A Hard Case Page 15

  “So Father, who did it? Surely, you must know. After all, you’re part of the family.”

  His answer came back fast and hard. “Yes, I am, and I intend to stay part of the family. Even if I knew, I couldn’t betray that person, and I won’t. I don’t care what the law says, nor do I care about all the threats made to me by the various agencies. He killed himself and that’s all there is to it!”

  “All right,” I answered, “but I had to ask. I took a long swallow of mud and whiskey. God, it was good. I finished it, set it on the table and leaned back in my chair, satisfied for the moment.

  “Anyhow,” I went on, “enough of that. If you can’t answer, you can’t answer. I won’t bother you anymore about it. By the way, I’m looking for Jimmy. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  The good Father raised his eyebrow. “Now what has he done?”

  I went on to explain about the mask, about Ivan chasing him through town, how he was hiding in my room but had disappeared, maybe against his will.

  “Yes, that’s our Jimmy, always getting into something. You said the mask came from the dig along the river?” I nodded. To which the Father shook his head, slowly, with his face expressing sadness. “I have told them one by one they shouldn’t be doing this. They are selling their heritage for dope and whiskey. Not all of them are, of course, but many are.”

  His face now showed anger and his glasses jiggled even faster, occasionally tapping the tabletop. I leaned forward, my hands clasped in front on the table. “Look, I know this isn’t my problem, but can you tell me who’s bringing in the stuff and is Charlie connected?”

  “You don’t want to know, but I can tell you it’s not Charlie. Charlie is what he seems, a regular guy, trying to make both ends meet. He wants the people free of this stuff, but you can’t imagine the hold it has. Sometimes it’s better to know who your enemies are. Even the people bringing in the stuff may have no choice, at least in their eyes anyway. Village life is complicated, as I’m sure you’re beginning to discover.”

  I nodded. Indeed it was. Was Helen part of the drug problem? It was a question I didn’t want answered.

  We became silent, each lost in our own thoughts. I felt I wasn’t any closer to solving this puzzle than I had ever been. I got up and poured another cup of coffee without asking, making myself a part of the scene, but with no whiskey this time. I needed what brainpower I had.

  “What kind of coffee do you use?” I asked, mostly to make conversation.

  Father Joseph put his glasses on, becoming once again the genial host. “It’s a special blend. I have a friend in Anchorage send me a few bags from time to time. Would you like some? Actually, it’s nothing special—it’s the water and the number of scoops you put in the pot that count.”

  I took another gulp. “Yeah, I’d like some.” I almost said it was a substitute for whiskey, but that might be going a bit far. Still . . . a cup of coffee was better than a cup of whiskey, and since I was running short of whiskey, I needed something to take its place.

  He went to a cabinet and pulled down a pound sack of coffee. “Here you go. By the way; about Jimmy. He has an aunt that lives in a cabin five miles down river. He might have gone there.”

  I finished the cup and put it down. “Thanks. I feel responsible for the boy for some reason. I haven’t quite figured it out.”

  Father nodded and smiled. “I’m afraid Jimmy has a talent for making people like him, despite his getting into things. Maybe he’s gone too far this time. Good luck in your quest, but I’m willing to bet Jimmy is safe. He is one crafty kid.”

  I took the coffee and left. Despite what the Father said, I still had this burning desire to find Jimmy, not just for his safety, but because I felt he knew who killed the postmaster.

  After taking the coffee back to my room, I wandered back out onto the main street. Where in hell was that kid? And, where was Ivan? He, too, had vanished.

  While my thoughts wandered, my feet knew exactly where to go. When I “came to” I found myself down at the river’s edge. There in front of me lay a reason for me to further my search for Jimmy, a skiff with a forty-horse outboard motor.

  After an inquiry at the cafe and a few dollars down to a grateful sister, I was on the river making time, going upstream against the current. Being away from the village on an early fall day full of sunshine proved to be exhilarating. I realized I needed this outing for my sanity if nothing else. It would be great if I managed to find Jimmy, but if not, then this trip would still be close to wonderful. I had a tank full of gas, the engine purred . . . the river was mine. Or almost mine. It was, until a huge brown bear came running out of the shallows straight for me. Of course, it was easy for me to simply run around him, but he was close enough for him to look straight into my eyes. The intelligence I saw in those eyes and what they said made me realize if the motor skipped just a few beats, I was his. In a rowboat, or canoe I would have been his meal. Bear stories abound in Alaska about how bears loved to play with their human victims. I shuddered at the thought as I moved my eyes away from his. I wondered if the old man would dare say the bear was not real.

  The bear was soon forgotten as I continued upriver. The day was just too beautiful and the sun too bright for ugly thoughts. I sat with my hand on the engine’s throttle, miles from nowhere, every man’s dream when it came to being in the wilderness.

  It was while I was looking back to check on the engine that I noticed a speck back a ways on the river behind me. At first, I thought it was the bear still waiting to pounce on someone, but then I noticed the speck never got smaller; in fact, it was getting larger. Finally, I decided it was another skiff. No big deal. People were always moving up and down the river. In summer, it was about the only way to go any distance unless they flew, and that was expensive. So I was only mindful of it in the same way one regards a car coming from behind on a highway, just part of the makeup of our world. Whoever it was, though, must have been at full throttle because he or she was steadily drawing closer.

  I turned my eyes back to the front of the boat just in time to swerve to avoid a log floating low in the water. I heard a ping, like a pebble hitting a tin can. Immediately I slowed, thinking I had damaged something from the near miss with the log. A look around the boat showed nothing. Then another ping and a small hole big enough to stick my little finger through appeared on the transom. The hackles on the back of my neck rose as I took a quick look to the rear. A hundred yards behind me a man was taking aim at me with what I guessed to be a high-powered rifle. “Holy God.” It was him, the warrior Ivan.

  Chapter 18

  I made a beeline for the shore with fear in my gut. My feeling was that my life was close to being terminated. What a perfect place for a murder! The sunken boat would never be found, and neither would my body after the bears got through with it. What a fool I was to leave the safety of the village. I was dead unless I could make the shore. Another look behind me confirmed that thought. Ivan was actually grinning. In his mind, I would be an easy kill. Another hole appeared, right at waterline. Water began to appear in the bottom of the boat with another fifty-yards to shore.

  Now I had to decide where I was going to land, and I picked the willows that lined a section of the shore. They kept Mary from being swept away, maybe they would save me from being shot. Another quick glance behind me showed Ivan still to be a football field away. Why hadn’t he gotten closer? I knew then I was the mouse and he was the cat. He wanted to enjoy this game as long as he could.

  I slowed the boat trying to get control of my fear. I tried to think as I weaved my way through the willows. Another few moments and the boat was grounded and half sunk. Ivan was out of sight, but it wouldn’t be long before he found the boat, and his smile would twist into something akin to evil. Well, if I had anything to say about it, he was going to have his work cut out for him. To end up dead in a primal forest after all these years didn’t fit my thoughts about how I was going to end my life.

  I jumped
from the boat into the shallows up to my knees and worked my way through the willow branches. I was leaving a trail a five-year old could follow, but there was no help for it. Maybe when I hit solid ground, I could do more to hide my trail. But right then, there was only the idea of putting as much distance as I could between my pursuer and me.

  It had been twenty-five plus years since Vietnam and my war experiences, but they were coming back in flashes. The lonely patrols, the horrifying silences broken by a sudden rush of birds flying out of the trees in the Mekong Delta. This all came back to me as I climbed out onto solid ground where I stopped to listen. Then I slumped to the ground. Fool. He doesn’t have to follow you through the willows. All he has to do is get his boat to shore where there aren’t any willows and then outflank you.

  I listened again. I could hear the boat, but due to the density of the willows and brush, I couldn’t tell where he was. Getting my breath back, I started climbing up the bank of the river. Maybe there was a game trail that would lead back in the general direction of the village. That would be my best bet. But that’s what he would expect me to do, so I stopped to reconsider. No, I would proceed on to the cabin. Maybe Jimmy’s aunt had a radio and for sure, she would have a gun. Guns were a necessity in the wilderness. I resumed my climb up the bank and was soon in the spruce forest.

  I looked down at my shoes. With the water still sloshing around in them I made a squeaking noise that Ivan could hear from fifty feet away. Immediately, I headed for a nearby berry patch in a forest clearing. My socks needed to be dried out as much as possible. Besides, I couldn’t afford to have water blisters forming. A few feet into the berry patch I found a clear spot and sat down. The engine noise had stopped. Ivan was probably on the bank by now and starting his sweep along the shore.

  A few minutes later I had my shoes off and my socks wrung out. They were wool socks, which was a turn in my favor. In Alaska, I wore wool socks for most of the year as I had a tendency toward cold feet. Only in Anchorage did I wear cotton socks in the summer. All the while I kept a sharp lookout for Ivan. I didn’t need him sneaking up on me. Doing this somehow made me feel like I was in control of my own destiny. A dumb notion perhaps, but I felt better anyway.

  I was just getting my shoes back on when I heard a snuffling noise, like a bear rooting through the berries over to my right. Hell, it was a bear—waking up from his nap! I had been so intent on looking for Ivan I had forgotten about looking for bears. Now, not more than fifty feet away stood a reason that I might be dead in just a few short moments. Chills went up and down my spine. My mouth felt like I had been walking in the desert for a week. I couldn’t swallow.

  We stood there for what seemed like ages regarding each other. Finally, I waved my arms so he could see that I was no one to be trifled with.

  That had no effect on him whatsoever. I was in his berry patch. I had to leave. I did that as calmly as I could, taking short steps backward at first, then longer steps. When I was out of the bear’s sight, I turned and ran pell-mell down the slope toward the river. I hit the willows going full bore. Whether Mr. Bear was after me, I couldn’t say. I just knew that if I didn’t get out of there, I was going to be his lunch and dinner all rolled into one.

  Willow limbs tore at me as I once more slopped back into the water, inwardly cursing my poor luck. But my feeling was that I would rather be shot than torn up by a bear. After a few minutes of thrashing through the willows, I stopped to listen. It was quiet, just like those times in Nam when all hell was about to break loose. When the shot came I thought I was in Nam for a few seconds, but no, my mind said, you’re in Alaska with a warrior on your tail and unless you do something pretty dramatic, you’re dead. Following the shot came the bear’s roar. Good, maybe Ivan has a problem.

  Without another thought of what action to take, I headed downstream. Maybe I could make the cabin by staying in the shallows. After the one roar of the bear, everything grew quiet again. Was Ivan dead? That would have been a great solution to my problem. Somehow, I doubted he was. He was a hunter and killer with years of experience. I plowed on through the shallows. The birds were beginning to sing again and I took this as a good omen. Maybe I would live. After what must have been another half-hour I came to the end of the willows. The river’s edge was now bare of plant growth. And what did I see ahead of me gently rocking back and forth in the river’s current? Ivan’s skiff. Praise the Lord! If I had been on solid ground I might have fallen to my knees in gratitude.

  Wait a minute. He had to be in the area. Dare I try to get the thing started? Of course I did. I had no other choice. A minute went by with no Ivan showing up, so maybe my luck had turned. I sloshed over to his boat. To hell with trying to be quiet. This was a make or break effort. I couldn’t believe my good luck as I climbed into the skiff. This was going to be a piece of cake. I gave a yank on the cord to start the outboard. Nothing. Hmm . . . probably needs a little choking. I pulled out the choke and gave another yank. The engine sputtered and died. I near fainted. Another yank. Another sputter and then silence. Sweat broke out on my brow. If I didn’t get this thing started . . . .

  “Going somewhere, white man?”

  I let go of the starter cord and listened to the harsh ratcheting sound as it wound itself back onto the pulley. That noise along with my heart’s pounding, seemed awful loud all of a sudden. Be calm, Bronski, I told myself as I took a deep breath and then slowly letting it out, thinking about how he could have shot me in the back.

  “I’m talking to you, white man! You better listen! Now turn around.”

  I slowly turned to face him standing there with his rifle on his hip pointed at my chest. A chest whose heart was beating in double time while I tried not to pee in my pants. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Think, Bronski! Think!

  “What’s the matter, Postmaster? You about to shit your pants?”

  I took a few deep breaths. I would not pee my pants. I decided to try stalling him. Maybe I could talk him out of whatever it was he was planning on. It took little brainpower to know what that was. I dropped my arms to my sides and focused my eyes on his forehead, and I resolved not to waver that focus for an instant. We stood there facing each other for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he spoke.

  “Get out of the boat.”

  It was not easy, but I kept my eyes trained on him as I stumbled the length of the skiff. He might kill me, but it was going to be with me focused on his face. He backed up a few feet as I climbed out onto the river’s edge. I took another deep breath; it was time for me to speak.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked in the best command voice I could muster. “You must know that you will be found out. I’ve already told them about you.”

  “Yeah, them.” He said. “But ‘them’ will have to prove it. They will have a hard time in this village. No one knows I came after you.” His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “It’s just you and me out here, white man. Just you and me. No female employees and nobody else to be a witness.”

  My resolve to keep focus may have wavered for an instant because he laughed.

  “C’mon, Mr. Postmaster, up the bank and into the trees until we get to the path. Put your hands on your head and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Why?” I retorted as I moved past him, “you’re going to kill me anyway.”

  His answer, when it came, was a complete surprise to me, even though it maybe shouldn’t have been. The words were no sooner out of my mouth than he stepped around behind me and gave me a good whack on the head from his rifle butt, driving me to my knees and making me gasp for breath. Still behind me, he took hold of my hair and jerked back on my head.

  “No more back talk, Mr. Postmaster, or the next time will be worse. Do you understand? Now, back on your feet!”

  I tried to rise, but stars were still flashing on and off. Surprisingly, he let me rest on my hands and knees for a minute, before hauling me to my feet. Whereupon, I managed to throw up, getting some vomit on his shoes. When I was thr
ough, I straightened up in time to see him back up a few feet and level the rifle at my gut. His face looked like something out of Dante’s Hell. I was a goner, but I kept my eyes focused on his. If he was going to shoot, he would have my eyes focused on him the rest of his life.

  At last, he got control of himself enough to speak.

  “Up the hill!”

  I stumbled on, putting one foot ahead of the other merely to keep from falling. Eventually, the ground leveled out and we were back in the spruce forest. When we came to the path I stopped to rest. The pain from the whack on the head was now a genuine throbbing headache, like a migraine, only worse. Red sheets of color bounced before me.

  “What now?” I slurred.

  “Go left along the path,” came the terse words.

  I dropped my hands, trying to remember which way was left.

  “Keep your hands on your head, white man!”

  “Screw you, asshole, you’re going to kill me anyway, so to hell with you. I’ll walk with my hands at my side.”

  “Move . . . along . . . the . . . path.”

  He said the words slowly, his patience was wearing thin. At last I remembered which way was left and I began to lurch along. My head hurt and I really didn’t want to think, but I couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t already shot me or whatever he was going to do.

  I kept moving, thinking that each step was letting me live a few seconds longer. The sheets of red were mostly gone, down to mere flickers. I decided to tweak the tiger’s tail.

  “So tell me, asshole, was it you who hung the postmaster?”

  There was a moment’s silence. I couldn’t hear him so I turned halfway around.

  “Keep your eyes to the front! I’ll say one thing for you, white man. You don’t give up, do you? For your information, the postmaster killed himself. Pure and simple.”