Behind one of its lighted windows, he could see her now, head down, reading something. He approached the shack and stopped just outside. The walls were plastered with charts and flyers, fishing nets and rods hung from the rafters.
Nika was jotting down notes in the margin of a wrinkled sheet of paper and did not see him at the window. For a moment, he simply savored the chance to observe her unnoticed. The last time he had seen her she was being wheeled out to the ambulance for the ride back to Port Orlov, and though she was not as wan as she had been, she still appeared paler than usual. Her black hair had been plaited into two pigtails, and perhaps in honor of the occasion, she had adorned them with tightly tied ribbons and colorful beads. She looked, he thought, as natural, and as naturally beautiful, as one of her ancestors.
And then she looked up, as if sensing he was there. Squinting into the darkness, she raised a hand, and Slater went around to the door.
By the time he got it open, she was already in his arms. He kicked it closed, and they simply stood there, cradling each other in their arms, wordlessly. And if Slater had still had any doubts at all, if he had any lingering reservations about the decision he had already made but not yet shared, they melted away in the heat of their embrace.
Before he could find the right words, Nika, with her face still pressed against his chest, said, “I was working on what to say.”
“About the totem pole?”
“I can’t forget to mention any of the donors who helped to raise the money or do the work.”
It was as if their hearts were so full of more important things, they could only address a more immediate and inconsequential topic.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he said.
“Public speaking is not my favorite activity.”
“You’ll be a smash.”
He hugged her more tightly in encouragement, then they separated enough that he could look down into the dark pools of her eyes. It was a sight he knew he would never tire of.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, his voice faltering; already, he regretted that he hadn’t come up with some better opening.
“About?”
“About what I’m going to do now that I’m no longer working for the AFIP. I was thinking that—”
There was a banging on the door and a snowball hit the window as a bunch of teenage boys, horsing around outside, hollered, “Get a room, Mayor!” and “So when do we get to see the totem pole?”
Nika, laughing in embarrassment, pulled away. Glancing at her watch, she shouted, “It’s not time yet. It’s officially scheduled for six P.M.”
“Looked like it was the right time to me!” one of them hooted outside the window, as the others, dispersing into the night, guffawed.
Slater tried to regroup, but Nika had returned to the table where she had left her speech and was looking it over one last time. Making one final addition—Growdon’s Lumberyard and Mill—she folded the paper into the pocket of her coat. “Oh, I almost forgot I had this on me,” she said, pulling out an opaque plastic baggie labeled Nome Regional Health Center. “The orderly gave it to me on the way out.”
Slater took the bag and unzipped it.
“I found it on the bridge, and they gave it back to me along with my other personal belongings.”
Slater could hardly believe what he was seeing. A Russian Orthodox cross, made of silver, and studded with emeralds.
“It must have been Charlie’s, or maybe it belonged to his wife.”
Slater knew better.
“But now Charlie’s dead,” Nika said. “And Harley, too.”
Slater knew that a memorial service for the Vane boys was scheduled for the following Sunday, but he wondered just how many mourners would turn up.
“I guess we should just give it to his wife,” she concluded.
“Rebekah didn’t make it, either,” Slater said. “She died from the flu, at the treatment center in Juneau.”
Nika hadn’t known that, and the news rocked her for a moment. “What’s to become of Bathsheba?”
“Last I heard, she was heading back to the cult in New England. Apparently, the lost lamb is still prized there.”
Nika nodded, looking relieved. But then, studying the cross again, she said, “So what do we do with this then? It looks awfully valuable.”
It was a terrible breach of medical protocols, Slater thought, for the cross to have been returned at all—under normal circumstances, he would have raised hell over it—but in this one instance, it was a godsend. The worst mistake he could make at this point would be to make its existence known, or to release it to anyone else, ever again. Turning it over, he saw that there was an inscription on the back, in Russian of course, and even as he wondered what it said, he slipped the cross into the pocket of his own parka and said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Come on, Mayor—we’re freezing our asses off out here!” one of the teenagers shouted from the pier.
Nika said, “Maybe we should get this over with.”