The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [75]
“He wants to make sure we aren’t going to rob him.”
“Maybe he gonna rob us. Maybe take our food,” she said.
“If he does that, the ghosts will haunt him. Right?” he said.
“You shouldn’t joke with her like that,” the girl said quietly.
John gave a light rap on the door. A square peephole opened and a light blue eye appeared. He looked away while the man behind the door evaluated them, and then several metallic clicks from the other side preceded an oiled and silent opening of the door, a thick, solid door that reminded him of a bank vault.
A lanky, bone-thin man stood behind the door. He held a light snow-camouflaged assault rifle in one hand and quickly waved them in with the other.
“In. In. Move it. Come on,” he said.
“Our food?”
“Pull it in. It’s not safe out there.”
The man reached down to grab the rope to the old woman’s sled and pulled it in. They followed. With the toboggan inside, the door swung shut and the man clamped two deadbolts and locked several baseball-sized padlocks. The man turned and looked at a four-by-four-inch security screen, never putting down the assault rifle. The screen flashed the images from at least three cameras mounted somewhere outside, each one covering a different side of the tank.
“You’re alone?” he asked.
“Just the three of us,” John said.
He looked at the girl. “Christ, she’s blind?” he asked, then added, “From the sickness?”
“No. Before,” the girl said.
“Blind. That makes for good winter travel, no? Here, you ladies sit down. With all that’s happened, I’ve lost my manners.”
He pulled out two metal folding chairs. The old woman and the girl sat.
“Let me get some tea brewing,” he said, turning to a small hotplate with an old teakettle.
While he filled the kettle from a small silver spigot that drained into a deep sink, John looked around the small structure. The building was insulated with some sort of spray foam and then painted white. One small fluorescent bulb lit the space. Against one wall sat a double bed, beside that a desk with a computer and a small ceramic space heater. Against the other wall a woodstove, a plywood table, and a workbench, complete with ammunition-reloading equipment.
The man turned and gave them a thorough once-over, again. He was balding, with long, stringy red hair in the back and on the sides. The wisps of hair on his face and chin didn’t constitute much of a beard, and his icy blue eyes were set behind a pair of flimsy wire-rimmed glasses.
“Name is Raymond. Folks used to call me Red.”
He extended his hand toward John.
“John Morgan. This is—” he said, and stopped, stunned. After everything, he didn’t even know the girl’s name. He looked down at the floor.
“It’s okay, friend, it’s just a name,” Red said, slapping John on the shoulder.
“I’m Rayna,” the girl said. “This is Maggie.”
“Where’d you guys travel from?” Red asked.
“Nunacuak,” the girl said, “and she’s from Kuigpak.”
“You related to the Alexie family there?” Red asked.
The old woman nodded.
He pointed to a small photo of a wedding picture, a healthier Red standing beside a smiling Yup’ik girl. “My wife’s mom was from Kuigpak,” he said.
“I know her,” the old woman said. “She’s my husband’s cousin.”
“Nulirqa tuqumauq,” he said, the Yup’ik words coming with difficulty from his mouth. He shifted in his boots, and then turned away from them to tend to the tea.
He poured the tea into small blue plastic coffee mugs and passed them out.
“I thought I’d taken every precaution to keep us safe,” he said.
He poured himself a cup and just held the cup for warmth. After a while he took a sip and said, “You want news.”
John nodded, glanced at the girl and looked away.
The man took a sip of his tea and sighed. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose the answers I have will do any of us much good. Tell me that you’ve got some sort of real meat in your sleds there, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“IT’S THE OFF-SEASON NOW. We can hit Mexico or Hawaii for cheap,” he argued. “A little