by Marc Cameron
Lola took a half step forward, blading her body so she could pounce if Aguthluk moved for a weapon under her fleece. Cutter felt the white-hot rush of adrenaline down his arms. He took a deep, cleansing breath to keep his movements fluid, and then crowded in close so he was just a few inches from the judge.
If there was ever a time to get underfoot, this was it.
Markham cleared his throat, sounding authoritative as ever. He looked the woman dead in the eye.
“Mrs. Aguthluk,” he said, still walking.
Her face was pinched, eyes narrowed, mouth a tight line.
The judge stopped just five feet away. All his usual bluster had bled out of him. Standing before this squat Native woman who had very likely been the person who threatened to carve out his beating heart, he seemed to wilt, not from fear, but from shame.
Aguthluk gave him a slight dip of her head. “Yes?”
“I am Anthony Markham,” he said. “I owe you and your family an apology.”
CHAPTER 24
Morgan Kilgore heard the gunshot about the time that he set the girl’s crooked jaw. She was a big girl, apparently able to handle a lot. He hoped so, because this little dance was far from over. It wasn’t her fault she married a spineless punk who’d left Rick’s son to die in the mountains. But she was up to her neck in it now, especially since Kilgore had to leave her alone in the cabin with his partner. Rick Halcomb wasn’t the gentlest of souls, not by a long shot. Even odds whether she’d still be alive when he got back. That would be a waste. Shameless, really. But like Kilgore’s dad always said, Sometimes, it just bees that way.
Kilgore couldn’t let the opportunity of a gunshot pass, even if his leaving did drop the girl in the grease.
A gunshot meant hunters, and hunters meant food—not just the meat they brought down, but the supplies they packed in with them on the hunt. Morgan Kilgore was particularly interested in coffee. Like plundering guerillas living off the land, he planned to hunt down the hunters and get him some, even if it was that instant mud stuff. He and Rick had never planned on the river freezing up, not in October, which meant they’d run out of important supplies the day before. They were supposed to get more, but that had yet to show up, and Kilgore’s head felt like somebody was driving a spike through it.
He picked his way across the spongy ground, taking the only route possible by following an old game trail along a meandering river. If there was a hunter out here, the places he could walk or ride would be limited too, so Kilgore figured his chances were good they’d run into each other eventually. He didn’t have to worry about snapping twigs or crunching leaves. The ground was too wet for that. Ice crystals laced the moss and feathery lichen. It was snowing now, and pockets of the stuff stuck here and there in the shadow of a rock or willow scrub. But nothing frozen enough to walk on. Every step made a slurpy, sucking sound, which, when he thought about it, was a good description of this whole escapade he’d gotten himself involved in.
He pulled his head deeper into the heavy wool coat, hoping to keep the falling snow off his neck. To make matters worse, the idiot at the sporting goods place had sold him gloves that were too thin for this shit. He’d heard the bush maxim that “cotton kills”—after it was too late to get anything other than cotton jeans. They were soaking wet now, would probably freeze solid around his legs if the temperature dropped much more before he got back to the cabin. That would be just his luck—the ground would stay mud but his pants would turn to jean-cicles. It didn’t matter. His head was killing him and he was going to get him some coffee.
He’d heard voices earlier, like singing. The hunters couldn’t be much farther ahead, through the willows. Kilgore slowed, which made him colder. Hopefully, one of the hunters would have a warm hat.
None of it was supposed to go down this way. Kilgore had been happy to leave town for a while. An interdiction unit for the Arizona Highway Patrol had popped a couple guys in the club with enough fentanyl to kill half of Phoenix. Hell of a deal, really. All because of a blown tire. It was good to be out of Arizona until the dust settled. Kilgore had thought he might as well be in Alaska helping out one of his guys. Rick had been a hot mess for the last year anyway, as soon as he found out his son was dead. He’d done nothing but mope around the clubhouse talking about how he was gonna find out the truth. He planned to roast some kids’ heads on a spit because they let his boy die in the mountains—which sounded eminently reasonable to Morgan Kilgore. He didn’t have any kids that he knew of, but that kind of spinelessness couldn’t be left in the gene pool.
When Rick’s wife told him one of the kids in question was going to work at a remote lodge, it had seemed like the perfect setup. Boat up the river, snatch the kid, heat him up until he told his story—sometimes that took a while—and then get the hell out of Dodge. Easy peasy—except it had all turned to shit. Nothing was ever easy in this business. Guns jammed, knife blades broke, and bike tires blew out at the most inopportune times—like when you were carrying around bottles of fentanyl.
Kilgore was no woodsman, but he didn’t worry about finding his way back to the cabin, even in the dark and snow. He had a GPS for that. No, the bigger worry was freezing his ass off. If that girl was still alive when he got back, she could warm him up. Kilgore knew he didn’t look as mean as Rick. Having two eyes instead of one helped with that. The girl trusted him, which was stupid, but not surprising. It happened all the time, girls trusting him—until they got to know him. That always changed things.
He was dressed for fall—the way October was supposed to be, not this winter blizzard shit. A ball cap kept the snow off his head, but his ears felt like they were about to break off. They should have taken some more stuff from the lodge—at least some coffee, and maybe some gloves and a good hat, but the stupid Viking guy had gotten in the way while they were grabbing the Mead kid. Then the girl had stumbled in out of nowhere. Lucky for Kilgore, David Mead wore the same size boots—even if the dumbass had drawn little smiley faces on the toes like some kind of third grader. Killing him would be a service really.
Kilgore moved slowly toward the direction of the gunshot, keeping his flashlight off so no one would see him coming. He cursed under his breath each time a branch slapped him in the face or he slipped in the muck. This whole thing was one big soup sandwich. With the change in the weather, Rick was supposed to be working on a way for them to get out, but he was berserk with grief. Everyone mixed up in this thing was off, including Morgan Kilgore for bringing his ass to Alaska in the first place.
As bad as he needed coffee, he couldn’t quite get his mind off the girl. That piece of split wood had nearly taken her head off, which was a shame. She’d have been a hell of a lot easier to look at without fluid dripping out her ear. Rick had wanted to leave her where she fell. Even if she would have come to, she would have just drifted off to sleep again and died from exposure. There were worse ways to die than just drifting off to sleep. It would have been a mercy.
But they had her, Kilgore had reasoned. Might as well hang on to her for a bit, see where it led. Hell, she wasn’t going to eat much with her jaw like that. Kilgore brushed a ginormous flake of snow out of his eyes, picturing the girl’s face without the swollen jaw, and hoping Rick didn’t fly off the handle and finish her off while Kilgore was out getting supplies. Rick Halcomb was unpredictable. He did his own thing, always had. But he was a hell of a useful guy to have with you in a fight, or if someone needed heating up. This was his plan, and Kilgore would help him see it through, but he sure hoped Rick didn’t kill the girl while he was gone.
The Mead kid was a different story. Kilgore kind of hoped he just keeled over from fear. It might deprive poor Rick of a little revenge, but at least this would be over. Hell, Rick hadn’t even started in on him for real yet and he’d already pissed himself. Rick Halcomb was a master at inflicting pain. When he decided to get serious, you begged for him to go ahead and kill you.
Mead was still in the bargaining stage, begging, trying to
make a deal. It was pitiful and only served to make Rick angrier. So far the kid hadn’t offered up his wife, but Kilgore was certain that would come next. This kid seemed the type to run over his own mother if he thought it might save his life. People did crazy shit to wiggle their way out of the inevitable. There was no telling what Mead would do to try and save himself. One thing Kilgore knew for sure is that the kid wasn’t going to get out of this little party alive.
The singing was louder now, along with the gurgle of a flowing stream. The noises came from the other side of some gnarly evergreen trees that looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Another few steps and Kilgore could make out a fire through the branches. Sixty, maybe seventy feet away. Kilgore stopped, one foot hovering in the air. There was only one guy, a skinny Eskimo kid, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, with a wool hat pulled down over his ears. He was singing the “eye of a tiger” chorus part of that Katy Perry song “Roar,” over and over to himself while he squatted in front of the fire in his long underwear and rubber boots. Steam rose from a pair of army surplus wool pants draped over a clump of willow scrub on the opposite side of the fire.
A dead caribou lay on the tundra in front of the singing Eskimo’s ATV, about ten feet from the fire. A bolt action rifle leaned against antlers.
Crouching, Kilgore crept a few steps closer, pulling aside a wet alder branch so he could see. From the looks of things, the animal had fallen in the water after it was shot. The hunter had waded out to tie a rope on it, then used the ATV to pull it out. He’d taken the time to gut his catch—the liver lay on a piece of tarp beside the hunter along with his knife—but was evidently waiting for his clothes to dry before butchering the rest of the animal. A quick scan revealed a large rubberized duffel strapped to the rack of the ATV as well as a trailer with a hard plastic lid. Kilgore smiled. Oh yeah, he’d have coffee somewhere in there.
Red Kilgore shivered and slid the pistol out of his jacket pocket. First, he would grab this poor kid’s hat—and then the coffee. That would warm him up. Hell, he’d drink what the kid had on the fire and then brew himself another pot right here—soon as he did what he had to do.
CHAPTER 25
While not exactly friendly, Daisy Aguthluk didn’t snatch up any of the nearby cake knives and go for Judge Markham’s heart. Instead, she stood with her hands folded in front of her, listening while the judge asked her not to forgive the state of Alaska or the federal government, but him personally. To his credit, he offered only regret without a single excuse.
The Yup’ik woman stood stoically for a time when he was finished, staring straight ahead, as if she were looking through instead of at the judge. Her chest rose and fell. She closed her eyes and her entire body shuddered. Then, she waved a hand at the food laid out on the long table.
“I made boiled tomcod,” she said. “You should eat some.”
Daisy Aguthluk didn’t seem the type to try and murder a man who’d just come clean about a terrible injustice. Still, Cutter nodded for Lola to stay close. Jasper remained with them too. Markham’s clerk, already holding a plate of food, started to approach, but the judge shooed him away.
A quiet cough behind Cutter amid the echoing din of the open gym caused him to turn. He found Birdie Pingayak holding a Styrofoam cup of something that looked like pink marshmallow fluff.
She held the cup out in front of her. “You look like a man who’s about to get back on the trail without eating.”
“Thinking on it,” Cutter admitted. “I’m used to working through logistical problems, but this sitting on my hands . . .”
“Fog’s still too thick,” she said. “We’re all trapped.”
“Agatha Christie scenario.” Cutter gave her a rare smile. “Just like you predicted.”
Grumpy would have said she had flinty eyes. Beautiful to look at, but plenty sharp enough to slice to the bone if she looked at you wrong. Cutter thought such eyes would come in handy for a principal.
He scanned the faces in the crowd. Kids of all ages hung around the fringes of the gym, like youth everywhere, mildly stupefied that their parents were talking with their teachers. In a sparsely inhabited area like this, there was a better than average chance that someone here in Stone Cross was Rolf Hagen’s killer, or was somehow involved.
He shot a glance at Birdie, then back to the people lined up at the tables, filling paper plates with food. “There’s a good chance someone here has blood on their hands.”
“I imagine so,” Birdie mused. “Both literally and figuratively. I’d bet a forensic examination would show that most of the men and all of the women in Stone Cross have dried blood under our fingernails. Virtually everyone here has a rifle, and we use them regularly—like you go to the grocery store.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cutter said. “Tell me more about Rolf Hagen’s girlfriend. You said she has a disgruntled ex.”
“James Johnny.” Birdie nodded. “Far as I know, he hasn’t come back from hunting yet. I don’t think he’d kill Rolf even if he was worked up over Marlene, but even if he did, then why would he kidnap the Meads? If he was going to kill the witnesses, he’d have left them to lie there with Rolf. Don’t you think?”
“That is the more likely scenario if he did it,” Cutter said. “There’s a chance we’re looking at this wrong. Maybe Rolf was the witness and the Meads were the intended victims.”
“Or the murderers,” Bridie said.
“Don’t forget about the tooth,” Cutter said.
“So maybe only one of the Meads is the killer,” Birdie said.
“You think David Mead shot Rolf Hagen, then bashed in his wife’s teeth and carried her off?”
“Could be,” Birdie said. “Or it could be the other way. David is . . . qumli . . . kind of an idiot. If I was married to him, I’d be tempted to knock out his teeth.”
“You seriously believe that’s a possibility?”
“Sarah’s tough,” Birdie said. “But I don’t think she’s the type to kill Rolf.”
“So who then?” Cutter mused, half to himself. He looked around the gym again. “I’ve never met a principal who didn’t have a list of likely suspects for everything that goes down in his or her bailiwick. You know everyone in town, probably know some of their secrets too.”
Birdie pursed her lips, like she’d just eaten something that tasted bad. “We all got secrets,” she said. “Even you, I suppose. Dangerous to go poking around in ’em.”
Cutter shrugged. “That can’t be helped. Think about it. What does your gut tell you?”
Birdie sucked on her bottom teeth, looking around the gym like she expected to see someone in particular.
“I guess the killer could be James,” she said. “He’s the obvious choice considering Hagen was sweet on his girlfriend—What do they call it? Occam’s Razor. But there’s a chance it . . .” Her voice trailed off as she continued to scan the gym.
Cutter waited a beat for her to finish. When she didn’t, he asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Sorry,” Birdie said, snapping out of her daze. “Been a long day, that’s all. There’s a chance it could also be one of the teachers. I caught Mr. Richards surfing some porn sites on his school computer a couple weeks ago. You’d think he’d know better because I make it clear that I get a printout every month from district IT. Judging from the sites he visited, he’s got a thing for ‘sturdy’ women. Sarah Mead could certainly be described as sturdy. Maybe he has a type.”
“Maybe,” Cutter said. “Surprised you didn’t fire him.”
“I should have,” Birdie said. “But he was crying so hard he blew snot all over my office. Sobbing about how it was just so lonely out here and promising me it wouldn’t happen again. Frankly, I don’t care how many sturdy rumps he looks at online so long as they’re adult sturdy rumps and he looks at them at home on his personal computer. It’s not easy to get teachers who want to live in these conditions. Most of them are incredible, but we get more than our share of misfits too.�
��
“So Abe Richards is a misfit who likes sturdy women.” Cutter couldn’t blame him for that, though he preferred the sturdy women he associated with to be flesh and blood rather than pixilated. “Who else?”
“Donna Taylor mushes dogs out toward the lodge most nights. She’s subbing for Mr. Gordon’s class while he’s out getting surgery. He’s supposed to run a three-hundred-mile race in a few months in Bethel, so he asked her to keep his dogs in good shape while he’s gone. I used to mush with my dad when I was younger so I was going to help him, but I really don’t have time, so this is better. Anyway, there’s not enough snow for a sled right now, but she hitches the team up to an ATV and runs them a couple of hours each night when the ground freezes up.”
“So she has opportunity,” Cutter said. “How about motive?”
“I don’t know her very well,” Birdie said. “She’s only been here a little over a month . . .”
“Don’t overthink it,” Cutter said. “Just go with your gut. You mentioned her because she’s odd?”
Birdie laughed. “Most people out here are odd in one way or another. I know I am. Ms. Taylor’s got something going, there’s no doubt about that. Doesn’t everybody? No, I mentioned her because she was out with the dogs last night. That’s all.”
“Anyone else?”
Birdie’s face darkened, like she needed to spit. “Vitus Paul isn’t exactly a saint.”
“The one who found the body?” Cutter said, taken aback. “Doesn’t he work for you?”
“He does,” she said. “Oh, he’s all right . . . I guess.” Birdie lowered her voice, eyes flitting around the gym again. “It’s his cousin who’s a piece of shit. We should probably talk to him.”
“What’s his name?”
Birdie looked at her shoes, then up at Cutter. “Never mind. He’s just a guy I don’t want around Jolene. He probably doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Is that why you keep eyeing the doors?” Cutter asked. “Is some guy giving you problems?”
