And there was Noyakuk.
He sat in profile, legs splayed out in a wide V. His chin on his chest, the lower half of his face obscured by a heavy camo jacket, the Crazy Eskimo ball cap in place.
At his feet on the blue tarp were three field-dressed caribou: backstraps, ribs, front and hindquarters, with the hides spread fur-down on the tundra nearby. A bloodstained wood-and-canvas pack frame leaned against the tent. No heads, antlers, or guts, meaning the kills had been made some distance from camp.
“Paul! Paul Noyakuk!” Active called as they approached.
Noyakuk didn’t respond. Was he the next corpse in the case? No: as they stepped closer, Active heard him mumbling.
He did a quick scan for weapons. A rifle laid out on a sleeping bag was visible through the doorway of the tent, stock out. An ammo clip lay near it on the tent floor. Active calculated it would take Noyakuk several seconds to get to the weapon, shove in the clip, work a round into the chamber, and start firing. Assuming, of course, he hadn’t left a round in the chamber or another clip in the gun and didn’t have a sidearm in his jacket.
On the other hand, there was no reason to suspect Noyakuk was interested in shooting anything but caribou. Whatever the case, he still hadn’t moved.
Active waved Kavik around to Noyakuk’s side, then unsnapped his holster, eased out his Glock, and held it behind his back as he crouched in front of the hunter. He sensed Kavik unholstering, too, and moving away a couple of paces.
“Paul Noyakuk?” Active said.
Noyakuk’s head jerked up and he shouted, “I am the caribou!”
Active jumped back a little and brought the Glock to his side, but Noyakuk’s hands remained in his lap and he sat still again.
Active resumed his crouch and studied the hunter. No smell of alcohol, but he had a thousand-yard stare, and his face was smeared with blood.
“I’m Chief Active from Chukchi Public Safety. How you doing, Paul? You okay? Your mom asked us to check on you. Paul?”
“I am the caribou!” Noyakuk repeated, eyes blazing out from the mask of blood.
“He’s out of it,” Active murmured to Kavik. “You wanna try?”
Kavik dropped to a crouch beside him. “Hey, Paul. It’s Danny. Danny Kavik. We played ball at Chukchi High, remember? You and me and Jesse?”
Noyakuk’s eyes swung to Kavik’s face. He blinked twice. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Your mom sent us. She’s worried about you, man.”
Noyakuk held Kavik’s gaze. “My mother is the caribou.”
“Are you hurt, buddy?” Kavik asked.
Noyakuk stared blankly for a couple of seconds, then broke into a grin. The caked blood on his cheeks cracked. “Danny!”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Kavik said. “It’s me, Danny! Listen, I need you to keep your hands in your lap there, okay? I’m going to move closer and check your jacket and your pockets, okay? We don’t want you hurting yourself or anyone else.”
Kavik patted him down, and came up with chewing gum, a cell phone, and a Kershaw folding knife. He dropped the gum back into the cargo pocket it came from and passed the knife and phone to Active, who stashed them in his jacket pocket.
“Paul, look at me.” Noyakuk made eye contact and Kavik went on. “Listen, I’m going to touch your face and head to see where all that blood came from, okay?”
“Blood of my brother, my blood brother, blood of my brother . . .” Noyakuk stared at the tundra between his legs as Kavik examined him.
Kavik turned to Active. “Caribou blood, I’m pretty sure. No sign of injury.” He shook his head. “I thought he was with us there for a minute, but—”
“Blood of my brother,” Noyakuk said again.
“Your brother, huh?” Kavik unzipped Noyakuk’s jacket to check his chest. His clothing was dry, but he’d begun to shiver.
“My brother caribou.” Noyakuk pointed into the distance, exposing a scabbed-over scrape on his wrist and knuckles.
Kavik took hold of Noyakuk’s sleeve. “What happened here, Paul?”
Noyakuk looked down at his arm and pulled it to his side like a broken wing. “Ah, I fell,” he said. “I fell when I was getting out of the boat, all right.”
“You’re cold, man. Let’s make some coffee, ah?”
Active went into the tent, cleared Noyakuk’s rifle, pocketed the clip, ran a quick check of the backpack on the floor, and dragged out the sleeping bag. He covered Noyakuk’s legs with it while Kavik fired up a camp stove and put on coffee.
“I need a smoke, man,” Noyakuk said. Active rummaged through the backpack, found cigarettes and matches, and passed them to Noyakuk.
He lit up with shaky hands and exhaled into the damp air. He wiped some of the blood from around his eyes, and the thousand-yard stare was gone now.
Active crouched in front of him again. “I hear you and Jesse Apok were like brothers.”
“Yeah.” Noyakuk took another drag and gazed out over the tundra. “But I’m done with all that now.”
“Done with Jesse?”
“With Jesse. With the human race.”
“The whole human race?”
“The whole motherfucker, man.”
“Why’s that?”
Kavik handed Noyakuk a cup of steaming coffee. He cradled it against his chest with one hand and took another drag on the cigarette.
“Humans have no souls. The caribou have souls. They take care of their own.” Noyakuk sipped from the cup and winced as the coffee hit his mouth. “I am the caribou!” he shouted. The stare was back.
Active glanced at the gray clouds gathering over the hills. More rain was on the way, maybe an early snow. How to get Noyakuk into his right mind before the weather closed in and they got stuck out here for the night, or even several nights? He studied Noyakuk for a few moments and finally noticed the blue patch with wings and a star on the shoulder of his camo jacket.
“Is that Air Force?” He pointed at the insignia.
“Yeah, I was a JTAC in Iraq for a year. Fighting ISIS, man.”
“A JTAC is—”
“Joint Terminal Attack Controller. We were set up in operations centers away from the battlefield, watching the video feeds from the drones. We analyzed the data and called in air strikes.”
His switch to formal technical speech was jarring, but at least Noyakuk was back for a moment. “Wow,” Active said. “How’d you get into that?”
Noyakuk shrugged. “I was always good with computers, all right.”
“More like a genius,” Kavik broke in. “A regular Mark Zuckerberg.”
Noyakuk shrugged again. “I took the test when I enlisted, and they placed me in what they called an ‘elite unit.’” He grinned. “Not bad for a dumb Eskimo, ah?”
“I never liked that term much,” Active said. “You don’t really think we’re dumb, do you?”
“Me no savvy, me no know. Me just plain old Eskimo!”
He grinned again, as did Active. It was the default Chukchi comeback for any question too silly to deserve an answer. Like most Inupiat jokes, it was merry and serious at the same time.
“You should be proud. Really proud,” Active said.
“It was just a job. Like any other.”
“Why didn’t you stay in?” Active asked. “Gotta pay better than janitor work, right?”
Noyakuk paused and his mouth tightened. “A janitor don’t have to decide who lives or dies.”
“But if it’s war and it’s the enemy . . .”
Noyakuk’s eyes lit with a fiery glare. “It’s not always the enemy! I showed them the data! I told them it could be a school! I—” He shut down again, looking ahead blankly, chest heaving.
Active gave him some time. Then, “So. You took some time off from work to go hunting?”
“Gotta get back out in the country to clear my head.” The techno warrior had vanished and the caribou hunter was back.
“Something been bothering you?”
Noyakuk faced him dead on. “Yeah, like I told you. The human race.”
“Does that include Jesse?”
Noyakuk lit another cigarette. “Jesse’s a good guy.”
“Why didn’t he come out here with you?”
“He gotta work.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Monday last week, I guess. I go by his place, tell him he oughta malik me. He say he’s late for work, he gotta go.”
Active backtracked and realized that was the same day he and Kavik had questioned Apok. “Did he seem worried about anything? Anyone giving him a hard time?”
“Yeah. He thought Denise will never let him see his boy no more. He was all stressed out, say he can’t live without that Corey. I tell him ‘Don’t do nothing crazy, man.’ I tell him, ‘I’ll bring back a caribou, I’ll cook up some ribs, we’ll talk about it, we’ll figure something out, ah?’”
Noyakuk drew on the cigarette. “Why you asking about Jesse? Did something happen to him?” He glanced at Kavik. “Danny?” His head swiveled to Active, then back to Kavik.
“Paul,” Active said, trying to catch Noyakuk’s darting eyes, “Jesse is dead.”
“No-o-o! Fu-u-uck!”
Noyakuk crumpled. Kavik reached out to grab his shoulder, but was too slow. Noyakuk pitched forward onto the caribou meat, crying and slathering his face with blood.
Kavik pulled him back and hoisted him to his feet. Noyakuk rested his forehead against Kavik’s chest, sobbing. When he lifted his head to stand on his own, there were smears of blood and mucus on Kavik’s jacket.
“Why he gotta kill himself? He’s always talking about that shit when he’s drunk, but I never think he’ll—why he gotta fucking do that, man?”
Kavik walked Noyakuk to a grassy spot and sat him down, then rejoined Active at the tent.
“Whattaya think?” Kavik asked. “We can’t leave him like this.”
“We’ll take him back with us. I’ll call Cowboy and get him back up here.” Active pulled out his satphone and powered it up.
The sky was spitting snow by the time he finished the call. Icy needles pricked their cheeks. Noyakuk sat with his head between his knees.
“Might as well start breaking down the camp,” Active said. “Noyakuk won’t be any help, and we should probably do something about all this caribou. And his boat.”
“I could take it all back to Chukchi in the boat if you can spare me for a few hours,” Kavik said.
Active nodded. “Probably make Cowboy happy if we don’t throw a bunch of bloody meat into his new plane.”
“You know, Noyakuk didn’t fall getting out of any boat,” Kavik said as he lashed a load of caribou onto the back of Noyakuk’s Yamaha.
“No? What are you thinking?”
“I used to ride a motorcycle and I took a few spills until I wised up. I know road rash when I see it, and that’s an asphalt burn on his arm.”
“Hm. Why lie about that?”
Kavik shrugged. “And we never told him Jesse’s death was a suicide.”
“I noticed that. He either assumed it or—”
“Yeah. Or he was there.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“But why would he kill his best friend?” Kavik said.
Active looked at the tundra and brush around them. “And how, if he was way out here at the time?”