White Heat (48 page)

    Retracing
her steps, she reached the spot where the shooter had stopped and began the slow
crawl upwards. Here on the northern incline snow had been swept in and clung,
easing her progress. The sky was deep grey in foggy cloud. The wind had stopped
gusting and a thin rain had begun. She moved gingerly, careful not to lose
either her purchase on the shale or her breath. There would be less wind noise
on the other side and she was anxious not to alert the wounded man to her
presence. At the crest she lay still, well out of sight, her parka hood pulled
across to obscure her face. She looked into the sky and silently called on the
spirits, then, bit by bit, she inched forward until the top of her head
protruded from the edge of the esker and waited, making slow fists with her
fingers and toes to stave off the cold. She was vulnerable in this position,
not simply from the shooter, if he was there, but from the wind that whipped
the crest, pushing gravel down the slope.

    The
thin rain made it impossible to see what lay below. She waited. After a long
while she heard a crunching sound and, looking down through the fog, saw a
faint light flash on and off. The man was there and it seemed he was looking at
his wristwatch. She considered shooting at the position of the light, but
decided it was too risky. But the man had just given her some valuable information.
If it was a watch, then the shooter could only be
qalunaat.
No Inuk
would take a wristwatch hunting. She sat back and allowed herself to absorb
this. It was good. If the shooter was
qalunaat
he would have an Achilles
heel. Up here, they all did.

    Very
carefully, she advanced along the ridge, checking the shale on the southern
incline. It was looser there and devoid of plant life. One sharp kick in the
right place and she might be able to cause it to avalanche downwards. Most
likely, the avalanche wouldn't kill him - the stones were small and not very
sharp - but it would certainly stop him from going anywhere. She thought about
what could go wrong, the gravel not moving, or worse, sending her tumbling down
with it, and quickly decided it was worth the risk.

    Raising
both feet she swung them with all her strength into the shale. At first nothing
much happened; a few fist- sized pieces of rock began to shift, then the whole
incline became fluid, shifting and sliding until a critical mass was reached
and the stones began to clatter down the esker onto the man below, raising a
great cloud of dust. Edie heard a sharp cry, then nothing. The fog made it
impossible to see what lay below.

    For
what seemed like an age, she waited, allowing the shale to settle, then she
began, with patient care, to clamber down until she could just make out a man's
form. It looked as though he had taken a defensive position on his knees, with
one hand curled over his head and the other on his rifle. The avalanche had knocked
the weapon from his hand and it now lay a few feet from his outstretched right
arm. He was buried up to his shoulders in shale.

    She
called out but he did not answer. Slowly step by step, her feet set parallel to
the ground, and with her rifle at the ready, Edie edged her way towards him.
Still the man did not move. Reaching the ground, she went with caution towards
the rifle, and with her weapon still trained on the man in front of her, she
squatted down and removed the clip, putting it in the pocket of her parka.
Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, she moved towards the shooter, pinned in
his pile of shale. The realization hit her that he might have died. Blood
seeped from the pile.

    Piece
by piece, she began frantically pulling off the rocks, flinging them out onto
the muskeg. Before long, the man's parka appeared under the rubble. She reached
out and touched him, but he made no attempt to free himself. His face remained
obscured by a balaclava, and he was still too weighed down with shale for Edie
to be able to drag him clear. Quickly, she began to scoop at the sides of his
burial cairn, tossing handfuls of shale out into the darkness.

    Finally,
when the body was clear enough to move, she bent down and rolled him over. He
was a big man, tall and muscular, his body type and clothing identifying him
immediately as
qalunaat.
Derek's bullet had hit him in the wrist,
severing the radial artery and partially amputating the hand. Red crystals had
formed across the surface of his parka. Running her hands under his outerwear,
she checked him for weapons and found none. In any case, he was unlikely to be
a threat to her now. In the period since he'd checked his watch, he'd lost
consciousness - perhaps as a result of the shale fall. His pulse was very weak.
She knew she wouldn't be able to lift him on her own, but she could fetch Willa
and together they might well be able to pile him onto the gurney they'd brought
to take down Joe's remains. Pulling off her scarf she made a crude tourniquet
and pulled it tight around the forearm above the partially amputated wrist.
Then, gingerly, she removed the balaclava.

    Edie
slumped back. The man was Robert Patma. For a moment she thought she'd made a
mistake, then it occurred to her that perhaps
Patma
was mistaken and the
whole episode had been one terrible error, a genuine accident in which Robert
had shot at what he thought was game, then panicked when he realized it wasn't;
but even as she thought this, her heart told her that it wasn't true. She felt
winded, confused, thoughts careening recklessly round in her mind. Grabbing her
pigtails she tugged hard to bring herself to her senses, then, slinging Patma's
rifle around her shoulder and rounding the esker, she made her way as fast as
she could back to the beach, calling out that everything was OK. There Willa
was by Derek's side, pressing the wound on the injured leg to staunch the
bleeding. There was an anxious pall on his face. Fonder of the policeman than
he'd let on, Edie thought.

    'Did
you get him?' Derek asked. When she did not answer, he said, 'It's not as bad
as it looks. I don't need putting down.' He smiled thinly. 'Not yet, anyway.'

    Edie
said, 'Willa and I will have to lift him out to the launch on the gurney. He's
alive but only just.'

    'Well?'
Derek said, his mouth bunched in pain.

    'Well
what?'

    'Well,
who the hell just tried to kill me?'

    Edie
felt breathless, the after-effects of the adrenaline kicking in.

    'It
looks like Robert Patma.'

    'The nurse?'
Derek was as floored by the news as she had been when she first peeled away the
shooter's balaclava.

    For a
moment they looked at one another, thinking the same thought.

    'He
alone?'

    'I
hope so.' There had been no other footprints.

    'We'd
better get him to some help,' Derek said.

    Willa
took a breath. 'Are you
crazy?'

    For a
second Derek didn't answer, as though he was considering the possibility, then
in a resigned voice he said, 'I guess I'm just police.'

    Edie
and Willa approached the esker cautiously, on foot.

    Robert
Patma was lying where Edie had left him, trapped in shale. Willa moved towards
him slowly and lifted his head, which fell back. Edie took the pulse on the
unsevered wrist. Robert Patma was just about still alive.

    'Let's
start digging,' Edie said.

    It
took a couple of hours to extract Robert Patma from his rocky prison, then they
lifted him onto the gurney and slowly manoeuvred him into the launch, cuffing
his one good hand to the guard rail. Then they went back for Joe.

    They
stacked the corpse between the two wounded men. Willa took the wheel while Edie
found some Vicodin in the first-aid kit. Robert Patma remained unconscious. She
called Stevie on the detachment sat phone and told him what to expect.

    'Patma,
the nurse guy? What the hell?'

    'Your
guess,' Edie said.

    Stevie
undertook to call in medics in Iqaluit. They could probably be in Autisaq
within a few hours. He offered to patch in a call so Derek could speak to them
directly, but Derek didn't think much of the idea. It was just a muscle wound,
he said, painful but not life-threatening. The bleeding had stopped and once
the Vicodin kicked in, he'd be fine. Edie protested, but for a man whose right
leg was out of action, Derek was pretty good at digging in his heels.

    By
the time they got back it was already dark. Stevie was waiting for them at the
quay with Sammy Inukpuk and Mike and Elijah Nungaq. The men carried Robert
Patma and Joe Inukpuk, Edie followed behind with Derek on an ATV and Willa went
off to brief Simeonie on the day's events.

    While
Stevie returned to the police office to check on the likely arrival time of the
medics' plane, Edie cleaned and bandaged Derek's wound.

    Robert
Patma had been put in one of the medical rooms. The door had been locked from
the outside and Sammy sat beside it with a loaded rifle.

    'Didn't
see that one coming,' Sammy said.

    Stevie
reported that the medics had been weathered out and wouldn't be arriving till
tomorrow morning. They'd left detailed instructions on how to deal with the two
patients and someone would call every hour to check on their progress.
Meanwhile, Robert Patma was to be kept guarded.

    They
moved back into the waiting area.

    'We
should check Patma's apartment,' Edie said.

    'I've
told Stevie to apply for a warrant.' Derek winced. The painkiller was wearing
off. 'We're doing this the official way, Edie. My way. Patma dies, I don't want
to find myself at the end of a lawsuit.'

    Edie
scanned the medics' instructions, then reached out and patted his arm. 'I'll
get you some more Vicodin.'

    In
the matter of Robert Patma's apartment, she had her own ideas.

    The
key to the safety deposit box was in Robert Patma's office desk. She opened it
up and took out the pharmacy key. Running her eyes over the rows of medicines,
she came across a box of Vicodin sitting high up in a corner. By jumping and
grabbing she managed to wrest a pack off the shelf, but in doing so knocked a
box beside it off. Luckily, it didn't break.

    There
was a small set of steps sitting in the far corner, so she pulled these over
and clambered on. She was about to slot the box back into place when something
right at the back of the shelf caught her eye. There was nothing remarkable
about the package except that the writing was in Russian. She pulled it out and
opened it up. Inside were leaves of foils, each holding a dozen tablets.

    She
gave Derek the Vicodin without mentioning her find.

    'Wanna
rest up the night at my place?'

    Derek
looked unsure, unhappy about imposing.

    'It's
my bed or that freezing bunk in the office, listening to Stevie snoring. Or you
can lie nice and cosy next to the fella who tried to kill you.'

    'When
you put it like that,' Derek said. He looked embarrassed. 'But Edie .. .' Their
eyes met. Edie mustered a smile.

    'I
said you could sleep in my bed, Police. That's S.L.E.E.P.'

    She
helped him limp home, then fixed some soup for the two of them. Within moments
of his head touching the pillow, Derek Palliser was sleeping deeply. She waited
a while, until she was sure he would not wake, then slunk back out into the
night.

    The door
to the nursing station was on the latch, as she'd left it. Sammy was sitting
outside Robert Patma's room, rifle in his lap, fast asleep. She went back to
the safety-deposit box, found the key to the morgue and let herself in. For a
long time she just sat with Joe, running over their happy times together in her
mind.

    Then
she said: 'I miss you, Joe,' left the room, went back to the safety-deposit box
and fished around among the keys. She tried each in turn, but none fitted
Patma's apartment's lock so she reached into her pocket and drew out her
Leatherman.

    Inside
the apartment, the blinds were drawn. She flipped on a lamp on the table by the
sofa.

    The
first thing that struck her was how incredibly neat the place was. The living room
was laid out symmetrically, with matching side tables and identical lamps. The
open- plan kitchen looked completely unused. Fine white crockery was stacked in
soldier-like rows on shelves in the glazed cabinets and pristine steel utensils
hung from hooks on the walls. All the usual cheerful mess of cooking - scarred
pans, greasy oil bottles, and novelty drying cloths - had either been hidden
away or did not exist.