The ice shimmered beneath an orange sunset. A gust of wind brought tears to Lauren’s eyes. After a hundred yards they stopped walking. Lauren looked around. They were so far south the fishermen along the northern shore looked like ants circling their holes. She was alone. Alone with the Seelicks, the Arctic Ocean, and the secrets beneath the surface.
Robert Jr. drove the axe into the ice. It barely cracked.
“Why are you here, dear?” Robert Sr. said.
“I’m doing a piece on Bobby Kungenook. He’s a hockey player at Fordham Prep in New York City. A once in a lifetime, can’t miss prospect. Thing is, he just appeared out of nowhere. Supposedly he was home schooled by someone in Alaska but no one knows by whom. How old was he when his parents died?”
“Couldn’t say. Best of my recollection, the Kungenooks sent Bobby away to be raised by another family when he was two. That would have been 1994. They told my wife and me what they were doing and we never spoke about it again.”
“What family?”
“Don’t know,” Robert Sr. said.
“Why did they send him away?”
“Bobby’s father, John, lost his job. And his mother—Jackie—was ill. She suffered from a spinal condition her whole life. They both struggled with depression. This isn’t an easy place to raise a child during the best of times, let alone the worst. They decided to give Bobby a better life. They decided to send him to a better place.”
“What place?”
“Don’t know,” Robert Sr. said. “Like I said, it wasn’t something anyone wanted to talk about.”
Ice cracked. Water sloshed to the surface. Robert Jr. stepped aside. Robert Sr. dropped the line into the hole and handed Lauren the rod.
“You take it,” he said.
“I don’t want to mess up your dinner,” Lauren said.
“Don’t worry. We won’t let you.”
Lauren squatted down and held the rod above the hole.
“When Bobby arrived at Fordham, he didn’t speak English,” Lauren said. “Were either of the Kungenooks of Ukrainian descent?”
“No,” Robert Sr. said. “They were both Inupiaq.”
“And their relatives?”
“Inupiaq, too. Cousins, mostly. You knocked on their doors today.”
“I’m sure I did. And none of them speak Russian either.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then it doesn’t make sense.”
“But I’ll tell you who did speak Russian,” Robert Sr. said.
Lauren looked up.
“Otto von Kotzebue.”
“Who?”
“Otto von Kotzebue. He was an Estonian navigator working for the Russians. He discovered Kotzebue in 1818. You know who else spoke Russian?”
Something pulled on the line. Lauren looked down into the hole.
“His father, August von Kotzebue. He was a famous author. He was murdered by a theology student who didn’t like his politics. You know what they did to that theology student?”
Lauren looked up.
Robert Jr. stood beside his father, axe on his shoulder.
“They decapitated him,” Robert Sr. said.
The line tightened more.
“Something’s biting,” Lauren said.
“Why do you care about this kid’s story so much?” Robert Jr. said. “Don’t you have more interesting things to write about?”
“Once I start digging, I never stop until I’m first with the story and the job is done.”
“Why?” Robert Sr. said.
A vision of Lauren’s mother, carefree and smiling, flashed before her eyes. She took a deep breath and willed the image away. “That’s the way I’m wired.”
The Seelicks pulled a fish out of the hole. It was sixteen inches long.
“Alaskan whitefish,” Robert Sr. said. “See. Your fishing expedition was a success after all.”
By the time they returned to the truck it was dark. As Robert Sr. drove them back, Lauren contemplated her next move. It was as though the Kungenooks had sent their son to be raised by a family in Ukraine, which was preposterous. But why else would he speak Ukrainian and Russian fluently but not English?
“You ever cover the Iditarod?” Robert Jr. said.
“No,” Lauren said. “One of the other reporters does.”
“But you know what it is,” Robert Jr. said, sounding impressed.
“Sure. Four hundred mile dog sledding race that starts in Nome. One of the world’s last great races.”
“Cool,” Robert Jr. said. “You know, for someone who asks a lot of dumb questions, you’re pretty smart.”
Then the reindeer crossed their path.
Breathe, Lauren told herself. Focus on your breath. Take yourself inside. Breathe.
No one had ever pointed a gun at her let alone pressed one against her head. She sensed this was going to be a binary event. Either they were going to kill her or she was going to win a Pulitzer. If two local yahoos were protecting the Kungenooks by intimidating a reporter with a hunting rifle, this had to be more than a sports story. The only question was whether she’d survive the night to pursue it further. If she did, the first order of business would be to make the Seelicks pay.
“The way you said that makes it sound as though you’re going to shoot me instead,” Lauren said.
She glanced over her shoulder. Robert Jr. had shifted away from her in the back seat to accommodate the length of the rifle’s barrel. It rested on the seat back behind her.
“In the old days,” Robert Sr. said, “when an Inupiaq family decided it couldn’t take care of another child, it would put the baby on a sled with a sign around its neck and leave it in the open. The sign would have the name of a nearby village written on it, and people who found the sled would push it along in the right direction. Eventually the sled would arrive at its destination, and if it survived, some new family would adopt the baby.”
“What are you saying?” Lauren said. “The Kungenooks put Bobby in a sled and he ended up in Ukraine?”
“No. Bobby was a boy. Inupiaq would never give up a boy. They would only give up a girl. That’s why Bobby’s such a mystery. It was sacrilege in our culture to give up a boy. That’s why everyone pretends he never existed. That’s why no one will talk about him. Do you understand now?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. The story kept getting better and better, she thought. That’s what she understood.
“Good,” Robert Sr. said. “Because if you keep disrespecting the dead by digging into their past, if you keep disrupting this community, it’s going to end badly for you. When are you leaving town?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Let me ask you this: Who’s taking care of the boy in New York?”
“He has a guardian.”
“She must know his story, right? Why don’t you talk to her?”
“I tried. She won’t return my calls.”
“Did you try saying ‘please’?” Robert Jr. said.
“Please take me back to my hotel,” Lauren said.
“We understand each other, right?” Robert Sr. said.
The rifle pushed harder into her neck.
“Yes. We understand each other.”
“All right then,” Robert Sr. said.
He drove back to the Bayside Inn. Lauren’s feet kissed the pavement before Robert Sr. could apply the brakes. She held the door and glared inside.
“You point a gun at me? You threaten me? And you think you’re going to get away with it? I’m going to have a camera crew down here tomorrow. I’m going to make you national news. But first I’m going to go inside, make one phone call, and have you both arrested.”
“For what?” Robert Sr. said. “You came looking for us. You told the mayor you were looking for someone who could tell you about the Kungenooks. We took you ice fishing as a friendly gesture. Then we drove you home. You think something else happened?”