Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  “Nonsense,” Judge Markham said. “Ms. Pingayak, how many people can fit in your boat?”

  “It’s rated for seven,” she said. “But four is better if we have much gear.” She looked over the top of her reading glasses. “And in this weather, skimping on gear can get you killed.”

  “Hang on, Judge,” Cutter said. “You understand what’s going on out there? It’s a homicide scene. Somebody’s been murdered and the killer is still at large. My job is to protect you, not lead you into a danger—”

  Markham cut him off. “No, Deputy. I was present at the meeting with Chief Phillips. Your job is to follow me.” He took a deep breath, his eyes playing around the room, brow furrowed, almost conciliatory. “And right now, I’ve decided it will make things easier if you follow me to the lodge.” He shot a look at Birdie. “If it’s all right with you, Ms. Pingayak.” He pronounced it with the accent on the second syllable, like the pilot had taught him.

  “Fine by me,” Birdie said. “I’m only taking the VPSO. As far as I’m concerned it’s up to him who else comes with us.”

  Ned Jasper raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m glad for any help I can get.”

  “Okay then.” Birdie checked the time on her phone, then looked out the window at the pea-soup fog. “We got a little less than five hours till dark. Meet me at the boat in twenty minutes. I’m gonna stop by my house and pick up a couple of things. Make sure you each got long underwear, good boots, and a warm coat. Go ahead and bring your sleeping bags too if you got ’em in waterproof bags. Ned, bring extra life jackets if you have them.” She nodded at Lola. “And it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you bring that rifle you got hidden in your tennis racket bag.”

  Lola gave her a thumbs-up.

  “So we should pack as if we might have to spend the night in the lodge,” Markham said.

  “No, Judge,” Birdie said. “You should pack as if you’re going to spend the night on the river.”

  “Very well.” Markham addressed his law clerk, and then Cutter, as if he were making a formal decree from the bench. “Brett, you begin groundwork for the arbitration—meeting locations, things of that nature. Deputy, when we’re on the boat, you can tell me why this woman wants me dead.”

  * * *

  Cutter had all his gear in a rubberized dry-bag that had belonged to his brother. Rather than sort through everything, he simply took out the extra clothing he didn’t think he’d need and left it on a chair in the library. Florida was warm, but Grumpy had taught both his grandsons to get in the habit of taking a vacuum-sealed set of dry underwear when they went into the woods, in case they went in the drink. Now that he was in Alaska, he’d exchanged the extra boxers for a set of merino-wool long johns and socks. Sealed in the same bag was a box of waterproof matches and a candle. Cutter wore both pistols, and a sheath knife Mim had given him, on his belt. In his pocket he had a folding knife, a lighter, and a small flashlight—the basics of everyday carry.

  Lola would have a similar setup. She’d been in Alaska longer than he had. He considered asking to check the judge’s gear, but thought better of it.

  Cutter, Lola, and the judge all loaded their bags into the trailer behind the VPSO’s Honda and then climbed in to sit on top of them. The snow had stopped, but fog had moved in with a vengeance, making it impossible to see past the ATV from the trailer. Melvin said wistfully and to nobody in particular that he hoped they could make it back in time for the potluck later that night, but that he understood they might be a while because somebody had died.

  Ned made a quick stop at his house. It was just around the corner, one side of a duplex that Cutter guessed was teacher housing since Mrs. Jasper was the school counselor. He came out almost as soon as he went in, carrying a dry-bag similar to Cutter’s over his shoulder. A scoped bolt-action rifle was in his left hand.

  “I thought VPSOs weren’t supposed to be armed,” Markham said as Ned swung a leg over the four-wheeler.

  “We’re not supposed to hunt murderers either,” Jasper said grimly. “I guess there’s technically a way to get qualified, but that’s a long and political road—way above my pay grade. Rules or no rules, I’m not going out there without my rifle. My wife would never let me hear the end of it if I got myself killed.”

  “Wise,” Cutter said.

  Jasper checked over his shoulder to make sure he had everyone, then rode into the fog toward the river.

  Gray buildings ghosted by in the mist. Snow and sky and air melded together, making it impossible to tell which way was up, let alone see the road. It was easy to understand how pilots could become disoriented and auger into the ground in this kind of soup. Cutter couldn’t see the water, but they must have arrived because Ned stopped his ATV and killed the engine, leaving nothing but the hiss of ice on the Kuskokwim and the telltale thump of Birdie Pingayak already moving around on her aluminum boat. The air was dead still, slightly warmer than it had been when they’d arrived—a bad sign when they needed the fog to lift.

  Ned led the way past two aluminum skiffs pulled up on the mud, down to where Birdie’s boat bobbed along the shore. The bow rope was tied off to a piece of old drill stem that had been hammered into the dirt. Pingayak was a misty apparition at the stern, barely visible though she was less than twenty feet away. Every few seconds, a large chunk of floating ice thudded against the side of the boat, reminding everyone that the river would not stay liquid much longer.

  “Put your stuff up there in the front,” Birdie said. “Two of you sit in the middle, but I need a couple of you to ride up front and be my eyes. Watch for trees, sandbars, thick ice. We have a little bit of a trip ahead of us and not much time till dark. We should hurry, but we won’t do anybody any good if I run up on some pan ice and rip the lower unit off my motor.”

  “Sounds like a wise plan of action,” Markham said.

  Cutter was mildly surprised when the judge didn’t make seating assignments himself, but took a position on the wooden bench amidships.

  “I’ll take the bow,” Jasper said. “It will help me learn the river better.”

  “You have a preference, boss?” Lola asked, sloshing ankle deep on her rubber boots into the river. She stowed her bag over the side.

  “You can ride up front if you want,” Cutter said.

  “Cool,” Lola said. “I’ll see if Ned needs help pushing us off.”

  Judge Markham carried a small dry-bag he’d presumably borrowed from someone at the school since he’d traveled from Anchorage with a hard suitcase. “Taking one for the team,” he said.

  Cutter pulled a black wool beanie out of his pocket and snugged it over his head. “How’s that, sir?”

  “Not forcing your partner to sit next to me,” Markham said. He gave a sleepy half smile.

  Cutter hated to admit it, but this guy was remarkably self-aware.

  A professional boat driver with the Florida Marine Patrol, Grumpy would have been proud of the way Birdie Pingayak saw to her skiff. It was an open vessel that was exposed to the elements, but she kept it clean and uncluttered. A heavy wooden oar lay tucked under the starboard rail. A red plastic jug of extra fuel was bungeed up front to even out the weight. Birdie secured a bright orange dry-bag the size of a watermelon to a cleat at the stern, letting it hang inside the boat. She shot a glance at Cutter, then gave the orange bag a pat.

  “First-aid and emergency gear,” she said.

  The outboard motor started without much coaxing. Jasper cast off the bow line and he and Lola pushed the skiff away before clambering over the side. Curtains of fog closed in quickly. The bank disappeared as Birdie backed up enough to catch the current and turned her little vessel to the north. She proved herself a capable skipper, navigating sandbars, sweeper trees, and meandering braids of the ice-choked Kuskokwim River. Each new obstacle appeared through the fog when they were almost on top of it, giving her little time to react.

  The judge slid down low so he was sitting on the plywood deck, leaning his back against the be
nch. He pulled his wool cap down over his ears and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his coat, knees to his chest. His life jacket rode up around his neck, turtle-like.

  “Let’s have it,” he said. “Why does that woman hate me so much that she wants to kill me?”

  “Honestly, Judge,” Cutter said, “I’d just learned about it when we landed in Stone Cross. Ned was about to brief me in detail when he got the call about the murder and kidnapping.”

  Markham glanced toward the bow. “Officer Jasper, might you shed some light on this matter?”

  “I might, sir,” Ned said. “The woman’s name is Daisy Aguthluk.” The last syllable of the name clicked in the back of his throat, like the call of a raven.

  “And she was at the airstrip when we landed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ned said. He kept his voice up to be heard over the whine of the outboard. “Does Aguthluk ring a bell?”

  Markham shook his head. “No. I mean, I’ve heard the name before. It’s not an uncommon name in rural Alaska.”

  Birdie stared sideways into the fog, as if to distance herself from the conversation.

  Jasper kept his lookout for dangerous water, but spoke over his shoulder as he continued. “How about the name Cecilia Aguthluk?”

  The judge shook his head.

  “It makes sense, I guess,” Jasper said. “It was a long time ago. Cecilia was Daisy Aguthluk’s auntie. Her father’s sister, if I understand it correctly. Like I said, I’m new in this village.”

  Markham drew back, incredulous. “And how am I supposed to know this woman?”

  “I’ll tell it,” Birdie said. “Ned just found out anyway, so he might get the details wrong.”

  “Please,” Jasper said, focusing on the river again.

  Birdie slowed the boat slightly, quieting the motor just enough to make herself more easily heard. She kept her eyes glued to the current as she spoke. “In 1983, an itinerant nurse named Diane Patrick was forced to overnight in Stone Cross because of a summer storm. She was part of a program vaccinating children for measles or something. Anyway, the new school wasn’t built yet but the church had a cot for visiting clergy. The elders made sure Miss Patrick was fed a good dinner, and then made her comfortable in the church. Cecilia Aguthluk was always a little . . . you know, handicapped. She was thirty-eight, but people describe her as being like a sweet little child. She was walking to pick up some blackfish from a neighbor by the church when she happened to have a seizure. The nurse, along with several others, came outside and helped her. It was common knowledge throughout the village that Cecilia had epilepsy. Everyone here made sure she was safe, and took care not to embarrass her after she had a seizure. The nurse went on her way and everyone thought that was the end of it.”

  Markham closed his eyes and began to shake his head, obviously remembering something.

  “It took about a month,” Birdie said, “but eventually, a plane landed at the old airstrip. Two strangers in suits, gussuks—white men—got off the plane. Nobody ever wore suits in the village, so this stood out as an omen. Something bad was about to happen. Older folks still didn’t speak much English in the eighties, but these men said they were deputy marshals, and they’d come for Cecilia. She wasn’t hiding, just down by the river singing and cutting fish with her teenage niece, Daisy. She was scared, so she fought—and who wouldn’t when they are being kidnapped. Anyway, the men in suits put her in handcuffs and took her away. They had a piece of paper, a document from the court, saying it was all completely legal. Cecilia Aguthluk needed to be arrested for her own safety. There was an affidavit attached to the court document, signed by an itinerant nurse named Diane Patrick, and a petition signed by Assistant Alaska Attorney General J. Anthony Markham.”

  “Dear Lord in Heaven,” Markham gasped, slack jawed. “I would want to kill me.”

  “What happened to Cecilia?” Lola asked.

  Birdie shrugged. “We think she went to a hospital in Oregon, then fell off the radar. Some official there told Daisy that she was transferred somewhere near Spokane, but the people in Washington had never heard of her. Somebody thought she might have contracted TB and been sent to a facility in Arizona for the drier climate. She’d be around seventy now. If she’s not dead, then she’s lost in the system.”

  “Due respect, Judge,” Lola said, “but you were an assistant attorney general thirty-four years ago?”

  “It sounds lofty,” Markham said, still stunned. “But assistant AG is an entry-level position in Alaska. I’d just moved up from New York with a new law degree.”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” Lola said. “If the writ came from the state system, why did the marshals pick her up?”

  Birdie nudged the tiller slightly, steering around a raft of jagged ice twice the size of her boat. “Why are you doing a homicide investigation for the Troopers just now? This is the bush. You guys work together all the time.”

  “Yeah,” Lola said. “But I can’t see the Marshals Service flying in and kidnapping innocent people without letting their family know where we’re taking them.”

  “Makes me sick,” Cutter said, “but I’ve heard of this sort of thing before on Indian reservations in the Southwest.”

  “Exactly,” Ned Jasper said. “You may already know this, but even today, a lot of our elders still refer to troopers and deputy marshals as tegusta.”

  “Tegusta,” Cutter repeated. “What’s that?”

  Birdie stared into the fog. “The one who takes people away.”

  CHAPTER 18

  It took an hour and a half to make the eight miles to Chaga Lodge, fighting ice flow and current the entire way. Judge Markham sat locked in his own thoughts, uncharacteristically silent.

  Birdie arced her boat through the fog toward a clump of scraggly willows that looked no different from all the others they’d seen since leaving Stone Cross.

  “We got maybe two hours here,” she warned. “I don’t want to run this river in the dark.”

  “Understood,” Jasper said, glancing at the shadows. “One of us may have to stay here until the Troopers arrive.”

  “Long as it’s not me,” Birdie said.

  A slender Native man with sparse black whiskers on hollow cheeks was waiting on the bank as the bow bumped frozen mud below a small cluster of whitewashed outbuildings. The man didn’t look long out of high school. A large log structure, presumably the main lodge, loomed up the hill, barely visible behind him.

  The man introduced himself as Vitus Paul. He rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin as he helped secure the skiff to a concrete block that looked set up for that purpose. Birdie eyed him as if she didn’t like the way he smelled. Cutter noticed a small dab of peanut butter on his chin.

  “How long have you been here?” Cutter asked him.

  Vitus looked up at the sky—such as it was in the fog—then gave a noncommittal shrug. “Since late morning. About sunup, maybe.”

  His head on a swivel, Cutter stood with his back to the river, trying to get some sense of direction. “No sign of anyone else?”

  “Just the body,” Vitus said. “Are you guys troopers?”

  “US Marshals,” Lola said. “We’re here on another matter—”

  Vitus’s eyebrows shot up in realization. “Ahh,” he said. “That federal judge thing with Daisy.”

  Markham hugged himself against the chill. “Seems as though the entire village is aware of this.”

  Cutter ignored that. “What was the lodge like when you got here?”

  “There was nobody here, if that’s what you mean. I’m the one who called you. Remember?”

  “Nobody’s accusing you,” Lola said.

  Cutter tried again. “Was it still warm inside?”

  Vitus shook his head. “I wish. Had to start a fire in the stove to keep from freezing to death. The Meads must have been gone a while.”

  “Okay.” Cutter shot a glance at Lola. There was something about this
place that wasn’t right—and she felt it too. Dark shapes—buildings, trees, stacks of wood—materialized and then disappeared intermittently in the drifting clouds of vapor. Birdie still moved around at her boat, perhaps two dozen yards down the bank at the river—and she was completely invisible. Threats could be everywhere, and very likely were. It took every ounce of self-control Cutter had to keep from grabbing Markham by the scruff of the neck and dragging him to the relative safety of the lodge.

  “Judge,” he said, “let’s get you inside.”

  Markham dug in. “I’d like to see what’s going on first.”

  “There is something in the meat shed you’ll want to see,” Vitus said.

  Cutter could be just as stubborn as the judge. “Is it on the way to the lodge?”

  “Yeah,” Vitus said. “It’s right over here.” He led the way up the hill, to an eight-by-eight building made of weathered plywood and window screens. S-shaped metal hooks hung from two-by-four rafters under a sloping tin roof. Parachute cord ran through small eyebolts around the outside of the building, terminating at a toggle switch that led to a car horn and boat battery.

  “The meat shed,” Vitus said. “But get a load of this.” He held back the door and pointed to a circular design on the concrete floor, apparently drawn in blood. “That’s weird, huh?”

  “Indeed,” the judge said.

  “Gives me the creeps,” Lola said. “Some kind of symbol, you think, boss?” She tilted her head to get a different angle. “A target, maybe?”

  “Take some photos,” Cutter said. He stooped to study the ground in front of the door. There were several depressions in the half frozen path, but nothing in the most recent snow other than a single set of boot prints where Vitus Paul had initially gone in and scrambled away after he’d seen the bloody design.

  Both Lola and Ned Jasper took several photographs with their phones, placing one of the VPSO’s Bic pens beside the design for scale.

  “Got any guesses as to what that crazy thing is?” Vitus asked as they walked toward the lodge.