by Marc Cameron
As it turned out, his dad was waiting for him in the Jepsons’ living room when he got there, glasses down on the tip of his nose, looking sad and angry and scared all at the same time. They didn’t talk right away. He told Levi to sleep. He’d keep watch and they would “straighten everything out” when Levi woke up.
And now his dad was downstairs in the kitchen, frying bacon like the old days when he worked at the fish hatchery – before Levi’s mom died and before his dad had become a senator and lost his soul. Maybe his dad’s soul had always been lost, but Levi had just been too young to notice. It didn’t matter. His dad was here now, cooking bacon – ready to straighten everything out.
Levi dressed quickly, putting on the same clothes he’d worn the day before since that’s all he had, and made his way into the kitchen.
His dad stood over a cast-iron skillet, white shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up. He still wore his reading glasses. A large mug of coffee sat beside a stack of folders that spread across the kitchen table where he’d been working, probably all night.
“What are we going to do, son?” he asked without looking up from the bacon.
“What do you mean?”
Now he glanced up, peering over the top of his readers. “I mean, what are we going to do about the girl?”
Levi didn’t plan to tell him where Donita was, or even let him know she was alive. His dad was up to his neck with Harold Grimsson. Donita knew it. Now he knew it too.
“Was she trying to go to the police?” his dad asked. “You should have called me. Trying to handle things yourself just digs a deeper hole for both of us.”
His dad was questioning him without asking questions that might implicate him. So far, he didn’t seem sure if Levi had killed the girl in order to protect him or hidden her out somewhere. And Levi couldn’t tell which option he preferred.
The senator moved the pan to a cold burner but didn’t bother to take out the bacon. He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it on the counter. “I don’t mind telling you, son, I’m more frightened than I’ve ever been in my life. The people I’m… The people we’re dealing with are not nice people.”
“I know that, Dad,” Levi said. “Don’t you think I do? I mean, that US attorney and his assistant were murdered. That could have been me and Donita. Have you thought about that?”
“Son…” The senator closed his eyes. “You have got to tell me where she is.”
“Why, so they can shoot her in the head? And then murder me too? Is that part of the plan?”
“No!” Senator Fawsey said, incredulous. “It’s better you came here instead of staying with that lawyer. Everything is coming to light now anyway. Juneau is crawling with FBI agents. They should be able to keep us safe.”
Levi rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What are you saying? That you’ll turn yourself in too? Because from what I saw you’re in this shit—”
The senator gave a solemn nod. “I’ve done a lot of things since your mother died. Things I’m not proud of. Things that disgust me even as I stand back and watch myself doing them. Murdering that US attorney crossed a line. I’m not going to be a part of that.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Let’s you and I go get your friend, and then we’ll all talk to the FBI together.”
“You’re sure?” Levi studied his father’s face. He looked sincere – but he was a politician. Faking sincerity was a vital skill. Still, Levi knew his dad. This seemed genuine. It was a weird feeling being proud of your dad because he was admitting to being mixed up with a bunch of killers.
“Remember the big mine we hiked to a couple of times behind the hatchery?”
The elder Fawsey chuckled, his gaze soft, nostalgic. “You used to call it the Lumberjack when you were younger.”
“Right,” Levi smiled. “I knew it was logging related. The Cross Cut. Donita’s in the big stope we rappelled into that time from the top.”
“You called it the Great Hall.”
Levi nodded. “She’s got water and food. But I’m sure she’s going bat-shit crazy without her phone.”
“Thank you for telling me, son—”
Ephraim Dollarhyde stepped into the kitchen from the hallway at the rear of the house. His goon, Dallas Childers, came in on his heels, but cut around to run interference as soon as he had enough room to maneuver. Both of them wore latex gloves.
“Yes,” Dollarhyde said, brimming with contempt. “Thank you very much… son.” His gaze narrowed. “Do you realize how much work you’ve caused me, you sneaky little prick?”
Levi eyed the pan of hot bacon grease, but Childers leveled a Glock at his chest and shook his head.
“Are you kidding me, Dad?” Levi said, heartbroken. “How could you be a part of this?”
“I only wanted—”
“You stood there and lied right to my face…”
“Relax,” Dollarhyde said. “Daddy didn’t call us, if that’s what’s got your panties all askew. We were looking for you as hard as he was. His phone pinged off a tower a quarter mile away. A quick search showed he’d called this landline a few months ago. He didn’t rat you out on purpose. He’s just not a very smart daddy. Sorry.”
Dollarhyde reached in his pocket and pulled out a blue-steel Taurus revolver. “There was a break-in at your house last night. I think our young Levi snuck in and took your gun after he fled the jail.”
“I don’t understand,” the senator said. “I don’t have any handguns. And even if that were mine, Levi’s been here all night.”
“Maybe so,” Dollarhyde said. “But the police don’t know that. Everyone in Juneau is looking for you, Levi. They know you’re distraught. Mr. Kostis, the attorney whom you treated rudely when he got you out of jail, will testify that you were so up in arms about the crimes your father was involved with that you saw no other way out but to kill him.”
Dollarhyde shot the elder Fawsey twice in the chest with the revolver. The senator stood there, blinking sadly. He looked at Levi and opened his mouth to speak.
Dollarhyde shot him again.
“Enough of the sentiment.”
He sighed, turning to a terrified Levi. “And then you turned the gun on yourself.”
Dallas Childers had holstered his Glock during the senator’s murder. He grabbed Levi and spun him into a full nelson.
“I have to apologize,” Dollarhyde whispered. “But this is only a five-shot revolver.” He was close enough Levi could smell the sickeningly sweet odor of peppermint on his breath. He pressed the gun to Levi’s temple. “I hate head shots, I really do, but I can’t risk anything else with the only two rounds I have left.”
A single round was plenty.
Childers didn’t turn away. He grinned, letting the kid’s body fall naturally to the floor.
Dollarhyde dabbed a piece of gore out of his eye – backsplash was inevitable – and stooped beside the body. He put the revolver in Levi’s limp hand, lifted his arm so the trajectory wouldn’t look like he’d shot from the floor and then fired at an interior wall. Crime scene techs would surely swab the boy’s hands. The final shot ensured gunpowder residue was where it should be.
“You think they’ll buy it?” Childers asked as they left out the back, avoiding the prying eyes of any neighbors. “Fawsey said he didn’t have any guns.”
“Please,” Dollarhyde said. “This is Alaska. Everybody has guns. Even Democrat senators.” He took out his phone and thumb-dialed Grimsson’s number.
“Yes, sir,” he said after listening to the obligatory rant. “You’re going to love this. The little bitch is hiding in a mine.” He gave Grimsson the rundown on the location. “I need to grab some supplies. We’ll meet you at the marina in an hour.”
Chapter 40
Cutter parked the SUV in front of a narrow two-story blue house off Mendenhall Loop. It was tucked back among tall spruce trees as big around as his tires. An aluminum skiff and a Honda SUV took up most of the gravel driveway. Bobby Tarr
ant’s friend, Tom Horning, was supposed to be a good guy, but Cutter parked at an angle anyway out of habit, giving both he and Maycomb door posts for concealment and minimal cover as they exited the vehicle. Rhythmic, metallic pinging came from behind the house, wafting through the trees. A small wire-haired dog, the color of toasted toffee and just as sweet, bounded out from around the porch. She sniffed Cutter’s and then Maycomb’s hands in turn, then decided she liked Maycomb better and stayed glued to her heels.
Cutter followed the pinging sound around the corner of the house, to find a red-bearded bear of a man under the roof of a detached shed hammering away at an anvil. He looked to be in his early thirties, hiking-fit, accustomed to carrying a pack – a physique that came from work, not a couple of hours a day at the gym. He wore a long-sleeve shirt and a thick leather apron that was scarred and burned as if he’d been working hot iron for most of his life. A propane forge hissed in the corner of a heavy-duty work table to the man’s right, the horizontal opening that ran along the front forming a molten orange mouth. Hammer in one hand, blacksmith tongs in the other, the man was in the process of transforming a red-hot railroad spike into a knife blade. Two more spikes in varying flattening and twisting stages of becoming knives lay on the metal workbench alongside the anvil.
“Thomas Horning?” Cutter asked.
The man plunged the tongs into a bucket of water, sending up a hiss of steam, and then turned off the forge.
He shook Cutter’s hand with the calloused grip of a man who was accustomed to swinging a three-pound hammer.
“Call me Tom.”
Cutter displayed his credentials, to ease any concerns, but Horning waved it away. If he was worried about Lori Maycomb being a journalist, he didn’t show it.
“Bobby told me you guys would be coming by. I love talking about the wild places around Juneau.”
“This is beautiful work,” Maycomb said. She reached to touch one of the unfinished knives on the table, grabbing it before Horning could warn her. She let go immediately, recoiling to put her index finger in her mouth.
“A little hot for you?” Horning said.
“Nope.” Maycomb grinned, still sucking on the finger. “Just doesn’t take me long to look at a railroad spike.”
Horning chuckled. “Should have a sign, I guess. Metal glows cherry red around fifteen hundred degrees – but a three-hundred-degree spike looks pretty much the same as it does at ambient. I can get you some salve. I make my own from balsam poplar.”
“I’m okay,” Maycomb said. “Really.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Horning said, hobbling around the anvil. Cutter noticed for the first time that the man’s left leg was in a plaster cast to the knee.
“You’re probably thinking, why didn’t Bobby mention the guy had a broken leg.”
“Crossed my mind,” Cutter said.
“He didn’t know,” Horning said. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.”
“Misstep hiking?” Maycomb asked.
“Fell out of a helicopter,” Horning said, as if that sort of thing happened to him every day. “I found an old ninety-pound anvil up behind Mount Juneau. Chopper cost me eight hundred bucks for the eleven-minute round-trip flight to go get it. I was so worried about bashing a hole in the helicopter’s floor that I fell out the door when I was strapping the damned thing in. Only about fifteen feet, but it was enough to fracture my fibula. Otherwise, I’d be guiding you guys instead of drawing you maps.” Horning opened his back door and waved them inside.
“We appreciate any help you can give us,” Cutter said.
Typical of Alaska homes, including Mim’s, there was a dead-air space called an arctic entry inside with a second door, trapping warm air inside during the winter. Cutter and Lori kicked off their Xtratufs.
Cutter had been in hundreds of houses over the course of his career. Potential witnesses, fugitives, and sources came from every culture and socioeconomic strata. It was more common for deputies to be disgusted than impressed – but Tom Horning’s house was like some sort of intrepid adventurer’s museum.
A Marlin .45-70 Guide Gun hung on wooden pegs inside the door on the stairwell leading to the second story. Stainless steel to withstand the weather, big-loop lever to fit a gloved hand. Perfect, Cutter thought. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held tents, backpacks, and sleeping bags of assorted size and temperature rating. Cross-country skis stood against the far wall of a small living room. It was cluttered but clean, and looked as if it was rarely used. Two shelves to Cutter’s right were devoted entirely to mountaineering boots, crampons, ice axes, and coils of climbing rope.
Horning made a little smooching sound. “Come on, Kat.”
The dog scampered up the stairs ahead of him.
“Your dog’s named Kat?” Maycomb said, smiling.
“Yeah,” Horning said. “My wife said she’d never get another dog after our last one died. So, she brought home little Kat.” He showed them upstairs. “Sorry about the mess,” Horning said, swinging his broken leg up to thump against each step as he followed the dog. “My maps and computer are up here. Keeps me in shape.”
Large photographic prints of Horning’s expeditions covered the walls of the stairway. Pack-rafting under cobalt-blue glaciers, his beard covered with frost while climbing frozen waterfalls, wearing a hard hat while rappelling into hopelessly black mineshafts. The prints catalogued virtually every kind of Alaska adventure, but by a count of three to one, the photos showed Horning and his friends deep underground. It was clear by the time Cutter reached the top of the stairs that hiking, climbing, and rope work were a means to an end.
Tom Horning’s passion was exploring mines.
Cutter counted at least five rock-climbing helmets of assorted brands and colors when they reached the single large room on the second floor. Each helmet had a headlamp strapped to it. Three more lamps, a little larger, and likely more powerful, rested in chargers on the desk next to a twenty-inch computer monitor. An orange helmet, probably Horning’s favorite, sat on top of a Panasonic Toughbook on the other side of the desk. Climbing rope, ascenders, rappelling brakes, and harnesses from a recent adventure – before the helicopter fall – were spread out on a tattered love seat. Dozens of poster-size charts and maps, rolled into tubes with rubber bands, leaned against the corner opposite the computer desk. Bright yellow weatherproof Pelican cases were propped open to reveal thousands of dollars in cameras and lighting equipment.
Lori Maycomb gave a low whistle. “I think we’ve come to the right place. Your wife do all this with you?”
“Most of it,” Horning smiled. “She’s a badass. A quiet badass, but still a badass. Works at the library. Her superpower is putting up with this mountain of gear.” He shoved the ropes on the love seat aside. “Take a load off.”
“I feel like we’ve stumbled into Indiana Jones’s house,” Maycomb said.
Horning smiled. “Not hardly,” he said. “But I did just order a bullwhip from Australia. Always wanted one.” He sat in the swivel chair at the computer desk, propping his leg on a hard plastic camera case. The dog jumped in his lap and curled up, one eye on their new guests. “Bobby said you’re interested in the area around the old hatchery. Hoping to save some young woman who’s hiding there or something.”
“That’s right,” Cutter said. “He said you might have run across some old off-the-grid cabins.”
“I know of a couple cabins,” Horning said. “But I’d lay odds that if she’s hiding, she’ll be in a mine. Bobby mentioned Levi is involved. He’s come on quite a few group hikes I’ve led, back before the oxy got ahold of him. Decent kid, really. Anyway, he seemed like he was familiar with several of the adits up there behind the hatchery. I have maps of that area if you’d like.”
“That would be helpful,” Cutter said.
“When you say mines,” Maycomb asked, “are you talking like caves? I know Juneau was built on mining, but I’ve never been in one.”
Horning gave hi
s dog a scratch behind the ears. “Caves, pits, shafts, rooms big enough to hide a cruise ship, you name it. The city as we know it sits on tailings, basically the insides of Mount Roberts and Mount Juneau. The AJ mine runs for miles through the mountain, the entire length of town with multiple levels connected by drifts, raises, and winzes – basically chutes and ladders. The area you’re talking about by the hatchery wasn’t worked as extensively as some, but there are a couple of good mines up there – and a lot of places to hide. I guarantee you, you could walk within twenty feet of some of the mine openings and you wouldn’t realize you were there if you didn’t know what to look for.”
“What do you look for?” Cutter asked.
“Tailing piles, mostly,” Horning said. “They’ll be grown over with moss and plants now. All the rock has to go somewhere, so it ends up piled outside the opening. You look for shapes that don’t belong, something man-made. I’ve found hidden mine entrances by following the river of cool air flowing down the hillside. Ambient temp in the mines stays in the mid- to high forties once you get away from the entrance, a little warmer when you go deeper underground. If there’s airflow, it’s easy to feel the breeze pouring out in the summer.”
Cutter made a mental note, as he always did when he learned some new bit of information that would help with tracking. “I’m trying to imagine someone hiding inside a mine. Wouldn’t methane be a danger?”
“Oh,” Horning said. “There’s all kinds of stuff in a mine that could kill you. Rotting wood gives off CO2, displacing oxygen. Methane, as you mentioned, is a problem. Rotten ladders, old planks set over hundred-foot drops – covered with a thin layer of sediment so you don’t see them with even the brightest light, giant icicle-mites near some openings, cave-ins, and just plain old bumping the shit out of your head. And all that’s not counting the Tommy knockers.” He pronounced it knacker.
Maycomb frowned. “What’s that?”
“Welsh miners believed in little leprechaun dudes who knock on mine walls,” Horning said. “Some say they’re malevolent, but most believe they’re the ghosts of dead miners who knock to warn you of an impending cave-in. Just settling rock and timber supports, but it’s awfully easy to grow a vivid imagination when you’re four hundred feet from daylight.” He chuckled. “And then there are the spiders. Some walls are covered with thousands of harvestmen – daddy longlegs. Though I guess they’re not technically spiders.”
