"WHO KILLED HIM, NATHAN?"
Active slammed the doors of the ambulance. Blue smoke rolled from its tailpipe and rose into the air as it pulled away from Lienhofer Aviation's Cessna 206 and headed up Third Street for the hospital.
"Who was it, Nathan?"
Now he turned at the sound of the familiar high voice. "What are you doing here, Kinnuk?"
"That Cowboy say he'll bring you this morning. I decide to come around."
"And see what you could find out?"
Wilson didn't speak, but he raised his eyebrows in the Inupiat equivalent of a nod.
"So what makes you think somebody killed Aaron Stone?"
"That Cowboy say ..."
"Did Cowboy see it with his own eyes?"
"No, but..."
"That Cowboy says lots of things. Do you believe them all?"
"No, but..."
"Then you should listen to what I say," Active said. It was obviously time to muddy up the gossip river a little. "And I say we won't know what killed Aaron until we ship him to Anchorage for an autopsy."
Cowboy Decker fired up the Cessna 206. The propeller kicked snow and grit and a Butterfinger wrapper past them. They turned their backs and hunched their shoulders as the pilot taxied the plane away, toward the Lienhofer hangar.
"There was no evidence of foul play at the scene," Active said as the storm subsided. "You know what that means?"
"Sure, it mean he kill himself," Wilson said. "Kay-Snow always say there's no evidence of foul play when somebody kill theirself."
"Yeah, I guess they do," Active said. He climbed into the Suburban and rolled down the window. "You need a ride?"
Wilson nodded, walked around to the passenger door, and slid in.
Active pulled away from the airport. "Where you headed?"
"The Dreamland," Wilson said. "I'm out of Olys."
"I have to talk to Clara Stone. Do you know where she lives?"
"Sure," Wilson said. "It's that house on Beach Street with all the caribou heads."
"Yeah, I've seen it. I guess Aaron was quite a hunter."
"I guess," Wilson said. "Before he work at Gray Wolf, he hunt caribou for money. Thirty-five dollars, he bring you whole carcass. I think he do all right, except he give lots away to old people."
They bounced along in silence for a while. "Thanks for sending your grandfather to get me from Qaqsrauq Lake," Active said finally. "How did you know I was there?"
"When I'm little, my grandfather always take me up there to Katy Creek. Yesterday when I catch ride with that Cowboy, he tell me where you find Aaron Stone. It sound like Qaqsrauq Lake to me."
"Pretty smart. Maybe you should spend less time at the Dreamland and more time using that smart head of yours."
Wilson was silent.
Active stopped the Suburban in front of the Dreamland. Two drunks sat on the deck in front, sharing a bottle in a brown paper bag. "Your grandfather loves you a lot."
"I know," Wilson said. "He take care of me when Dad go to prison for shooting Mom." He climbed out and sat down beside the drunks. One of them handed him the bag.
Active parked the Suburban in front of Aaron Stone's house, got out, and studied the trophies lining the eaves above the tarpapered walls.
Or were they an advertisement? Antlered caribou heads stared down like gargoyles. Some looked ancient, the skulls stripped of flesh by maggots and ravens and polished white by weather. Peeling strips of fur hung from others. Still others looked almost alive. The fur was intact and the eyes gleamed dully behind half-closed lids.
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," Active 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."