Chapter 5: Nature's Law

                        “Nature's laws affirm instead of prohibit. If you violate her laws, you are your own prosecuting attorney, judge, jury, and hangman.”            

            —Luther Burbank

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                  The evening chill deepened and finally carried him back to their cabin. He slipped under the covers, still clothed, grateful for Fraser's even breathing. The transition to sleep came abruptly and he rested uneasily until dawn flooded the cabin. Fraser had already risen and greeted him, reaching for a pot on the stove. Ray sniffed and then rolled out of bed quickly. “Coffee. You got coffee. Oh, what will the Committee say?” He sat down and sipped deeply, his tired eyes wandering about the cabin. He felt thick and weighed down. Why bother sleeping if you still felt like shit afterward?

            Fraser shrugged and replaced the pot on the stove. “This is the last of it. Thought you could use some after last night.” He moved around the table and knelt down next to Ray. Ray stared stupidly, his exhaustion filtering the fact that Fraser had started to lace his boots.

            “Christ, Benny. What are you doing?” He tried to rise from the chair but Fraser's hand pushed him back down.

            “I am helping you. Stop wiggling.”

            “I can lace my own boots.” He shoved Fraser's hands away. “I may be tired but I'm not helpless,” he added, annoyed. “Besides, you don't look like you've slept either. Want me to help with your shoes?” He leaned forward, only then noticing that, as usual, Fraser's boots were firmly in place on his feet.

            Fraser opened his mouth and Ray added hurriedly, “Never mind. I can see you have your footwear situation under control. But I haven't had anyone tie my shoes since third grade. And I don't need you to mother me.” He stopped abruptly. Taking a deep breath, he sipped the coffee determinedly.

            Fraser bent forward, one hand resting on the floor. Something flashed brightly in his eyes. Reacting like a swimmer resisting the undertow, Ray averted his face and peered into the mug. “Any more left in the pot?” he muttered.

            Nodding, Fraser rose gracefully to reach for the pot. Ray closed his eyes, letting his shoulders sag. The cabin was warm and if he could just find the right position, he was certain he could be comfortable.

            The knocking startled him, causing the mug to shake and spill. Swearing, he rubbed his pants. His head felt huge, and he tried to ignore the sounds coming from outside the cabin. They echoed slowly at first through his exhaustion, until he stood sharply, his heart racing. He ran for the door, nearly tripping over the unlaced boot.

            “...Oh my God, Fraser. It's all gone. All of it.”

            Danny and Susan stood, tightly bunched together. Their faces were pale. Danny's rifle was cocked and ready. Susan had blood streaming down the left side of her face.

            Fraser looked quickly over at Ray. “Start from the beginning, Danny.”

            “Why would the fuck would they do something like this?” Danny's voice cracked, and he waved his rifle in agitation.

            Ray stepped forward and pushed the rifle down to the safety position. “Fraser's right, Danny. We need all of the information from the beginning. Who did what?” His hand closed on the rifle, and he pulled it away.

            Danny fell silent, his chest heaving with an effort to stay calm. Susan jumped in. “I was at the storage shed. Ran out of sugar. Steph and Danny were there too. They've taken it all.”

            “Who did you see?” Ray encouraged her.

            “Well, we didn't actually see them. But it was the newcomers. All of them—Dennis, Cam .”

            “And Larry,” grated Danny.

            “Okay. So you think they did what?”

            “They poured gasoline on the center. They were going to burn our supplies.”

            Ray's hands went numb, Danny's face blurring. “Our winter supplies? They burned the supplies?”

            “No, we stopped them.”

            “Well, that's something.” Ray felt the blood rushing back into his face and exhaled explosively.

            “You don't get it. We were too late.” Danny's voice thickened.

            “What else did they do?” Fraser's voice fell softly into the early morning air.

            Danny swallowed. “They poured all of our kerosene and gasoline into the supplies. All of the food is contaminated. They broke open the medical supplies and soaked those too.”

            “And the canned goods?” Ray remembered the long hours combing through nearby settlements and houses.

            “Oh, they didn't burn those,” Susan spat out angrily. “Those they dumped in the river.”

            “All of it?”

            Susan nodded grimly. “Well, what they could carry. The rest they punctured.”

            Ray exploded. “Who the fuck was on watch? How could they have done all that in one night and no one hear them?”

            Susan went white and dropped her head. Danny glared back at Ray. “That's not fair. And look at her. At least she's still walking. Steph had to go home. One of the bastards hit her in the face.”

            “Ray.” Fraser tugged on his arm. “We post only a light watch. There are no houses between the center and the river.”

            “And they had inside help,” Susan added, lifting her eyes gratefully to Fraser.

            Ray bit into her, careless of his target. “It's always easier to blame the next guy, isn't it.” He turned away to hide his own chagrin and headed back into the cabin. “Ray,” Danny called after him. “You don't need to hurry. We have them under guard at Susan's place. The main center was too public.”

            “Just great,” Ray shouted back over his shoulder. “But I'll still need to get my gun.” Once in the cabin, he moved swiftly, pulling an extra handful of ammunition into his pocket. He slipped his switchblade into the back of his belt for good measure. Stepping briskly, he rejoined the group.

            Fraser was still trying to calm Susan. “Danny, can you take her over to Elu's? She should have that patched up as soon as possible.”

            Danny nodded and then grimaced. “One of them is a paramedic. How could he do this? We could have used his medical skills!” His hands still shook in shock.

            Ray gritted his teeth and silently agreed. But it wouldn't do to add more fuel to this fire. And in fact, the situation might need some calming down. “Danny,” he asked casually, “can you lend us your rifle?” The question was merely perfunctory, as he had already slipped the rifle to Fraser for safekeeping.

            As the two men walked, Ray turned to Fraser. “How many did Danny say are guarding them right now?” They hurried down the path to Susan's.

            “At least two—Makah and Istas.” Fraser opened the rifle and checked to see if it was loaded. He then left the safety off.

            “Good,” Ray muttered. “At least we won't have a mob on our hands. God dammit, though. Who the fuck do they think they are? Who the fuck made them God? Fuck them to hell.” Smarting, he started off at a brisk run, Fraser at his side.

            For once, Fraser did not contradict him. Or point out that they had been probably sitting on a damp log moping in the darkness while their lifeline was being sliced by Dennis the Menace and his cronies. Ray snuck a glance at his friend. Fraser moved with his usual combination of grace and purpose, jogging purposefully. Ray tugged his jacket over his holster more tightly and kept moving. Fraser was right. There had been no need to post a real watch over their supplies. Now they knew better. How many more mistakes could they not afford to make?

            They curved around Elu's house and Susan's cabin stood, starkly washed in the morning light. Someone had knocked a drying rack over and it leaned crookedly against the front steps. A few townspeople milled in place, tousled hair and rumpled clothing lending the gathering a chaotic quality that Ray did not like. He moved in closer on Fraser's right, almost brushing him with his elbow. Too many variables to know how to play it right. Best to approach it head‑on.

            “Morning, Greg,” he called out, catching their attention.

            “They won't let us in,” Greg shouted over the rapidly shrinking space between them and the crowd. “What's going on?” His hands were empty, but his face flickered between anger and fear.

            “Let us look into it,” Fraser interjected. “We'll let you know as soon as we have it sorted out.” He eased his way between the Nelsons and the rest of the men. None were armed, but several looked at the weapons Fraser and Ray carried with interest. Ray could almost see the thoughts scurrying through their minds. It wouldn't be long before they would be a real mob.

            The kitchen was dark, the curtains, normally open to catch the light, pulled shut. Someone had cleared out unneeded furniture to make room for the prisoners. Dennis sat in a high-backed chair with his arms tied behind his back. His shirt was bloodied from the slow drip down the side of his face. Cam sat next to him, her face stone white. Larry and two more of Dennis's men, Gary and Carl, crouched on the floor with their hands on their heads. They eyed the men guarding them with wary guile that Ray recognized from a thousand punks. Little men who thought they could beat the system if they could run far enough or shoot fast enough.

            He took a deep breath and slowed to match Fraser's sudden halt. Fraser's hair was damp with sweat and he ran his hands through it to comb it back down. “Who else have you sent for?” he asked Istas directly, ignoring the prisoners.

            “Naomi and I sent for Ilene.” His flannel shirt was dark blue, but Ray could detect bloodstains on it.

            “That should be enough,” Fraser replied. “Nodin,” he added, addressing Makah's youngest son. “Could you please bar the door after they arrive and then help keep the community calm?” He brought his rifle up to cover the seated men as the young man left.

            Ray moved over to the prisoners, pulling his badge and placing it on the kitchen table. He ignored Carl's flinch as he reached behind Cam to adjust her ropes. He ignored Gary 's muttering and moved past Dennis as if he were a ghost. Keeping his eyes studiedly unfocused, he swung one of the empty chairs around to face the empty living room. Then he pulled out his revolver and checked the ammunition.

            The soft clicking of the chambers was the only sound inside the room. Outside, they could hear voices and a few snatches of words. Inside, they waited, the dust motes floating in the dim light. Carl's breathing became harsher. Ray clicked the chamber shut and began.

            “Who wants to go first?” He saw Cam shift uncontrollably and angrily met his eyes. Ray passed over her. She was not the weak link.

            Dennis shook his head forcefully, but kept silent. His face was swelling on one side and it gave his features a lopsided look. Without ice he'd look like a mashed sculpture in a few hours.

            “That's all right. We don't expect you to talk in the first go-round.” He pulled out his switchblade and flicked it open. Carl started to wheeze, his arms trembling madly above his head.

            Ray inched his chair closer, bending at the waist as if to hear better. Carl choked. His mouth opened but no sound emerged. As Ray leaned even closer, he almost lost his balance when Dennis spoke.

            “A bit theatrical, aren't we?” His bruised mouth struggled to form the words, but his muscles seemed to loosen as he continued. “And here I thought you American cops did that only on TV.”

            Ray wheeled the chair around to face Dennis. “This is not a fucking movie,” he shouted, his voice slamming into the walls. Cam flinched and kept her face lowered.

            “I know it's not,” Dennis continued smoothly. “But you don't seem to know it. What the hell is going on? We didn't do it.”

            “And what didn't you do last night? Couldn't get your way, so you thought you'd steal the ball and run home.” Ray put the sneer of thirty years of Chicago streets into his words.

            “Why are you blaming us? I already said we didn't do it. Or is it my politics you don't approve of? Kill the opposition, is that it?” Istas jerked and glared, moving menacingly closer. “So where intimidation does not work, threats and violence will? Look,” Dennis continued, swallowing deeply. “It's not a question of 'my way.' This is a question of survival.” He turned his head to glare back at Istas. “And I am not talking about the survival of a handful of pig‑headed fishermen and refugees. I am talking about the survival of our nation.”

            “So that gives you the right to destroy our winter supplies? Our medical supplies? Our future?” Fraser's voice was flat, equally void of both warmth and condemnation.

            “We—did—not—do—it. How many times do I have to say this before you idiots listen?” Dennis tested his jaw, moving it gingerly forward, and fell stubbornly silent.

            The front door opened and then shut loudly. Ray's head shot up quickly. Ilene and Susan were standing quietly in the living room. Their faces were pasty‑white. Between them they held Alain by the arms, breathing heavily. From the set of their expressions, Ray gathered they had heard every word.

            “Thank you, Dennis. That is what we all needed to hear,” was Fraser's only response. He looked at Alain without surprise, silently. Fraser's face had gone hollow and gaunt.

            Susan gathered herself and stepped forward, dragging Alain with her. “Hold on,” she said. “There's something else you should hear.”

            Alain stumbled as they forced him toward the kitchen. He looked wildly around, then, catching sight of Ray and Fraser, relaxed bonelessly in her grip.

            “Tell them what you just told us, Alain.” Susan shook him harshly and he nearly fell again.

            “I did it,” Alain mumbled into his beard. Susan shook him again and he jerked himself free. “Let me go. I told you I'd tell them.”

            “Tell us what, Alain?” Fraser's voice floated gently into the cabin. Ray remained seated; he could only stare with unfolding horror.

            “It was poisoned. The food was poisoned. I had to protect you. Didn't any of you see?” Alain asked, growing agitated again.

            Ray blinked, trying to clear away the confusion. “Wait. Are you saying you poured the gasoline over the supplies? You punctured the cans?”

            Fraser approached Alain and sniffed. “Ray, he's covered in gasoline. Did you search him?” he asked Susan.

            “Yeah.” She winced, the blood seeping down her face as her head wound broke open again. “Shit,” she muttered, wiping at the blood. “I mean, yes, he had grabbed a rifle from the storeroom but he didn't have a chance to use it.” By her expression she left it unspoken that it was only a matter of time before Alain escalated to killing them all.

            “Get that seen to, Susan,” Fraser said, tugging Alain's arm away from her grip. “We'll take it from here.” She winced again and released Alain. Nodin unbolted the door to let her leave and shouting filled the cabin. Fraser listened to the voices, stripped of all expression, his eyes unfathomably dark.

            Ray glanced involuntarily outside, the light breaking his momentary paralysis. He stood and joined Fraser, disturbed by the look in Fraser's eyes. “Alain,” he breathed softly. “Why did you do it?”

            “I told you. They poisoned it. I had to protect you. I wasn't sure. Not until he spoke last night.” He pointed to Dennis tied to the chair, his eyes glittering. Alain leaned forward and whispered loudly, “He's from the government, you know.”

            “That's great,” Dennis shouted back, pulling against the ropes. “A madman sabotages your stores and you blame us. I told you couldn't take care of yourselves. Now will you please release me?”

            Fraser nodded to Makah, who stepped forward to untie the ropes. “I still think we should keep an eye on them,” Ray muttered to Fraser. Fraser looked sharply at Istas, who smiled grimly back. “I don't think that'll be a problem, Ray.”

            Ray sighed and turned to Ilene and Naomi. “We should also have someone keep an eye on Alain. Can you organize a twenty-four-hour shift? Two at a time?”

            Ilene looked at Fraser confusedly. “Is that it?” she asked angrily. “He leaves us to starve and that's it?” Fraser turned and studied Ilene out of dark eyes so still they looked inhuman. She fell abruptly silent.

            Annoyed, Ray stepped forward. “No, that's not it. But we've got to take inventory. Decide how much is salvageable. He can't have gotten to all of the supplies. He's just one man.”

            Ilene considered the idea and then looked nervously at Fraser again. “Go ahead, Ilene,” Fraser prodded her. “Istas and I will pass what's happened on to the rest. Would you and Naomi join us tomorrow after we've inventoried? Say three p.m. ?”

            “Come on, Alain. Let's get you cleaned up.” Naomi gently put her arm around Alain, who shrank back. “No, don't worry. I'm okay. See?” She held up her hands to her face. Alain nodded slowly and turned to face Fraser. “I couldn't let anything happen to you. You're all I have left,” he said, only then allowing Naomi to pull him toward the front door. Fraser bowed his head and closed his eyes.

            “So what are you going to do?” Dennis stood, rubbing his wrists.

            “None of your business,” Ray grated, irritated. “I suggest you head out the side door as well and hightail it back to your camp.”

            “Oh, and get lynched? No, thanks. You owe us more than that. Dammit, man, we could have used those supplies. How are we going to make it to Whitehorse without them?” Ray bristled. The man just didn't know when to quit. He acted like he had been the only one affected by what Alain did. Time to let Dennis know the world did not revolve around him. He took a deep breath to put Dennis in his place.

            “He's right,” Fraser interrupted and Ray closed his mouth with a snap. For all he cared, Dennis and his followers could freeze in hell. But not on his watch. Ray rubbed his face tiredly and nodded.

            “Istas,” Fraser continued, “go with them. I'll start talking to the rest.” His face was oddly stiff; its expression, brittle as glass, might have broken at a touch. He walked slowly out the door and into the crowd.

            After they left, Ray turned to Danny. “Are you up for organizing the inventory detail? I'll even volunteer.” His joke fell flat. Danny stared hopelessly, his face lined and ancient. “Ray, I really thought they'd done it. I was so sure.”

            “Well, would it help to know that I thought they did it too? Look, we all make mistakes. All we can do is try not to make any more. Right?” He felt exhaustion settle over his shoulders like a heavy coat. He couldn't spare much sympathy for Dennis right now.

            Danny rubbed his chest painfully. Cam had kicked him several times before he wrestled her to the ground. “Right,” he said, his voice lacking any conviction.

            The inventory went slowly and took the rest of the day and most of the night. The damage had not been as great as Danny had originally reported. In all, Alain had contaminated only half of their supplies. The canned goods were marginally affected. The greatest loss was the gasoline he'd poured liberally throughout the building. That could not be easily replaced. And of course, they would have to build another storage cabin. The wood had been so thoroughly soaked that it could not be cleaned.

            Outside, Ray stretched his aching back and examined the tally sheet. Two of the other tourists had volunteered to help and they had just taken a break. They sat on the cabin steps, drinking water from a bucket someone had left for them. They were talking anxiously and although Ray tried to concentrate on his counting, their voices carried.

            “So that's it, then.” Ron Shinn had driven his RV all the way from Seattle to give his kids the real wilderness experience. They had not survived it. He had spent most of the winter in a drunken stupor and had only recently rallied with the spring.

            “Yeah, well, it's not too bad. We still have enough to make it to Whitehorse .” The other man tossed the excess water from his cup and rolled his head in order to release the kinks. Tom Dunlap and his wife and two kids had managed to survive the initial onslaught. Like the Nelsons, they'd hidden for months before starting on their way back home to Montreal . He had a wiry build and prematurely graying hair. He also had a dour personality to match.

            “Well, that's if we make it.” Ron kicked a stone away from the sill of the cabin and frowned.

            “What do you mean? If there's a large enough group, we should be fine. And of course, we won't all go at once.” Tom had very little patience for any pessimism but this own.

            “I wasn't talking about Fairbanks . I'm talking about Alain. What if he decides that we're poisoned, contaminated, infected, whatever, next? Do you feel comfortable taking him along to Whitehorse? Or leaving him behind to slaughter your kids in their beds one night?”

            The men fell silent. The day was warming, but Ray felt chilled. He looked at the tally sheet, but the pages kept blurring. Ron was right. It wasn't as bad as they'd originally feared. He looked up, across the short path separating them from Susan's cabin, his eyes blinking in the afternoon glare. But it was bad enough. And if his numbers were right, Stewart Junction would not make another winter without outside help.

            Hs snapped the notebook shut and told the men they could head home. Even Danny trudged down the path without a word. The numbers were clear. Ray knew it would be only a matter of hours before the entire community knew.

            The visitor's center was empty when he first entered, the afternoon sunlight falling through the open door, hazing the dust motes in the air as he walked to the podium. He heard the soft murmur of voices and followed the sound.

            The “war” room had originally been designed as a small storage room. Someone had appropriated a card table and chairs that filled the room. Ray squeezed past Susan and nodded to Naomi and Ilene.

            Naomi smiled and moved a chair so he could sit down. “Fraser and Istas will be here shortly. We can go over your report then.”

            Ray sat down, allowing himself to relax for the first time all day. He didn't want to ask them where Fraser had gone. He had awoken that morning to find the bed empty and that Fraser had never made it back to their cabin.

            Susan sat next to him, rolling a piece of paper into a tube over and over again. “Hey, how's it going? You all right?”

            She looked up and smoothed the paper, placing it flat on the table. “Yeah, just a nasty bruise. I got Jim—the paramedic, you know—to sew up the cut.”

            “So how're our friends doing? Still ranting about the mix-up?”

            Ilene and Naomi shook their heads. “We don't know. Istas will report on that when he gets here, I guess,” Ilene said, looking over to Naomi. “We spent most of this morning setting up the watch schedule over Alain.”

            “So how that'd go?” Ray shifted in his seat, the tension returning.

            Naomi pursed her lips and glanced at Ilene. “As well as could be expected. He doesn't understand what he did. And of course, it was hard to find people to watch him.”

            “You mean without wanting to pummel him? Yeah, I can relate. Who's on duty right now?”

            “Elu. He likes her. I gather she reminds him of his wife. She was a Dene too, did you know that?”

            “No, I didn't.” They fell silent, the only sound Susan's folding and refolding of her piece of paper.

            Ray watched her and then finally gave up. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to the paper.

            Susan dropped the sheet and pushed her chair back a little. It scraped against the wall and stopped. “A letter.”

            “From who? Don't tell me a postman made it through this mud.” He reached out and slid the paper around to see.

            It was hastily scribbled and he had to squint in places. Someone was demanding to be allowed to leave for Whitehorse . He could barely make out the signature.

            “So they want to leave.” He grunted before shoving it away. “I don't remember that being an issue.”

            “It isn't,” Istas called from the partially open door and squeezed his way past a chair. He sat down heavily and tossed his rifle on the table. “But if you read on, they're asking for a half share of our supplies to make the trip.”

            “Dennis.” Ray divided his scowled between the letter and Istas.

            “And Greg Nelson. And the Dunlaps. Most of the tourists. Larry and the medic—thank God—are staying, however.” Susan looked like she was about to add more, but Naomi raised her hand for silence. “I think we should wait for Fraser before discussing this.”

            “So who else? How many?” Ray asked, ignoring her.

            “Who cares,” Istas interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. “Good riddance. They're a waste of our resources.”

            “Well, they're going to waste even more if we let them go.” Ray pulled out his own sheet of paper and fingered it nervously. “Where's Fraser?”

            “He was right behind me. Had to stop off at your cabin to pick up a few things.” The fact that Istas always knew Fraser's whereabouts still irritated Ray. He tried to let it slide, but another night of falling asleep while his partner was anywhere but where he was wore thin.

            The door creaked and Fraser entered. He nodded courteously to Susan and Naomi, then neatly stepped behind Ray to sit in the remaining chair. His revolver flashed through his open coat as he sat. He leaned his rifle against the wall. “Anything up?” Ray asked quickly, nodding at the weapons.

            “No, but I thought with emotions running high, we should be prepared.” His chair creaked under him like a comment.

            Satisfied, Ray pointed to Susan's letter. “You heard about this?”

            “Yes. So the question is, how many supplies can we spare?” Fraser spoke abruptly, his face cold and white as bone.

            Ray dropped the tally sheet flatly on the table. “What, no discussion? No `hey, maybe we shouldn't let them go with any of our supplies'?”

            “That depends on how much we have left.”

            He could tell when Fraser was being reasonable and hated it.

            “Based on the caloric numbers we've been using this winter, we've got enough canned goods and other food supplies to reach through two months of winter. After that, either we cut our numbers in half or we cut our caloric intake in half.” He paused to clear his throat. “But the worst is the gasoline. While we can hand‑pump it from Carey's underground tanks, we don't know how much is left. And even if we can get to the next tank in Mayo, transportation will be a problem.”

            Fraser took a deep breath and nodded firmly. “Well, then, we take the number of people who want to leave, give them half of what they need to get to Whitehorse . The rest they can forage on their way.”

            “Okay, okay. Let me calculate.” Ray ran the numbers, his pencil scratching. He'd never really missed a calculator until he arrived in the Yukon .

            “They would actually balance each other out,” he finally answered and frowned. “But we're still short. Even with reduced numbers, we won't make it through the next winter without additional supplies.”

            “Fine,” Fraser said. “Susan, you want to do the rationing?” Susan scowled but agreed. “Istas, I think they should leave as soon as possible.”

            “We can always make up the difference by shortchanging them on the supplies.” Istas smiled thinly. Fraser considered him soberly until the man flushed slightly and looked away. Ray sat back, enjoying the exchange.

            “So how will we deal with the winter? Fraser, what do you recommend?” Naomi exasperatedly cut into the male posturing.

            Before Fraser could answer, Susan jumped in eagerly. “We should start by drawing up a list of all the surrounding cabins and then check off the ones we've already visited. We've pretty much cleaned out Carey's store, so we'll probably need to head over to Mayo.”

            “Good, then, Susan, you're in charge of organizing the resupply.” Fraser smiled brightly.

            “Teach me to volunteer next time,” Susan chuckled, answering him with a sardonic grin.

            Istas, still sulking, added, “And we had agreed to organize a hunting trip. The caribou should be here in the next few weeks.”

            “Good, I'll be happy to work with you on that.” Fraser spoke easily, without any trace of reprimand or criticism. Istas brightened. Ray always admired how he could shift people so easily from irritation to good will. Must be another survival tactic he learned from some weird book.

            “Good, then,” Fraser said. He had somehow slipped into the role of moderator. “So that leaves us with the last issue.” His gray eyes swept the table piercingly. “What are we going to do about Alain?”

            Ray sat back, wrinkling his brow. He should have seen this coming, but somehow the inventory and Dennis had made it such a secondary issue. Well, nuts were one thing he knew how to handle.

            “We do what we've been doing. We guard him. He's clearly not all here.”

            Istas stared at him and snorted. “What, twenty-four hours a day? And how will we do that? We'd have to restrain him. Are you suggesting we tie him up like a wild animal in the back yard?”

            Ray rolled his eyes in irritation. “No, Istas, not that. We can build a jail. We've already secured his cabin. We just need to make it more secure. Come on, have you never had to build jails in the Yukon before?”

            Istas's face flooded again, and he raised his voice. “We've already tried that and he keeps getting out. More bars and locks won't fix the problem. What he needs is someone to guard him. And we don't have the manpower. We need everyone here to pull their own weight, not sit on their asses watching some nut. And even if we did assign him a twenty‑four‑hour guard, there's no guarantee we can keep him secure.”

            “This is not Ted Bundy we're talking about. It's Alain. I know you don't want to take care of him, but maybe Dennis will.”

            Istas laughed harshly. “I doubt that, Ray. You know what he called Alain last night? A `saboteur.' He wouldn't have him even if we gave Dennis all of our supplies.”

            Stumped, Ray looked angrily around the table for support. Naomi held his gaze, reflecting back only calm determination. Susan's face was more easily read: Alain was too dangerous. Istas was equally transparent, his impatience with Ray's reasoning visible in the tight line of his shoulders and the narrowed eyes. Ray looked over to Fraser, hoping for some show of support.

            Fraser studied him wordlessly, his eyes filling with sadness. “You know, Ray,” Fraser offered heavily after what seemed like minutes of silent reflection. “Alain is as dangerous to all of us as if he were carrying a loaded gun.”

            Ray stared. Fraser sounded so reasonable. Almost dispassionate. “You can't really think that, Fraser,” he finally managed to say, hearing the flatness in his own voice.

            Fraser sighed and leaned into the table. He had rolled his coatsleeves up above the elbows in the warm room. “He has already made it likely that some of us will not survive the next winter.”

            The absolute conviction in Fraser's voice shook him. Ray had done the math. He'd been doing the math all night and day. He had even dreamed about it last night, sleeping alone in the cabin—the cold winter snow floating over their bodies, the sound of wolves and carrion birds descending. He'd already gone through one winter in the Yukon under less than desirable conditions. And he also knew it would be a long time before relief or rescue. If ever.

            Scanning the table again, he realized that the others had already come to the same conclusion. They were old hands at living in this god‑forsaken place. For the first time in his life he understood what it meant to exist—to survive—on the edge of subsistence. The room closed around him, the air stale in his lungs. He forced himself to breathe.

            “So what do you want to do?” He meant to sound defiant, but the words came out weakly.

            No one offered anything for a few minutes. A small trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

            “We could make it look like suicide, I suppose,” Susan finally offered, studying her sheet of paper with great intensity. Stunned, Ray swept the room with his eyes, demanding some response to Susan's suggestion. He waited for someone to look back, to show they still had some sense. Some reason. But the floor, the table, even the outside wall seemed to be the only interesting objects in the room.

            Finally, Istas raised his eyes. “Yes, I agree.” Naomi followed. All eyes turned inquiringly to Fraser. “Yes,” Fraser said, his voice ringing with a solidity that couldn't be disagreed with.

            Ray exploded. “I don't believe this. Here we are, civilized people, discussing the murder of a neighbor like we were deciding what to order for dinner.”

            “Ray, do you really want to allow more of your neighbors to die? And if we don't do something, that's what's going to happen.” A hard, set look spilled across Fraser's face, but his voice gentled. Ray felt he was facing a stranger.

            “This isn't going to happen,” he insisted. Numbness spread downward from his mouth, across his face, settling in his chest. “I didn't become a cop for this.”

            Naomi reached across the table and picked up his limp hand. “Ray, you don't understand. When you've been here longer you'll see what's demanded.” She looked sincere and for a moment her weathered face flickered with what might have been compassion. Ray pulled his hand away and shoved it under the table. He felt dirty.

            “I don't care if I live a thousand years, what is wrong is wrong. I don't want to live in a world like this. And you—” He turned on Fraser, whipping his words with venomous force. “You're the last man I'd ever think'd agree to this.” Fraser's face paled, his mouth tightened, and for a moment he looked as though he wanted to speak. But the moment passed, and with it Ray's last chance to reason with him. Ray looked across the table and saw a unity of purpose. They had decided. They had shut him out. His vision blurred and he clenched his fists beneath the table, digging fingernails into his palms.

            Istas stirred restlessly into the resulting silence. “We should do it now, you know.”

            Fraser nodded, once. “I agree. I'll do it.” Ray saw his eyes then, so dark they had no color, powerful in their directness. More glances around the table, the sense of relief palpable. The world spun again, the center slipping away into darkness. “No, Fraser,” he began, his voice hoarsely gaining strength. “I don't believe you are going to do this.”

            Istas growled at him. “Shut up, Ray. We've made our decision.” The faces around the card table were suddenly swept with the same uniform coldness. Susan smiled, showing her teeth. The way the world smiles, Ray thought numbly. Showing teeth. He felt surrounded by a pack of wolves, waiting for him to make the wrong move, the wrong gesture.

            Fraser stood up, pulling the room's attention away from Ray. Istas shrank back into his chair and only then did Ray realize his hand had been resting on his gun. Fraser reached behind his chair, picked up his rifle, and strode toward the door. He passed by his partner without another word or a reassuring gesture, not even acknowledging Ray's disbelief. The door creaked open, then slowly closed, leaving Ray alone, facing silent, hostile gazes. They had not listened. They did not care. But he'd be damned if he'd let them drive Fraser into doing something he'd regret.

            Carefully, keeping his eye on Istas's hands, he followed his partner out the door. Crossing the hall, he hurried his steps. By the time he reached the mudroom, he was running. The outer door slammed open and he hurtled down the dirt path. Fraser had almost reached the center of the square. His rifle was slung over his arm as he hiked purposefully toward Elu's cabin.

            Ray shouted and grabbed him by the shoulder. It was like pulling against a tree. Fraser did not even break stride. Ray tightened his grip, digging painfully into flesh.

            Fraser slowed, then turned to face him. His face had the same untamed look he'd seen earlier by the river. Fraser caught his eyes in an animal's wide, expressionless gaze, and he felt as if Fraser had reached suddenly into him and plucked a deep, taut string. Ray's stomach tightened. He desperately needed to talk Fraser out of this. He heard the sound of voices. His shouting had already drawn a knot of onlookers. He didn't care.

            “Fraser, you don't have to do this.” His voice cracked. “I don't care what these fucking loonies think. This is not your job. Alain doesn't have to die, okay?” He could have been talking to stone.

            “Ray, this has to be done.” Fraser paused, as if this statement would be enough. As if all of Ray's objections, his words, their shared past could be erased by this simple declaration. The gathering crowd murmured, a wall of faces lending Fraser their support and approval. And then he was looking at Ray without seeing him. Again, Ray had the eerie feeling that some creature whose name he did not know peered out of Fraser's eyes.

            Something flashed across Ray's mind and he froze. He remembered Fraser sighting down a rifle at Diefenbaker, willing to kill an animal that had been closer to him than most people. And he remembered Carey. “The gun,” he whispered. “The gun wasn't in the bedstand. You put it there.” He knew then that Fraser would carry it through at all costs. Even if the cost was Ray himself. He felt small tremors race through his legs. The ice ran into heat, a blinding blaze of memories and fears racing ahead of thought until instinct and reaction took over. Dimly, he could see Fraser reach out, trying to steady him.

            He struck the hand away. His movement carried him forward and he used it to his advantage. His right fist smashed into Fraser's nose and he put all his weight and pain into the blow. Blood sprayed and Fraser dropped his rifle. His hand ached. He struck again, this time with the left, a weaker blow, and caught Fraser on the temple. Pain shot through his arm. He slipped in the mud and went down on one knee.

            Fraser's knee caught him in the chest, knocking him onto his back into a stagnant pool of mud. The air filled with dark spray and blinded him. He felt a boot crush into his side. Rolling, he pushed himself up and away from the next kick. He regained his feet, clutching his side, and charged blindly, head down. The impact pulled them both over, and he landed heavily on top of Fraser. He jabbed his knee at Fraser's groin, but missed, striking the thigh instead. Fraser heaved and Ray tried to lever his elbow against his opponent's throat. But Fraser lashed out with both hands, painfully wrenching Ray's head and neck. Numbing pain seared his spine and his vision dimmed briefly, and then Fraser's fist exploded into his face, rocking him up and back.

            He caught another glimpse, this time of Fraser's eyes, flashing, with a fierce and feral expression that shook him deeply. He fell onto his side, rolled away, and slid nervelessly off of Fraser. His legs seemed thick and uncoordinated, hindering his efforts to stand. Fraser was faster, regaining his feet in one smooth snap of muscle. Horrified, Ray felt himself lifted by the shoulders, his jacket pulled upward in Fraser's tight grip. Then Fraser's knee smashed into his chin and the agony took away all thought. Something dark, warm, and metallic filled his nose and mouth and he choked. He was falling, then still. Motion replaced by sound, sight replaced by touch. His fingers scrabbled, hands flailing as he tried to grab Fraser's boot, tried to stop him, tried not to let go.

            The pain was sharp, deep, and biting. It pulled him back into awareness only to batter his senses until he wanted to scream. He opened his eyes, the light harsh, peeling back all layers of consciousness in one painful jolt. He rolled onto his back and bared his throat in surrender. “Please, no more.” he heard his voice thick with blood and pain.

            Fraser bent down to retrieve his rifle. His knuckles were bloody and he breathed harshly though his mouth. He found Ray's eyes, held them so long that Ray thought Fraser saw through him, saw through dark and blood and bone into their future. Then Fraser made a small, soft, inarticulate sound. He stood up and walked slowly, purposively toward Elu's cabin. The crowd of onlookers rolled back from him as he passed. Ray blinked and saw Danny, Susan, Greg, and Naomi. Even Dennis had come to watch the show. They were all there. Some wore faces of horror. Some wore masks of approval. But they all had watched. And done nothing.

            He choked again, rolled, and buried his face in the mud. He had failed. By now, Fraser must have reached Elu's door. He could see Alain's eyes, trusting and then filled with confusion as the rifle was positioned. He could see him pleading for someone to help him. But there was no one there to stop Fraser. Ray heard a rifle crack in the distance, felt his body jerk, and then willed himself into muteness. The image of Fraser cradling the rifle burned, like a quick glimpse of the sun, behind his eyes.             

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