Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  “I’m going upriver,” she said. A decree really, but her husband was used to that.

  Bobby Brooks glanced up from a pair of insulated pants he was mending at the small Formica table. He’d torn a gash in them hunting caribou two days before. “You can’t go upriver.”

  She dipped her head, glaring over the top of her big, black-framed glasses. “What do you mean can’t?”

  He returned to his mending, ever calm. “This isn’t me exercising unrighteous dominion, darlin’. The river is the one saying no. Abe’s boat was sucking up ice crystals all the way home yesterday.”

  Abe Richards was the shop teacher in Stone Cross. He and Bobby had taken two days off to hunt caribou upriver. Richards was a little on the weird side, but Birdie gave them the time without complaint because they provided meat for several elders who were too old to go hunting.

  “Everything was all right when you stopped by the lodge?”

  Bobby nodded. “I didn’t see Sarah, but we left a caribou shoulder with David.” He set down the pants, carefully sticking the heavy-duty needle in the fabric so he didn’t lose it. Like most things in the village, you couldn’t just run to the store and get another one.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. “Look, hon, I think David is kind of a putz, but Sarah’s a tough lady. They’re probably so busy getting everything ready for freeze-up she hasn’t had time to call.”

  “I already talked to Melvin,” Aften said. “He told me he would try and take me up in his boat.”

  “He did?” Bobby said. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “He tried to talk me out of it.”

  “Smart guy, Melvin,” Bobby said. “I heard Vitus say he’s taking the day off for subsistence hunting. He plans to take his ATV out tonight and try to catch a moose. Maybe he’d give you a ride if you asked. That new substitute, Donna, said she’s been taking out Mr. Gordon’s dog team for short training runs, pulling the four-wheeler to keep ’em in shape. You could probably talk either one of them into letting you tag along.”

  Vitus Paul, the school’s maintenance man, was just nineteen years old. He had a massive crush on Aften, which would make riding behind him on an ATV beyond awkward. Plus, he was taking subsistence time and she doubted Ms. Pingayak would allow her to miss a day to go hunting, since she’d already let Bobby go. Donna Taylor was new to the school, having taken over Colby Gordon’s combined second- and third-grade class when Gordon went in for emergency knee surgery. Unlike the rest of the teachers who lived in district-owned duplexes next to the school, Mr. Gordon rented a small cabin at the edge of town with twenty-six Alaska huskies. One quarter Yup’ik, he was something of a local celebrity and planned to run the Kuskokwim 300 sled-dog race in January if his knee healed up in time. Donna Taylor had not only agreed to teach his class, but to exercise his dog team as well during his absence. There wasn’t enough snow to run a sled yet, so she made do by hitching a team to the front of Gordon’s four-wheeler and waiting until after dark when the trails froze solid enough they didn’t bog down.

  “Donna’s probably the best bet,” Aften said.

  “Or,” Bobby whispered into her ear, “you could wait a day or two. It’s supposed to warm up tonight and things’ll only get worse. We’re not going to do anyone any good if we’re buried up to our necks in mud. Fog’s supposed to roll in sometime in the morning. We might run aground on a sandbar or two, but the river should be a little better for a few hours.”

  “We?”

  “I’m not staying home while my wife runs off and has all the adventure.”

  Aften wheeled suddenly. “I’m thinking about this all wrong.”

  “That’s a first,” Bobby said. “Not the being wrong part. Just you admitting it.”

  Aften ignored him. “I don’t have to be the one to go in person,” she said. “Sarah told me she’s seen a couple of good moose in that little drainage south of the lodge. If Vitus is going out tonight, I can ask him to check on her while he’s hunting.”

  Bobby nodded. “You know I love it out here, but this nasty little period of time when the ground is too mucky to drive on and the river is too slushy to use a boat really sucks. If that fog moves in like the weather-guesser says, we’ll all be stuck wherever we’re at.”

  “I know,” Aften said. “And so will Sarah.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Cutter rarely jogged. When he wasn’t walking, he ran. Hard.

  It was a Grumpy thing. The old man believed that if you were going to take the time to exercise, you may as well focus on the work part of the workout. “Outlaws don’t trot away from you,” he’d say. “They haul ass, so you can’t afford to screw around.” As far as Cutter knew, Grumpy never did anything halfway. He was still running a solid eight-minute mile the week before his aorta exploded and he dropped dead on his boat. It was a hell of a way to go out. He couldn’t even bring himself to half-ass being sick.

  It was spitting sleet outside, coldy-cat-cold the twins called it. Cutter would have rather run outside, even in the snotty weather, but Mim looked like she needed to talk, so they all loaded in her Toyota minivan and went to the Dome. Cutter drove, listening to the twins jabber about their day, while he alternately glanced between the image of Constance bent over her smartphone in the rearview mirror, and Mim looking content in the passenger seat. Cutter couldn’t imagine a circumstance where he’d admit it, but he’d pictured just such a scene when he was sixteen, the moment he first met Mim at the shop where she worked in Manasota Key.

  No, he wasn’t ever going to admit that one.

  The Dome was just what its name implied, a massive inflatable bubble, located off Dowling Road in south Anchorage. Arched, stark white walls made the artificial turf fields in the center of a 400-meter track appear so green it looked like real grass. The shape, the lights, the sheer size of the place gave it an otherworldly feel, like an explorer base on Mars or some far-flung star system in the stories Grumpy read to Cutter and his brother when they were kids.

  Bad weather made the Dome a happening place in the evenings. High school and college athletes alike used the track and field to stay in shape. Business folk too ran off steam after work, doing CrossFit in the corners, playing Spikeball, soccer, or football on the field. Tonight, the Cutters shared the track with a couple dozen others, and it was sure to get busier. The twins tossed a football at the end of the turf. Mim walked, keeping to the outside, leaving the inside lanes for runners. She wore a blue Alaska Grown sweatshirt and a pair of black nylon running shorts that threatened to slow Cutter down every time he passed her. Constance had come too, self-conscious enough about her body to want to run off the pancakes she’d refused to eat that morning.

  Cutter worked through each of the Marshals Service Fitness-in-Total, commonly known by the acronym FIT, events in the order he would complete the actual test: a minute each for sit-ups and push-ups, a straight-leg sit-and-reach test for flexibility, and a mile-and-a-half run. Passing the test wasn’t difficult unless you were a Deputy Donut. Sadly, Cutter knew a few of those. But he wanted to do better than pass. As a line supervisor, he felt it was important to set the standard for the PODs—the plain old deputies, the line troops, the backbone of the Marshals Service. Lola Teariki didn’t need motivation when it came to working out, but she was an anomaly. Setting an example for the rest of the deputies meant not just running with them, but excelling as an “old guy.” Cutter was relatively new to the district. He wanted his people to trust that he could catch the bad guys when they took off. A good reputation only lasted until your first screwup. You could swagger around the office and tell all the war stories you wanted, but there was no faking it on the street. If a twenty-something pothead took off at a sprint, you better be capable of running him down, or it got around the squad room pretty damned quickly. That was another reason he ran instead of jogged.

  He was on his fifth of six laps, digging in to make sure he kept the run under ten minutes. A lanky college-age ki
d in green racing shorts burned past, chuffing like a steam engine. Green Shorts sprinted the straights, ducking in and out of lanes as he passed other runners like he owned the place. He got a little close for Cutter’s taste, almost but not quite touching shoulders. Cutter chalked it up to immaturity and ignored him. The kid was probably just showing off for the three college-age ladies who’d come in at the same time.

  Putting Green Shorts out of his mind, Cutter focused on his own run, and ticked down a list of things he needed for his upcoming trip.

  He kept a go-bag ready to travel for fugitive work, so it didn’t take him long to pack for the trip out west. In some parts of the country, the winter and summer kits might be different, but in Alaska, where rain and freezing temperatures might happen any month of the year, the things he took with him remained substantially the same, just adding a heavier parka and winter boots.

  Most rural villages had no restaurants or hotels. Visitors brought their own sleeping bags and food, which usually consisted of Meals Ready to Eat. Cutter had eaten enough MREs in the military that he could just about identify each entrée by feeling the weight of the pouch. He’d picked out his favorites from the task force storage closet—chili mac and three-cheese tortellini (that one came with Skittles)—and done his civic duty by steering Lola away from the veggie burger and beef enchilada. They’d bring assorted granola bars and other snacks as well, along with a water filter, iodine tablets, and some powdered drink mix to mask the taste of the iodine. Cutter had a strong gut, but one of his military instructors in Basic had pointed out that for every soldier who died in battle during the US war with Mexico, seven had died from dysentery. He had eaten enough half-cooked goat and drunk enough cloudy water—and suffered the consequences—to last him ten lifetimes.

  They’d each bring a .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol; Lola’s was the larger Glock 22 issued by the USMS, Cutter’s was a smaller Glock 27 that he carried over his right kidney to comport with US Marshals policy. He considered his grandfather’s Colt Python, worn over his hip, the primary weapon. Since Stone Cross was a long way from anywhere, each deputy took three extra magazines rather than the customary two. Cutter had a speed loader for the revolver in his coat pocket and a plastic “speed strip” with six additional rounds in the breast pocket of his vest. The semiauto was certainly faster to reload, but the Colt had character—and a long history. In truth, in the bush the .357 revolver made a heck of a lot more sense than the Glock. But USMS headquarters firearms policy didn’t often make sense regarding Alaska. For one thing, it didn’t take big bears into account.

  Lola would bring her long gun, a Colt M4 with an Aimpoint Patrol holographic sight. Each would also carry a small day pack with basic survival and first-aid gear for self-care as well as extra in case they had to treat any wounds the judge might receive. The chances that Markham would need a Band-Aid or cold medicine were much greater than them having to fight their way out of a confrontation. Still, they wanted to be prepared for anything.

  Cutter kicked up his pace on the last straightaway. He checked his watch when he crossed the finish, slowed to a walk as he rounded the curve, catching his breath. Nine forty-one. Not too shabby. Out of habit, he’d kept something back. Running after a fugitive wasn’t like a track meet. You couldn’t leave it all at the finish line. You had to have enough steam left to fight the guy after you caught up with him.

  Mim was ahead of him now, halfway down the straight, still in lane five, second from the outside. Cutter liked to walk a few laps after he ran, so he jogged to catch up. They could walk together while he cooled down. Green Shorts chuffed past again, still weaving in and out, veering outside so he very nearly ran over Mim.

  Cutter picked up his pace, catching Mim in a few easy strides.

  “Well, he’s kind of a jerk,” she said, nodding to Green Shorts.

  “I noticed that.”

  “How was your run?”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t seem tired,” she said. “You must recover fast.”

  He smiled. “I got a big heart.”

  She walked in silence for a moment. “That you do, Arliss Cutter. That you do.”

  “You look deep in thought,” Cutter said, consciously slowing his breathing.

  She smiled. “I was thinking about how much you look like Grumpy.”

  “Old and grizzled?”

  She snorted. “Not quite yet. I found a photo the other day while I was going through some of Ethan’s books. It’s a good one of Grumpy and you on the beach, but your first wife is in it too so I’ve never put it out.”

  “Yeah.” Cutter groaned. “Grumpy warned me about her.”

  Mim looked sideways, smirking. “To say the least. Grumpy told Ethan she asked him to pay for a boob job.”

  “Rita had no filter,” Cutter said. “Or good sense. I’d just headed out on my second tour to Afghanistan, making buck-sergeant wages, and she decided she needed . . . well, you know.”

  “Grumpy didn’t pay, did he?”

  “Not a chance,” Cutter said. “But that didn’t stop Rita. She put it on a credit card and then went begging to my aunt Linda for the money when the bill came due.” He shook his head. “Aunt Linda has never let me forget that she paid for a boob job that neither of us ever saw any benefit from. She also never lets me forget that I have a certain type.”

  “Like you said, you have a big heart. I think your type is a damsel in distress.” Luckily, Mim decided to move the subject away from his former wives. “I don’t want to give you a big head or anything, but the twins are grouchy that you have to go away tomorrow.”

  “I’m not too happy about that myself,” Cutter said. He had to concentrate to keep from swaying too close as they walked.

  Mim changed the subject again. “I feel like I should run too. It would help offset all the cowboy chili pie I plan to eat when we get home. You know, Ethan used to make that at least once a month. He’d always let the kids eat it off metal pie pans like they were on a trail drive or something.”

  Cutter chuckled, remembering. “Grumpy used to let Ethan and me do that. I was always more excited about the pie pans than I was about the pie.”

  Mim stared down at the rubberized surface of the track as she walked. “Thank you.”

  “I like cowboy chili pie too,” Cutter said. “You don’t have to—”

  “I mean for coming to Alaska,” Mim said, quieter now. “After Ethan died. You have your own life to deal with—”

  Cutter chuckled. “Yeah, and I’ve done a great job of screwing that up. You guys help me more than I help you.”

  “Nope,” Mim said. “If you hadn’t come to help, the kids would be eating hot dogs five nights a week. With you, they get to use knives.”

  They walked together in silence for a time, Cutter enjoying the closeness. Green Shorts shot by again, brushing Mim’s shoulder and nearly knocking her down.

  “Hey!” Cutter yelled. “Watch it!”

  “You watch it, gramps,” the kid yelled over his shoulder. “The track’s for running, not camping out.”

  Mim held out her hand, palm down. “I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Cutter watched as Green Shorts moved up behind Constance, jockeying for position as if he were trying to set a record for most annoying idiot in the Dome. Constance was the smallest in the knot of people rounding the curve ahead of him, making her the spot he chose to go through instead of around. She tripped as he hip-checked her, skidding face-first into the rubberized track. Green Shorts half turned, yelled something over his shoulder to Constance that Cutter couldn’t quite make out, then kept running. Whatever he said, it didn’t look like an apology.

  Cutter and Mim both broke into a run. Cutter reached Constance about the time she got back on her feet, with Mim just a few steps behind. Embarrassed and flustered, Constance promised she was okay, waving them off to continue her lap with her head down, limping a little as she picked up speed.

  Cutter found
himself running again before he knew it. Mim called out to him, but he chose not to hear. He caught up with his quarry at the far side of the next curve.

  Green Shorts glanced over his shoulder, surely expecting something like this. He scoffed when he saw Cutter, twice his age, sweating through his T-shirt, surely exhausted from his run. Cutter lengthened his stride, picturing his fallen niece as he poured on speed. The kid looked up again, a sudden flash of panic crossing his face this time. His arms pumped faster as he wrung out his last drop of speed, a gazelle in a last desperate attempt to shake a closing lion. Normally, he would have been faster than Cutter, but righteous anger gave a little added boost for the scant few yards Cutter needed to pull ahead half a stride, and then crowd in, stepping directly in front of the other man’s lead foot. Cutter slowed immediately, turning in time to watch Green Shorts do a Superman dive, arms outstretched to catch himself as he fell.

  Cutter forced a grin, reaching to help the startled young man to his feet. Stunned, Green Shorts took the offered hand. Cutter held nothing back, and almost yanked the kid’s arm out of the socket helping him to his feet. He didn’t need words to get his point across. I am more than capable of running you down and beating you to death with your own arm.

  Green Shorts started to protest, but Cutter stopped him with another slightly maniacal grin.