Bone Rattle

by Marc Cameron

  “Maybe,” Brackett said.

  Fluke sneered, looking at his watch. “I see how it is. You’ve been cut loose for what, fifteen minutes, and now you’re an expert on body decomp?”

  Brackett sighed, giving a soft chuckle. If this idiot had taught him anything, it was how to manage upward. It did zero good to argue. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s hard to tell in the water. Big tides and pad ice banging the body around and whatnot. My dad and I used to drop shrimp pots in Prince William Sound. Sand fleas could reduce a couple of fat herring to bones in a single six-hour tide.” He nodded toward the torso. “And she’s crawling with them.”

  “True. But…” Fluke grinned as if he were fanning a royal flush on the table. He pulled up a photo on his phone and held it toward Brackett. “And this is a hell of a but. If you’d take the time to read the intel reports Homicide sends out, you’d know that a foot, believed to be female, washed up near Bootlegger’s Cove four days ago. Said foot was still in good shape, which means it hadn’t been in the water more than a few hours. And if you remembered your orientation, you’d know that Bootlegger’s Cove is not far from here. Ipso facto, this body and its foot have been in the water about four days.”

  Brackett took Fluke’s phone to get a better look. He zoomed in. “Unless this torso and that foot don’t go together…”

  Fluke snatched his phone back and scoffed. “What are you envisioning here? Some guy dumping a wheelbarrow load of assorted body parts into Cook Inlet? I taught you better than that. It’s a rookie mistake to look for mysteries when the answers are right in front of your eyes.”

  Sergeant Hopper stepped forward, putting a hand on Fluke’s shoulder. It was getting light enough for Brackett to see his conspiratorial wink. “Since you’re so diligent about reading intel reports, Officer Fluke, you also know that a girl named Felicia Meyer reported her older sister, Dee, missing shortly after we found the foot – and that it has been positively identified. Dee Meyer had no tattoos on her legs.” Hopper nodded toward the body. Even exposure to saltwater sand fleas hadn’t erased the tribal tattoo encircling the stump of the torso’s calf.

  “Ink,” Fluke said.

  “Ipso facto,” Hopper said, demonstrating that he heard all and saw all. “Somebody is throwing parts of assorted bodies into Cook Inlet. We’ll leave it up to the detectives to see if he’s using a wheelbarrow.”

  “Actually,” Fluke said. “There—”

  A breathless voice broke squelch on the radio, causing all four officers to pause. It was Nancy Alvarez, assigned to the Alaska Fugitive Task Force.

  “Marshals 5,” Alvarez said, panting, voice jostled. “10-28 with three wanted felons.”

  “Foot pursuit,” Brackett said, translating the ten-code out of habit, as if his FTO wanted to be sure he knew what it was.

  The dispatcher spoke next, advising all officers to clear the channel for Marshals 5.

  “We’ve got this,” Sergeant Hopper said, looking at his watch, then nodding at Fluke. “Day shift is coming on so they’ll be sending Bravo units, but head that way and see if they need you to help set up a perimeter in the meantime.”

  Fluke puffed up like he was going to argue.

  “I don’t mind going,” Brackett said. A foot pursuit sounded great after standing around a hacked-up torso.

  “You’re primary on this call,” Hopper said. “And besides, it’s a little early in your career to get your brain all gunked up with the way the feds do things.”

  Chapter 5

  Cutter and Lola hit the first floor at a run, crashing through the back door. First, they scanned the area behind the condo for Deputy Blodgett, to be certain he was all right, and then looked for any sign of the fleeing fugitives.

  Cutter found Blodgett leaning against the back wall of the condo, one leg drawn up under him like a gimpy horse, as if he couldn’t put weight on it. The deputy waved them off, pointing to the line of trees across the open, park-like area behind the building.

  “Slavich went after Shiloh Watts!” he yelled. “The two males went that way!”

  Cutter heard Nancy put out the call over the radio for more officers, setting up a perimeter. Lola fell in beside him as they ran. She glanced up when one of the K9 units who’d been doing paperwork at the station attached himself to the call.

  “That’s Blitz,” she said as she ran. Her panting breaths punctuated her words. “That dog… scares the crap outta me. We’ll have to pull off when he shows up…”

  “Yep,” Cutter said, preferring not to waste his breath. “Eyes up while I watch the tracks.”

  “Copy,” Lola said. She was half a foot shorter than Cutter’s six-three, but long legged and in good enough shape to match him stride for stride.

  It was all too easy to become fixated during a foot pursuit and forget that the person on the run might just decide to wait around the corner and hit you in the face with a rock – or blow your brains out if he or she happened to have a gun. Cutter wanted Lola’s mind on what was ahead, not a Belgian Malinois that was still ten minutes away.

  This would all be over in ten minutes – one way or another.

  The frost on the grass grew heavier as they neared the cold sink of the depression that contained Chester Creek. Slippery, but easy tracking. Two sets of prints, both large, darted left as soon as they reached the tree line. The long strides between each track told Cutter the men were still running. A deep divot in the leafy muck and two handprints showed where one of the runners had stumbled. He’d hit a knee, caught himself, and scrambled to his feet. Muted morning light filtered through gnarled, bone-like branches of white birch. The gurgling water looked like quicksilver in a stream of fog.

  The nights were still cold enough to coat the rocks along the bank with a thin layer of ice. In a matter of weeks, snow in the high country would begin to melt. The water would rise and the creek would widen, but for now, it flowed and eddied lazily around and between snot-slick rocks.

  The strides began to grow smaller and the tracks zigged and zagged, cutting through the trees as if looking for the best route. Lola shot a glance at Cutter when both sets of footprints ended at the water’s edge. The creek was no more than eight or nine feet across, just wide enough to make it un-jumpable without getting wet in the numbingly cold water.

  Lola skidded to a stop in the half-frozen duff, scanning the snow-covered bank on the far side. A jogging trail ran along the water, beyond that, the backyard of a faded cedar house, a tall wood fence, and a rusted swing set were visible through the trees.

  “I don’t see any tracks,” Lola said. Her voice was concerned, but controlled. She’d already caught her breath. “So they didn’t cross.”

  Cutter stooped quickly to pick up a fist-size rock, then tossed it into the crystal-clear water where the tracks disappeared.

  “This way,” he said, turning to trot downstream, cutting in and out of the brush without explanation. Lola was learning to track. This would be a good lesson, but explaining would come later. He wanted to press the runners, force them to stay on the move. Cutter and Lola were loaded with tactical gear, but wore heavy boots and warm, loose clothing meant for rough work. From the looks of the sign, one of the men had fled wearing shower shoes. The other wore a pair of sneakers with wallowing, flopping tracks that said they probably weren’t even tied. Cutter doubted either of the fugitives even had time to grab a jacket. Good. Exertion and adrenaline would warm them for a time, but exhaustion would kick in soon. Cutter would let fatigue and cold do the heavy lifting when he caught up with them.

  Runners – good guys and bad – almost always had to make a choice between quick or quiet. Fortunately, sloshing and floundering through calf-deep water was much louder than trotting along the frosty duff on the bank.

  Cutter heard the two outlaws before they came into view – a series of barked shouts, heavy splashing, the snap of breaking branches. He shot a glance to his left, watched Lola hurdle a rotten birch log like a doe. He gestured forward with a knife
hand to make sure she’d heard it too. She gave him a thumbs-up.

  Neither drew their pistols – running with a gun in your hand was a recipe for disaster. Both did, however, habitually drop an elbow to make certain their weapons were still in the holsters where they’d left them.

  Clipped shouts, angry, then frightened, then angry again, sifted through the tangle of brush above the noise of gurgling water. A low growl, long and feral, slowed Cutter a half step. It was the sound of a cornered animal.

  He raised his hand, signaling Lola to slow, straining to hear details and decipher what was going on.

  Lola matched his pace.

  A sudden scream clipped into a yelp, spurring Cutter forward. Five quick strides through the brush and he realized his fears. McGrone and Gorman had run headlong into a teenage couple out on a chilly morning ride on fat-tired bikes. Both wore orange West High Eagles sweatshirts. The boy, probably sixteen or seventeen, was on the ground, a knee bent oddly behind him. Bronco Gorman already straddled this one’s bike. The outlaw’s gray cotton sweats were sodden to mid-thigh from splashing his way down Chester Creek. He wore no shirt, and he had to clutch his wet sweats to keep them from falling off.

  He was closer to Lola. Cutter left him to her.

  The female cyclist was engaged in a brutal tug-of-war with Corbin McGrone over her bike. Blood streamed from her nose and a gash over her left eye. Blond hair stuck out in all directions, giving her a crazed look. A wool hat lay on the gravel beside her bike tire. McGrone clutched the handlebars with one hand while he cuffed her hard across the temple with the other. He was a head taller, but the determined young woman dug in like she’d been hit before. She let loose another growl, chilling, like the one Cutter had heard as he came through the brush. The sound of it at once impressed and infuriated him.

  McGrone hit her again.

  The young woman reeled from the blow, momentarily letting go of the bike. McGrone put a foot on a pedal, believing he could now make his escape. The young woman wasn’t having it. She yowled, grabbing the bike and giving it a furious yank. It squirted out from between them in the process, putting it out of McGrone’s reach, but robbing her of that small amount of protection.

  Still thirty feet away, Cutter sprang out of the brush and bounded across the creek. Geysers of water erupted around his boots with every step.

  “US Marshals! On the ground!”

  McGrone snaked an arm around the girl’s neck, drawing her to his heaving chest. He backpedaled on the slick ground, spinning, attempting to use her as a shield.

  “I’ll break her neck!” he screamed, his voice climbing an octave. “Stay back. I swear, I’ll do it!”

  The girl cowered, looking incredibly small and frail in the big man’s arms.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Cutter heard a dog bark upstream. The canine team was close, but not nearly close enough.

  Cutter was vaguely aware that Lola had Bronco Gorman face-down in the slush and mud. He’d worked with her long enough now that he trusted her to stomp her own snakes.

  McGrone tried to step back again when Cutter was still fifteen feet out. He was a tall man, wiry, cornered. Fighting like a coward, putting the girl out front, worked against him. Even now, he believed Cutter would stop and negotiate.

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  Cutter dropped his shoulder, juking as if he were going to the right.

  McGrone roared. “I said stay back!” He dragged the girl across the muck, attempting to keep her between himself and Cutter.

  Seeing help on the way, she began to kick and squirm, clawing at the man’s groin and raking her shoes against his shins. She’d gotten her bearings now, and sank her teeth into McGrone’s forearm as he turned. One leg jerked reflexively upward at the pain, and the momentum from the girl’s weight carried him in a stumbling, half pirouette.

  Yowling curses, he continued to issue orders, believing he was in charge because he had a hostage.

  Cutter crashed in just as the girl slid down to the middle of McGrone’s chest, presenting the side of the outlaw’s head as a clear target for a sickening elbow.

  McGrone staggered but didn’t fall – and he kept a grip on his hostage. Cutter let his elbow slide by after it slammed against McGrone’s jaw, then reversed course to catch the outlaw again in almost the same spot on the backswing. The strike was less than textbook. It jarred the nerves in Cutter’s elbow like an electric shock, but he was rewarded with the crunch of breaking teeth.

  The girl bit McGrone again, then threw her head backward to hit him square in the nose.

  Stunned as he was, he gave her shoulders a stiff shake to try to intimidate her into calming down.

  “I said st—”

  Past talking, Cutter grabbed a handful of McGrone’s hair and used the outlaw’s own momentum to jerk him straight into a hard uppercut over an unprotected kidney. Cutter aimed through rather than at his target. The punch died there, expending all its sickening energy into the frazzled outlaw. Cutter held tight with his left hand and hit the man again and again with his right.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” McGrone whimpered, growing heavy in Cutter’s grasp. He shoved the girl away as if she were the root of all his troubles. His voice was hollow, like he was about to throw up. “I gi—”

  The girl stumbled, pitching forward, planting both hands on the ground to arrest her fall. She yelped from the shock and pain. The sadness of it made Cutter give McGrone another smack, driving the man to his knees.

  “I said… I give… up…” The outlaw’s voice quavered, breaking into tears.

  “On the ground!” Cutter barked. He released his grip so the man face-planted into the mud and snow. “Let’s see those hands.”

  Lola had Bronco Gorman cuffed and sitting cross-legged against a birch tree at the water’s edge. The dark-blue uniforms of three Anchorage police officers ghosted through the birch trees.

  Cutter stooped, ratcheting on the cuffs – none too gently.

  “Why…?” McGrone whispered. “Why didn’t you just talk? I mighta really hurt her.”

  “It’s a little harder to break somebody’s neck than you think,” Cutter said.

  McGrone winced. “Well, you sure as shit make a good go of it.” He turned his head so his cheek pressed against the mud. Tears of pain and anger ran down his battered face. His eyes fluttered. “I… wasn’t really gonna break her neck. I thought you would negotiate.…”

  Lola laughed so hard she snorted.

  “He’s not much of a hostage negotiator,” she said. “More of a hostage liberator.”

  The APD officers came through the trees and helped get the prisoners to their feet.

  Lola adjusted the holster on her belt, head tilted to listen to the radio in her pocket. “They have Shiloh Watts in custody. Evidently the K9 got her. Stupid woman. Blitz is a hound from hell.”

  One of the APD officers glanced at her.

  She gave him a sheepish grin. “I mean, he’s a great dog – for an eater of souls.”

  “Know what you mean,” the officer said.

  Once she was sure the officers had eyes on the two prisoners, Lola studied the creek a moment, then glanced at Cutter with a wary eye.

  “The tracks stopped at the bank,” she said. “I didn’t see any sign in the water, and we couldn’t hear them at first. How did you know they went downstream and not upstream?”

  Cutter calmed a notch once he saw the cyclist McGrone had smacked was giving her statement to one of the APD officers. She was shaken, but physically okay. A fourth officer was tending to the boyfriend’s leg. He gave Cutter a thumbs-up and told him EMTs were on the way.

  “Come on,” Cutter said. “My feet are soaked anyhow. I’ll show you.” He found a fallen branch and used it to scratch a rough X in the half-frozen mud along the bank. “Let’s say this is where they went in.” He stepped into the crystalline water, gasping a little as the frigid creek filled his already sodden boots. “Now, watch what happens when I walk upstream.�
��

  He took a few purposeful steps on the slick rocks, knocking loose a winter’s worth of silt and debris. Bits and pieces flowed behind him, moving through the current directly in front of Lola.

  “Ah,” she said, catching on immediately. “No floaty gunk washing by means they weren’t upstream to knock it loose. So, they had to have run downstream.”

  Cutter stepped onto the bank, stopping to let the water drain out of his boots. “Exactly,” he said. “No floaty gunk.”

  McGrone stared at the ground in glum defeat. “I had to have Daniel Boone trailin’ my ass…”

  Cutter looked at the spot where his elbow had burst the flesh over McGrone’s cheekbone.

  “Are you grinning?” Lola asked, wide eyed.

  “What do you mean?” Cutter moved his top lip, feeling the burn again where the scorpion had stung him.

  “It’s swelling a little,” Lola said, reaching to touch the spot with her index finger. He brushed her hand away.

  “Knock it off.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I was just checking your injury. That’s what partners do.”

  “I’m not injured.”

  “A scorpion sting’s an injury,” Lola said. “And anyway, it makes you look like you’re grinning.” She gave a shuddering chuckle. “And that is just friggin’ weird.”

  Chapter 6

  Anchorage PD K9 Blitz deserved the credit for nabbing Shiloh Watts – who was apparently high enough she didn’t have enough sense to not turn and challenge seventy-eight pounds of dedicated Malinois. The original warrant had been for Pringle, but Cutter was fine to book three more felons into Anchorage Jail on Third Avenue. Bycatch. Nancy Alvarez had arrested Pringle’s stripper girlfriend for hindering, but she was likely out on bond by the time Cutter and the others made it back to the federal building.

  Cutter got a call from the chief ten minutes after he sat down at his desk and started his report.

  Her office was around the corner from the task force, past the Federal Protective Service contract guards at the main Seventh Avenue entrance. A set of court security officers in blue blazers performed secondary screening for everyone going upstairs to federal court. Behind their counter and X-ray machine, a set of glass doors led to the main offices of the US Marshals, District of Alaska. Most of the PODs – the backbone of the Service – were there, along with the operational supervisor and the presidentially appointed US Marshal. Never much of a garrison soldier, Cutter stayed away from this side of the building as much as possible.