Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

Karen glanced at Lauren.

“I just want to know where the boy came from,” Lauren said. “I have no doubt you and Sam meant well. No doubt. I’ll do everything possible to protect you.”

Tears welled in Karen’s eyes. “We got kids. We can’t go to jail.”

“You’re not going to go to jail if you tell the truth. You helped a stranger. No one goes to jail for that. It’s the lies. People go to jail for covering up the truth.”

Karen stared at Lauren for a moment. One of the children squealed with delight. Karen sighed.

“Okay,” she said. “But if we’re going to talk about this, I need a drink first.”

Karen went to the pantry and brought back a bottle of molasses and two glasses. At least that’s what the label said. She poured two doubles of what smelled like bourbon.

“I thought Diomede was a dry village,” Lauren said.

“It is.”

“Then what is this, for medicinal purposes?”

“No, for baking. I make bourbon cookies.” She slid a glass toward Lauren.

“It’s nine in the morning, Karen.”

“Yeah but it’s midnight in Eastern Europe.”

Karen knocked back her entire drink in one gulp. She stared at Lauren as though waiting for her to do the same. Karen’s reference to Eastern Europe wasn’t random, Lauren thought. She downed her bourbon. Savored the burn in her throat. She was about to get the scoop of her life.

“Are you ready for the truth?” Karen said.

“Yes.”

Karen nodded. “The truth is… Sam’s not on a polar bear hunt. He’s working on his snow machine at the launching dock. He can tell you everything. Put your coat on and follow me. You can leave your bag. No one will touch it. We’ll be right back.”

They climbed down a path along the cliff to the edge of the frozen sea. A man kneeled before a snowmobile, right glove off, tinkering with the track. His round face was flush from exertion.

He smiled when he saw Karen. “Hey. What are you doing—” He froze. Lauren spied fear, not anger in his eyes.

Karen introduced Lauren to her husband. Sam questioned Karen with an earnest expression.

“Dan Garner’s been arrested,” Karen said.

“What?” Sam said.

As Karen explained the charges, her sister emerged from their house above. She shouted something incomprehensible. Sam nodded at Karen for her to go.

Karen glanced at Lauren. “One of our kids banged his head.” She turned to Sam. “She won’t stop asking questions until she understands what happened. Don’t lie. People go to jail when they lie.”

Karen left. Sam resumed his tinkering.

“Why is this so important to you?” Sam said.

“It’s my job.”

“It’s your job to ruin people’s lives?”

“No. It’s my job to reveal the truth.”

“Even if it ruins people’s lives? Why would you want a job like that?”

“We all have our calling. Mine is to dig.”

Sam stood up. “I’m almost done here. Do me a favor. Take a seat. Hold the handlebars as though you were riding it so the weight is distributed like it would be. I just put in new shocks in the rear suspension. I want to make sure they’re on right. You ever been on one of these?”

“Yes, I’ve ridden a snowmobile.” Men and their assumptions. She slipped onto the snowmobile and grabbed the handlebars. “When the boy who calls himself Bobby Kungenook showed up on this island, where did he come from?”

A shadow appeared on the snow in front of her. A hand reached over her shoulder. It was a man’s hand with calluses like scallops. It flipped a red switch, turned the key, and pulled the starter cord. The engine hummed.

Robert Seelick Sr. appeared at her side. “Before you ask a question, you should be sure you want the answer.” He yanked a lever beside the steering column.

The snowmobile surged.

Lauren’s neck snapped back. She teetered. Grasped the steering wheel. The snowmobile accelerated. The wind whipped her face. She lowered her head beneath the windshield. The throttle, Lauren thought. She pulled the throttle to the left. It wouldn’t budge. She pulled harder. It didn’t move. She squeezed the brake handle. Nothing. She squeezed again. It didn’t work.

Snow flew. Shards of ice stuck to the windshield. The engine sang. Lauren clung to the handlebars. She yanked the throttle, squeezed the brake again. Still nothing. She tried to turn the ignition off. The key wouldn’t budge. She turned harder. It wouldn’t move. It was stuck in the on position.

Tufts of fog obscured the horizon. Lauren couldn’t brake. She couldn’t cut the power. She was going too fast to turn—how fast was she going? Didn’t these things go more than a hundred miles per hour? She didn’t heed Seelick’s warning in Kotzebue. She’d taken one risk too many to find the truth about the boy. Now she was going to die. Alone. In the middle of the Bering Strait.

But what choice did she have? She had to dig. It’s what she did. The memory that persecuted her asserted itself. If she dug hard and fast enough, she might save her mother yet. Her mother was waiting for her help. All she had to do was get there in time—

The engine sputtered. The snowmobile slowed, lurched, and resumed its pace. Another ten seconds passed. The engine burbled, quaked, and died. The snowmobile coasted into the fog. Lauren wiped snow off the fuel gauge. It was empty. They’d forgotten to fill the gas tank.

Euphoria gripped Lauren. She was going to survive. She wasn’t going to die after all. She’d only been gone for what—ninety seconds? Two minutes at most. There had to be a border patrol of some kind. Someone would see her—

An alarm sounded.

They’d found her already.

Ask and ye shall receive , Lauren thought. She could see only twenty feet through the fog but she could hear human voices and the sound of a motor. Coming at her. Sam Kuvalik and Robert Seelick had aimed the snowmobile away from the island, but the initial thrust must have changed her trajectory. She’d probably travelled on a diagonal from one side of the island to another side. Everyone had heard the engine, and someone in the watchtower had seen her.

There had to be a watchtower, right? Hell, this was the Arctic tip of the American frontier.

Lauren climbed off the snowmobile. Her back stiffened. Her legs trembled. As the fog rolled, the island came in and out of view, about a mile away. Strange, Lauren thought. Somehow, it looked bigger.

Four men with rifles burst through the fog. They wore white uniforms and fur hats. One of them shouted something but the wind swept his words away. The men aimed their rifles at Lauren.

She raised her hands in the air. “Are you guys the border patrol?”

The soldier answered but this time an engine drowned out his voice. A jeep emerged from the fog. It stopped on the ice beside the soldiers. The engine idled. Four more armed soldiers piled out. They aimed their rifles at Lauren.

Several soldiers spoke. The island loomed even larger in the background. There were no settlements on the lower ridge.

This time Lauren understood. She understood that Sam Kuvalik and Robert Seelick had made no mistakes. They’d aimed the snowmobile in the perfect direction. She’d run out of gas at the precise spot. Karen Kuvalik hadn’t made any mistakes, either. Lauren had left her purse and wallet behind. She had no passport. She had no ID. And her breath reeked of whiskey even though it was still morning.

What Lauren could not understand was a word the soldier was saying.

The island in front of her wasn’t Little Diomede. Lauren remembered the Alaskan guidebook. It was another island, two and a half miles away called Big Diomede.

And on Big Diomede the soldiers spoke Russian.