by Marc Cameron
Birdie took a deep breath. “You could say that.”
“Has he threatened your daughter?” A passing woman glanced at his frown and almost dropped her plate of food.
“As far as I know he hasn’t spoken to her,” Birdie said. “I don’t think he’d hurt her, but he’s behaved viciously toward me.”
Cutter’s hackles went up. “Physically?”
She nodded. The lines on her chin quivered.
“Is he here at the potluck?”
Birdie blew out a long breath, throwing her head back, eyes closed, like she was upset with her own behavior. “I shouldn’t have brought him up.”
“What’s his name?”
“I . . .”
“Don’t worry about getting somebody in trouble,” Cutter said. “I’ll speak to him if you think there’s any chance he might be involved in Rolf’s murder. It doesn’t mean I’ll arrest him.”
“Believe me.” Birdie’s chin quivered. The muscles along her jaw clenched now. “If he threatens me again I’d just as soon you beat the shit out of him.”
“That’s kind of what I do,” Cutter said.
“I gathered that,” Birdie said.
“So what’s his name?”
“Sascha Green.”
“Sascha Green?” Cutter repeated.
“You know him?”
Cutter nodded. “I’m familiar with the name.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cutter said. “Tell me about Green’s connection to the Meads or Rolf Hagen?”
“His hunting camp is about halfway between here and the lodge,” Birdie said. “He’s originally from Stone Cross, but lives downriver now, closer to Bethel. I saw him in the village yesterday. I’m sure he’s trying to intimidate me.”
“I’m glad you told me,” Cutter said. “You think he’s capable of killing Rolf?”
Birdie’s eyes flashed. “You said go with my gut, and my gut says he’s worth looking at.”
“Then we’ll look at him,” Cutter said. “I’m not ready to mark anyone off the list. You point me toward everyone you think might be involved. In the meantime, Jasper’s spreading the word that we left the bullet that killed Hagen buried in the log wall at the lodge. It won’t do us any good if Vitus is our killer since he knows the truth, but if anyone else goes out there later, they merit a little more attention.”
“Smart,” Birdie said, staring into the crowd again.
“I’ll talk to Sascha Green,” Cutter said. “You have my word.”
“What if he’s not in the village?”
“You have my word.”
“I believe you,” she said. “And I understand you have to look at everyone who might be involved with the murder.”
“Anyone else come to mind?” Cutter asked, following her gaze around the gym.
A new batch of home brew or not, he suspected most everyone in the village would make an appearance at the potluck for the free food.
Large metal bowls and trays brimming with pasta and potato salads occupied the center of three long folding tables, each surrounded with dishes of boiled caribou, sliced moose roast, duck soup, assorted fish, and meat dried like jerky until it was black. Judging from the people of both sexes sitting on the bleachers by themselves with plates piled high, there were obviously plenty of folks who didn’t care for any conversation. Everyone here had their quirks, but none more than any other that Cutter could see. He looked for loners, people who paid undue attention to him or Lola—or Judge Markham. That didn’t narrow it down much. Along with the visiting attorneys, they were all novelties, inviting more than the occasional stare.
The look on Birdie’s face suddenly softened.
“What?” Cutter said, following her gaze across the gym. Lola stood holding a plate, having a lively chat with Jolene Pingayak. The teenage Yup’ik girl wore a hoodie and red basketball warm-ups. Black hair hung straight and loose around slender shoulders. Even from a distance it was easy to see she had Birdie’s nose and chin—minus the tattoo. She was taller than her mother, almost as tall as Lola. The deputy faced the judge, glancing up at him every few seconds, but still listened with rapt attention to the teenager.
“This is incredible,” Birdie whispered. “I haven’t seen my daughter laugh like that in . . . I can’t remember when. Your partner must have magical powers.”
“Who, Lola?” Cutter said, nodding slowly like a proud father. “Don’t tell her I said so, but she’s got a gift with people.” He chuckled. “She puts up with me. That says a lot.”
Birdie turned to face him. “This must be hard on both of you. The troopers have a job. You have a job. Sometimes those jobs overlap. Sometimes one gets in the way of the other.”
“Sounds simpler than it really is,” Cutter said.
“I don’t think it’s all that complicated.”
“Maybe,” Cutter said. “I have to admit it goes against my grain to walk away from a trail when there’s a killer on the other end of it. Standing around at a party when someone’s been taken . . .” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a rough hand across his face. “You know, it baffles me that we are able to put a man on the moon, but we can’t get a couple of Alaska State Troopers to Stone Cross.”
Birdie gave a knowing smile, like the indulgent parent of a child who didn’t quite understand the way of things.
“Sometimes we may as well be on the moon.” She gestured toward the coffee urns. “See that long table? That’s where our village health aide saved her dad’s life after he accidentally got shot during a moose hunt. His nephew brought him back here and laid him out right there. The health aide stood over him for three hours pinching off the blood vessel in his armpit while we waited for the fog to lift enough that someone could airlift him back to Bethel. The river was open then, but a boat ride would have killed him. She’s done quite a few emergency surgeries with the doc guiding her through it over the VHF. Oh, and did I mention she’s nineteen years old. One of my former students.”
“I’m new to Alaska,” Cutter said. “But I’d lay odds that half the deputies I work with don’t realize the depth of what it’s like in the village.”
“That goes for most everyone in Anchorage,” she said. “And Juneau too, except for when they want our votes. Think about it. Since you arrived, we’ve had at least one case of domestic violence, a physical assault on a teacher, a murder, and a kidnapping. I’m willing to bet most of that won’t get more than a few seconds of coverage in the Anchorage news—if that. We are accustomed to being afterthoughts.”
“Just another day in Stone Cross?”
“Not quite like that,” Birdie said. “But just another day in the bush. This is my home. Good, industrious people . . . Wonderful culture . . . And a really shitty dark side.” The tattoo on her chin quivered. “Do you know Alaska leads the nation in violence toward women?”
Cutter sighed. “I’m afraid I do.”
“Do you also know that Archie Stepanov is half Yup’ik and half Russian?”
“That, I did not know.”
“You think it is the Yup’ik half or the Russian half that beats his girlfriend?”
Cutter shrugged. “I think it’s the mean half.”
“Good answer,” Birdie said. She nodded at the Colt on his hip. “I didn’t know anyone carried revolvers anymore.”
Cutter chuckled, but he said nothing.
“It stands out, like you’re not trying to hide that you’re old-school.”
“I’m not sure I could hide that if I tried.”
“Which you do not.”
“Yep.”
“I was wondering,” Birdie said, moving a little closer. “Do you have any Native blood by chance? All this ancestry DNA stuff has people finding their red roots, if you know what I mean.”
“Nope.” Cutter put a knuckle to the blond hair on his forehead. “My forefathers were axe-men who settled in the British Isles, with some German, and a bit of Dane, I think.”
“Hmm,” Birdie said
. “I ask because of the little leather bag on your belt. Not many white guys carry a medicine bag as a fashion accessory. Thought maybe you were a stealth Native.”
“Nope,” Cutter said. “Just some mementos from my grandfather.”
She opened her mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and then went another direction. “Anyway, this fog’s still greasy thick. Can’t blame the pilots for not flying in it, especially at night. I have no doubt we would have gone after the Meads if not for the thing with the judge.”
“We?”
“Absolutely.” Birdie nodded. “I’m sure you’re a capable man-tracker where you come from, but it’s different in the bush. That’s why there’s so many stories about spooky stuff out here. The Hairy Man keeps you out of the woods by yourself. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Long Nails—a horrible old hag who gallops on all fours through the tall grass by the water. You can hear her sharp toenails clicking across the ground when she’s coming after you. If you don’t think that kept me from venturing too near the water.”
“I’ll bet,” Cutter said, resolving to keep that one from the twins or they would never go to bed.
“The stories serve a purpose,” Birdie said. “The river, the ice, even the tundra itself can eat you up whole—and as you see, often as not, nobody can come lookin’ for you.”
Cutter gave a mock shudder. “I’m going to have bad dreams now that you told me about the galloping toenail lady.”
“That’s the point,” Birdie said. “Scare the shit out of you so you stay safe. Anyway, if you’re planning to run back out into the woods, you’ll need something in your stomach to keep you warm.” She pushed the cup toward him again.
Cutter took it, eyeing the frothy pink contents. “Looks like buttercream frosting without the cake.”
“Agutaq,” Birdie said. “Eskimo ice cream. Fat, berries, sugar, and boiled whitefish.” She leaned in closer, confiding her secret recipe. “Some people use Crisco but I stick with caribou fat. More traditional.”
“Caribou, sugar, and fish . . .” Cutter mused.
Birdie winked. “Don’t forget the blueberries. Jolene and I picked them ourselves.”
He took half a bite with the plastic spoon, his eye on a plate of fry bread just in case he needed a quick chaser to mask the taste. Birdie watched him closely, judging his reaction. The agutaq wasn’t horrible, not really.
“It really is a little like buttercream frosting . . . except for the fish.” He wasn’t sure if he could even taste the fish, and found himself wishing he didn’t even know it was there.
“You should eat it all,” Birdie said. “Especially if we plan to go out. My mom used to make it for my dad when he’d go out with his dogs.”
“You keep saying we. Aren’t you worried about Jolene since you saw this Sascha Green yesterday?”
“To be honest,” Birdie said, “it scares me almost to the point of paralysis, him creeping around like this. I’m sure that’s why he does it.” She looked at the bleachers again. “But, your partner will be here. She looks like she could handle herself in a pinch.”
“Lola will have her eyes on the judge.” Cutter’s cell phone chirped. It was Warr. “And so will I.” The phone chirped again.
“You better get that,” Birdie said, giving him a resigned smile. She heaved a heavy sigh, then began to look around the gym as she spoke, no doubt still watching for Sascha Green. “But wait and see, you are going out there to save Sarah Mead.”
Cutter’s thumb hovered over the phone, ready to answer it before it went to voicemail. “You seem sure of yourself.”
“I am.” Birdie turned to look straight at him. “It’s kind of what you do.”
CHAPTER 26
Mim sat on her bed in one of Ethan’s old T-shirts and a pair of gym shorts, staring at the phone. The twins were watching a movie in the living room. Constance was on her way home from the tutoring session. This was a perfect time to call Dr. Carnahan, at least for Mim. She didn’t know how he would feel about it. It was almost nine thirty in Virginia. Surgeons got up early, so they went to bed early. Still, if Carnahan had kids, well, this could be the right time.
She punched in the number before she changed her mind and chewed on her bottom lip while she waited for it to ring.
A woman picked up, a little harried. A child screamed in the background.
“Hello.”
Mim put on her professional, this-is-going-to-hurt-but-it’s-necessary nurse’s voice. “Mim Cutter here. May I speak with Dr. Carnahan?”
“David! It’s for you!”
Mim heard bathwater splashing. A child’s giggles. Then a man came on the line.
“This is Dr. Carnahan.”
Mim got directly to the point, introducing herself as Arliss Cutter’s sister-in-law.
“Is he okay?” Carnahan asked. “Has something happened?”
“No, no,” Mim said. “He’s safe. But I wouldn’t exactly say he was okay.”
Carnahan groaned. “You can never be sure, of course, but I don’t believe Arliss would hurt himself.”
Mim kept her voice low, controlled, like nurses had to do when they spoke with doctors. “You’re certain?”
“If the sarge was going to hurt himself, he would have done it a long time ago.”
“Doctor,” Mim said, “I realize you don’t know me, but I really am worried about him. He’s been such a help to me and my kids. I want to do something for him. Can you tell me, was there some event, some trigger that happened when y’all were overseas?”
The bathwater and baby noises faded and Mim heard a door click shut.
“You’re Ethan’s widow,” Carnahan said.
“That’s right.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Carnahan said. “I haven’t talked to Arliss in . . . gosh, it’s been nearly a year. Funny, but we always pick up again like we’ve never lost track. How’s he sleeping? Does he wake up sweating? Nightmares?”
“I . . . I don’t know about that.”
“I’m sorry,” Carnahan said. He affected a more clinical tone. “I thought the two of you . . . Never mind. What is it specifically that has you worried?”
“I don’t know,” Mim said. “I guess it’s just that he has such a short fuse. It’s like he’s ready to blow up at any little thing.”
“I see,” Carnahan said. “I suppose we’re all a little bit that way after . . .”
Mim waited for him to continue, but prodded when he did not. “After what?”
“Listen,” Carnahan said. “I’m really not comfortable talking about this with you.”
The words felt like they flayed Mim’s skin. She didn’t have the energy to beg, or the right. She began to sob. “I . . . I’m so sorry to bother you . . .” She lowered the phone, ready to end the call, when she heard Carnahan’s voice.
“Wait! I’m the one who should be sorry.”
Her thumb stayed over the button, fearful now that she might hear something she didn’t want to know.
“Are you still there?” Carnahan asked, meeker now.
“I am,” Mim said.
“I apologize. You called wanting to help one of my buddies and I bite your head off. That’s not me.”
“It’s okay . . .”
“No,” Carnahan said. “It’s not . . . I have to admit, Arliss talked about you enough that I feel like I know you. I’m going to tell you something, Mim Cutter, that I have only told my wife and my pastor. That’s it. I’m not sure Arliss has ever told anyone, well, maybe his last wife before she passed away, but I’m not even sure about her.”
“Okay,” Mim said.
“Did Arliss ever tell you what he did in the army?”
“He was in the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Battalion,” she said. “I know that much.”
“Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment,” Carnahan corrected. “Third Battalion. He and I went through training at the same time—crawled, walked, and ran together—and bled. Did most of our orientation cours
es at the same time. We both ended up as part of a recon team in Nangarhar Province. Cutter was senior to me so he was NCOIC—sorry—the noncommissioned officer in charge. He never wanted to be the boss, but he was, and that time it screwed him.” Carnahan’s voice grew soft, distant, like he was seeing the place he told her about. “Seven of us were sent out to recon a little stretch of road in the Kunar River valley. That part of eastern Afghanistan is pretty, you know. Bucolic. Green. Not like the desert or mud huts you see in photos of the shithole country. Anyway, the mission was simple. A local mullah had some information on an HVT . . . a high value target in the Haqqani network that we wanted. You need to understand that Osama bin Laden started with the Haqqanis. They recruited a lot of foreign fighters—the same SOBs that killed our guys at Tora Bora in 2001—not that far from where we were doing our recon. Anyway, our job was to snatch this mullah and find out what he knew about the Haqqani HVT. We knew he wouldn’t come in willingly, but intelligence said he’d talk if he was captured. The brass stressed that the mullah was as important as anyone we’d ever gone after because of the information he was carrying around in his skull. Lives depended on us successfully grabbing him. Tell someone like Cutter that lives will be lost if he fails . . . You know how seriously he takes that kind of thing.”
“I can only imagine,” Mim gasped, enthralled with the curtain being pulled back on her brother-in-law. Her friend.
“The seven of us set up at zero-dark-thirty,” the doctor continued. “We were in little hides in the walls of this coulee leading down to the river near a big wooden suspension bridge, about a kilometer outside this tiny village. There was a well, maybe forty meters below us—close. The mullah had to come past and we planned to grab him at the bridge. So, we watched, and we waited. We thought of home, and wondered what the hell we were all doing there, for about four hours. A little after daybreak, the prettiest little girl came walking down the road from the village, carrying two water jugs nearly as big as she was. I guess she was maybe eight or nine. All by herself, which was rare from our experience.
“Those Afghans have been at war for . . . well, forever, just about. When they weren’t trying to kill each other, then they were busy fighting the Persians, the British, the Russians, or us. As a result, they can be a moody bunch. Even the kids. Especially the women. You read Kipling?”
