Дана Стейбнау - Spoils of the Dead

They rocked and rolled for another interminable five minutes. It was a relief when they finally topped out on a narrow flat of gravel carved from the wall of the bluff. The top of the bluff and Heavenly Drive were less than a hundred feet above.

A tiny log cabin was built flush against the face of the bluff. To the right there was an outhouse and to the left a six-by-six garden plot where the cabbages and Brussels sprouts were doing well.

Liam had stopped and Wy reached for the door handle. “Wait,” Liam said. He backed and filled until he had the truck pointing downhill again. “Okay, you get out and stay here. Crow’s Nest went a little way the other direction at Backstay. I’m going to leave the truck there and walk back up.”

Wy nodded. If Ms. Petroff saw the truck in front of the cabin she might run for it. She got out and Liam inched over the edge of the rise and out of sight. He’d left the truck in low and she could hear it grinding its way down the hill. Better his truck than her Subaru.

Before her Chungasqak Bay stretched from left to right with the Kenai Mountains lining the southern horizon in full relief. It was very nearly the same view out their new front window, just a little lower, and she wondered if custom would ever stale its infinite variety. She couldn’t imagine it. She knew in her head that the mountains were four and five thousand feet higher than where she stood, but her eyes told her she was level with their summits. Every white-topped crag and crest was clearly outlined against a sky going a rich, deep blue. The lagoon, inlets, bays, and fjords that lined the coast below cast dark, mysterious shadows on their waters. Lights twinkled from only a few far-flung locations. There were more lights scattered about the Bay, boats on the way home after a day’s fishing.

She turned to look at the cabin. It had been made from logs a long time ago, and those logs had not been oiled in a long time. The roof was covered with a thick mat of vegetation that was more than moss and might even flower in the summer. The front door was offset to the right, and on the left was a large picture window. Wy couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten the glass up here without breaking it.

She walked to the door and knocked. “Hello? Hello, is anyone home?”

There was no answer. She reached for the handle and the door opened easily inwards. Inside was a single room, about sixteen feet by twenty, where a full-size bed took up most of one corner. A wood stove sat in the opposite corner with two easy chairs flanking it. A small dining table with two chairs sat in front of the window and a kitchen area consisting of a high, freestanding counter with shelves beneath stood against the wall in back of the door. There were two more windows, sliders with screens, one on each side.

A propane lantern hung from a hook and she took it down and pumped it up and lit it with matches she found in an ashtray on the table. With the gloom dispelled more details revealed themselves. The cabin might be old but it was clean and neat, with none of the funky smell that came with age in so many of its brethren. There were two sets of shelves, Blazo boxes three high each, one for clothes and one for books. There was a five-gallon water jug on the floor under the counter and a small metal tub on top with toiletries neatly arranged around it. A rectangular mirror in a plastic frame hung on the wall. The shelves below held a selection of canned and dry goods, heavy on the Spam, and a flat of bottled water. There was a saucepan, a frying pan, a moka pot, and a two-burner Coleman stove. On a single shelf nailed to the wall above sat two plates, three bowls, and a collection of public radio mugs. A rusting coffee can held cutlery and utensils. A small wooden box with a lid that locked held a bag of ground coffee and packets of raw sugar and creamer.

There was a nightstand next to the bed. On it was a headlamp and a stack of books, including a fat textbook on fossils in east Africa by Maeve Leakey, a tattered paperback copy of The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly, the first three novels of the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher, Willie Hensley’s autobiography, and a slim volume titled Mapping the Americas by Shari M. Huhndorf, subtitled “The Transnational Politics of Contemporary Native Culture.” It was published by Cornell University Press and looked dense but interesting.

She put the book down and looked around the cabin again. She thought she would have liked Erik Berglund, too, and she was suddenly angry that the pleasure of his acquaintance had been stolen from her, and that the community of Alaska had been robbed of the contributions that he might have made to it, and that the world of archeology would now never benefit from his discoveries. Murder was the rankest form of crime, the outright theft of a human life and all that that life had to offer to family, friends, and the world.

There was a step and she turned to see Liam in the doorway, red-faced, sweating, and breathing hard. “They do not pay me enough to ever again walk up that hill.”

“Did you manage to hide the Penis Extender?”

He nodded. “Backstay does go farther west, but you can’t see it because the trees have almost overgrown it. I backed in. You can’t even see it’s there.” He looked down, saw the flat of bottled water, and grabbed one. Twisting off the cap he tilted his head back and flatfooted it. Still breathing hard he put the cap back on and looked around for the garbage. It was in a small pail with a tight lid.

“You liked this guy,” she said.

He considered while he got his breathing under control. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. He was a good guy, smart, funny, interesting, really into his job. He had that ability to reduce words of six syllables into words of two syllables so that non-experts could understand what the hell he was saying. I don’t know if he’d found what he said he had but he was excited about it and was sure he could prove it. I’ve always like people with a cause.” He looked around the cabin. “Did you find anything?”

“He was a reader. And he wasn’t a slob, in spite of living rough. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

He went to the table and looked through the scant stack of paper there. “He only had one Visa card in his wallet, along with his driver’s license and an ATM card.” He let the paperwork fall with a sigh. “Ads. He must have picked them up at the store. Did you see a checkbook?”

She shook her head. “He could have paid for everything through his bank online and elected not to receive paper statements. There are probably computers and Wi-Fi at the library.”

“What’s this?” He pulled something from the back of one of the chairs.

“What’s what?” She came to stand next to him.

It was a bright scarf made of lightweight cotton, at one end a vivid pink which by the other end had graduated to a pale peach. “Pretty,” he said. “And for sure it didn’t belong to Erik.”

They both heard it at the same time. “What does Ms. Petroff drive?”

“An old Ford Jeep.” He listened. “Sounds like it’s in pretty good shape. Turn down the lamp.” He replaced the scarf on the back of the chair. She hung the lamp back up on the hook. “Let’s wait around the back of the cabin.”

They did so, listening to the engine of the car grind ever closer, until it topped the rise and the driver killed the engine, which rattled and popped and shook and dieseled for a good minute afterward. Wy, pressed against Liam, heard his heart beating in one ear and the sound of a car door opening and closing in the other. Light footsteps, then the creaking of the cabin door as it opened. Liam pulled away from her and went around the cabin on soundless feet. Wy followed as quietly as she could.