by Marc Cameron
“The Jungle Book?”
“Same guy, different sentiment. We used to recite a little poem . . . When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains . . .” Carnahan’s voice trailed off. He sniffed again, then came back still sounding as if he were about to break down.
“So . . . as bad as things were over there, in the middle of that horrible war, this little girl comes out of the village singing her heart out, strolling along with her water jugs like she didn’t have a care in the world. It took a bit for a child to walk a kilometer on those little legs, and we had her in our sights for a long time. All seven of us were missing our moms and our kid sisters and our girlfriends or wives. We felt like we got to know this sweet little kid by the time she reached the well, forty meters below us. We found out later that her name was Manoosh, but one of our guys started calling her Sunny because she’d been coming out of the east when we first saw her. She was such a bright little thing, the name fit her to a T. What I’m trying to tell you is that seven battle-hardened US Army Rangers, all of us in our twenties, thought of this child as our kid sister by the time she got to the well. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I . . . I think so,” Mim whispered. Her chest filled with dread, heavy against her lungs.
Carnahan paused for almost a minute. Mim could hear him breathing deeply. Sniffing. Composing himself. His voice was tight and strained when he continued.
“The mullah we were after always traveled in a convoy of two Toyota pickups. Nothing the seven of us couldn’t handle. But for some reason, on this day he traveled with three pickups. He sent an advance team of three Chechen fighters out ahead in the third, checking the route to make sure the bridge was safe. The drones said our guy was about ten miles back with his customary two pickups.” Carnahan’s voice pinched tighter with every word until it trailed to a whisper. “The Chechens, they checked the bridge for the mullah, but then they went back to the well for Sunny . . . She must have been scared out of her mind, but she didn’t even try to run. Every one of us, including Cutter, ached to save that little girl, but Cutter ordered us to hold . . . The Chechen bastards threw her body into the well after they were done . . . and we, the good guys, we watched it happen.”
Mim gasped, tears rolling down her cheeks, for the little girl, for Carnahan—for Cutter.
“Dear God . . .”
“Yeah,” Carnahan said. “God just sat back and watched it all go down that day. Just like all the rest of us.” He no longer tried to conceal his sobs. “Every one of us had been told that grabbing this mullah would save American lives. We all knew that making any move to protect that little child would ruin the mission. The advance team wouldn’t give the all-clear over the radio. The mullah would spook and slip away with his important information. The hell of it is, absent orders, not a single one of us would have interceded. We were too well trained . . . too disciplined. But then we each would have had to carry around the guilt. Cutter fell on that grenade for us when he ordered us all to hold. That put the weight of it all on his shoulders. He’s the one that ordered us not to help. He’s the one who made us let those bastards rape and murder a nine-year-old girl. The rest of us got to hang on to the lie that we would have done something different. We would have saved her.” Carnahan swallowed hard. “I owe my sanity to that man.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mim whispered, not knowing what else to say.
Carnahan gave a disgusted laugh. “We nabbed the mullah—and he didn’t give us shit. The whole damned thing was a waste. Such a tragic waste . . .”
“I can’t even—”
“Can I tell you something about Arliss Cutter?” Carnahan went on. “The Chechens went into the village right before the other two pickups came through with the mullah. We got the mullah and his surviving stooges sent out on a chopper, then we took Sunny’s body back to her village. I will never forget the agony on her father’s face. I am a father now, and I don’t think I could bear it. Hell, I almost couldn’t then.”
“Those men,” Mim heard herself say. “The ones who did that to her?”
“There were no Chechens in the village when we left,” Carnahan said. “I’ll leave it at that. All seven of us got out not long after that deployment. None of us will ever really atone for our inaction by the Kunar River that day, but we all try, every day. I used the GI bill to finish college and then went on to med school, hoping to save as many kids as I can. One of the other guys has raised at least ten foster kids. Three are firefighters. One is a cop in Dallas. And then there’s Cutter.”
“I . . . I thought there must have been something,” Mim said. “But I had no idea . . .”
“From that day, from that moment, I don’t think Arliss Cutter has ever let bad behavior against someone else slide. If he sees somewhere he needs to step in, he steps in. No waiting. No thinking about the consequences. He makes it his mission to worry about the little guy. It’s kind of heroic really, but it’ll probably get him fired someday.” Carnahan paused. “There are worse things to live with than getting canned for doing the right thing.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Mim said.
“Yeah,” Carnahan said. “Arliss won’t be happy.”
“He won’t know.”
Carnahan sighed. “You’re kidding, right? The guy’s spooky. Fact is, he probably knows already.”
CHAPTER 27
Cutter didn’t bother turning away to take the call from Warr. Birdie was right. If he did anything on the river, there was a better than average chance she would be with him. No point in shutting her out of the conversations with the Troopers.
“I hope you called to tell me you’re on the way,” Cutter said.
Lieutenant Warr paused, a nonverbal squirm. “Afraid not. Temperatures are dropping out west though. We should see some clearing in a few hours.”
“Still no luck with a chopper?”
“Lake Clark Pass would be tricky in this weather even during daylight hours. Pilots say it’s a flat no-go at night. I guess the fog screws with their night vision and infrared devices or something. Did you have a chance to look at the bullet you dug out of the logs?”
“It’s from a rifle,” Cutter said. “At first glance, I’d say a .45 caliber, but there’s something about it I haven’t been able to put my finger on. Maybe a .45-70 or a .458 Lott. Your lab will be able to tell better once they put some calipers on it.”
He watched as Birdie moved to the end of the table and said something to Aften Brooks, who turned immediately and left the gym.
“Lieutenant Warr,” Cutter said. “I want you to know, I understand you’re doing all you can to get someone out here. No judgment on this end.”
“I appreciate it,” Warr said. “I don’t know you from Adam, Deputy Cutter, but I have to imagine it guts you to sit there on that judge when someone is in trouble.”
Cutter clenched his jaw. You have no idea, he thought. He said, “Thanks.” He shot a glance at Birdie, who was still at the other end of the tables talking to someone he suspected was Aften Brooks’s husband. “Listen, how well do you know Birdie Pingayak?”
“By reputation, mostly,” Warr said. “I can tell you she’s a rock star. Crappy past though.”
“How’s that?”
“Sexually assaulted when she was fourteen. She was hurt bad . . . you know, beyond the obvious trauma of being raped. Guy did a number on her with a knife. She still had the juice to stab him in the face. Anyhow, I guess the attacker’s family had some juice too. They convinced an overzealous prosecutor to charge Birdie with aggravated assault.”
“Hang on,” Cutter said, watching Birdie. Talking about her behind her back turned his stomach. “Aggravated assault? So she didn’t kill him?”
“Nope,” Warr said. “Fortunately for her, the grand jury came back with a no-bill on her charge. She ended up pregnant as a result of the attack. Kept the baby. And, despite all that, she finished high school, then left the little girl
with grandma while she got her degree at UAF. Completed grad school online while she was teaching full time at Stone Cross. She’s been the principal there for . . . three years, I think.”
“Man,” Cutter heard himself whisper. He was more than a little in awe. Birdie glanced at him from the other end of the gym, unaware, grinning pleasantly. He forced a tight smile in return. His voice was low, husky. “Let me guess. The guy who attacked her. Was his name Sascha Green?”
“You already heard the story?”
“Not this part,” Cutter said. “Go ahead.”
“Sascha did eleven years in Spring Creek Correctional.”
“Birdie mentioned the name, said he might be good for a kidnapping,” Cutter said. “She didn’t tell me the rest though. I can’t believe he’s not still in prison.”
“I know what you mean,” Warr said. “He lives in a village between Bethel and Stone Cross. I’m sure Birdie runs into him from time to time on the river.”
“I understand he has some kind of hunting camp between here and the lodge.”
“So he’s officially a suspect?”
“I guess that’s up to you,” Cutter said. “But he’s on my list.”
“Watch yourself if you do cross paths,” Warr said. “The courts, in their infinite wisdom, decided that this violent convicted felon should be allowed to keep his guns for subsistence hunting.”
“Pistols too?” Cutter asked. “Or just long guns?”
“Just his rifles,” Warr said. “But which would you rather be shot with?”
“That’s mighty big of the courts,” Cutter said.
“Preach, brother,” Warr said.
Cutter glanced up to see Aften return to the gym carrying something small. She tapped Birdie on the shoulder as she went by and they both walked together toward Cutter.
“Can you hang on a minute, Lieutenant?” Cutter said. “Looks like they found a set of calipers. I may have some new information for you momentarily.”
Cutter motioned to Jasper, who still had the bullet in his vest pocket. Cutter, Birdie, Aften, and the VPSO all stepped into the hallway, out of view of the potluck crowd. Lola excused herself from Jolene, and stood at the door so she could see what was happening and still keep an eye on the judge.
“Point four-two-three inches,” Cutter said, measuring the milled piece of copper alloy between the jaws of the calipers twice to be sure. The bullet’s impact against the heavy logs had deformed its blunted nose, but apart from the grooves it got on its trip down the rifle barrel, the base looked pristine. Cutter brought it closer to his eye for a better look. He described what he saw over the phone for Lt. Warr’s benefit. “It’s a solid. I’d guess around four hundred grains. Maybe heavier. Definitely meant for dangerous game. Bear hunter, maybe?”
“Could be,” Warr said.
Birdie shook her head. “There’s big bears farther upriver, more toward the interior, but that’s an awful lot of gun for this low on the Kuskokwim. Makes me think we should be looking at a white guy. We’re meat hunters. Biggest thing anyone uses around here is a. 30-06. Most go even smaller than that. A lot of .243s and .270s—plenty good for the head shots we take.”
Lola took the bullet and lifted it up and down in her palm, feeling its heft. “Takes a lot of powder to push something this hefty. I’m guessing a cartridge like this is pretty expensive.”
“Close to two hundred bucks for twenty rounds,” Cutter said.
“Two hundred dollars a box?” Birdie gasped. “It’s definitely a white guy.”
Lola handed back the bullet. “I’ve never heard of a .423 caliber.”
“It’s likely a .404 Jeffery,” Cutter said.
“You said .423.”
“Odd, I know, but the .404 Jeffery uses a .423 caliber bullet. It’s a popular Africa cartridge, meant for big, dangerous stuff like Cape buffalo.”
“Something like that would certainly work on a grizzly,” Warr said.
Aften Brooks whispered, “Or Rolf Hagen.”
Cutter turned to Birdie. “Would Sascha have a rifle this big?”
“Not unless he stole it. Any of his guns wouldn’t cost as much as a box of these bullets.” She squinted slightly, nose wrinkled. “I can’t think of anyone I know who would spend ten dollars a shot to catch a caribou.”
CHAPTER 28
The potluck wound down by seven thirty. A dozen young men hung around hoping to play basketball, but Birdie told them they needed to leave the school to their guests. By eight, the voices of the last few attendees were just echoes in the fog as they drifted home. Birdie disappeared to her office, leaving a crew of high school boys and girls stacking the chairs and tables to work off some kind of detention. The visiting attorneys, including Markham’s law clerk, stood and chatted under the far backboard. Markham had the locker room showers to himself with Cutter in the gym to watch the only door. Lola sat on the top row of the bleachers with Jolene Pingayak, their backs to the big Timber Wolf mural on the cinder-block wall. Jolene leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head turned toward Lola Teariki, who had rolled up the sleeve of her polo shirt to show the girl something, probably her Polynesian tattoo or her extremely cut deltoid, knowing Lola’s penchant for talking about exercise.
Cutter sat in a folding chair outside the locker room entrance, back to the wall, using an earpiece and dangling mic to make a static-filled call to say good night to his nephews—and Mim. He had his Barlow pocketknife out, carving on a piece of cottonwood root that was very close to becoming a small wolf—or maybe a coyote. Cutter was never sure what a piece of wood would yield until the carving began to emerge from the wood.
Talking things over with Mim while he carved helped him get his thoughts in order. She seemed even more subdued than usual tonight, but assured him that everything was fine.
“So,” she said after he’d given her a thumbnail sketch of the day. “Do you still believe there’s a threat to the judge’s life?”
“Probably not.” Cutter blew wood dust away from what was becoming the animal’s face. “But at this point, Markham could stub his toe and it would be the Marshals Service to get the blame since we have the de facto protection detail up.”
“That sucks,” Mim said.
“Big-time.”
“How are you going to go after the people who murdered that poor man and still watch the judge?”
“I can’t,” Cutter said. “That’s just it.”
“What would Grumpy do?”
Pocketknife in one hand, cottonwood root in the other, Cutter rubbed the back of an arm across his forehead and then glanced up at the locker room entrance to be certain Markham wasn’t coming out. The judge was nowhere to be seen, but Cutter lowered his voice anyway. “Grumpy would tell the judge to watch his own tail end and then he’d go look for that killer.”
“What about the couple who’s been kidnapped?”
“Find one, find the other.”
“I guess that’s true,” Mim said. “I know your propensity to run into the fire. You’re not going to leave the judge, are you?”
“Probably not.” Cutter leaned back in his chair, stretching. He looked at his watch, suddenly feeling guilty. “Sorry to keep you up so late gabbing with me. I know you have an early shift tomorrow.”
Mim gave a forlorn laugh. “Like I ever sleep.”
“You should try.”
“Arliss . . .” She paused.
He could hear her breathing, even above the static.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get fired.”
“Okay . . .”
“Or transferred.”
Cutter chuckled softly. “You bet,” he said, thinking she knew him all too well.
* * *
“Frankly, I am surprised,” Judge Markham said ten minutes later at the door to the Family and Consumer Science room where he would spend the night. Dressed in a white V-neck T-shirt and absent his trademark bow tie, he seemed a shade more down-to-earth. Birdie had put him here because it had
a private restroom. It was a courtesy befitting a judicial bladder—which, all deputy marshals knew, had to pee more frequently than the normal bladders of common folk. Cutter found himself glad though, since the FACS room was next to the library, and the attached restroom meant Markham wouldn’t have to venture into the hall during the night.
Cutter braced himself so he could remain civil no matter what the judge came up with. “Surprised, Judge? How’s that?”
“I’m not an idiot,” Markham said. “You don’t enjoy protecting me any more than I enjoy having your protection. You would much rather be out there hunting whoever murdered that man at the lodge. You want to be out looking for that couple. It baffles me that you aren’t.”
“That’s an Alaska State Troopers problem,” Cutter said.
“Pfft,” Markham scoffed. “It’s society’s problem. At this precise moment, you are the man in this society with the expertise to pursue the killer and, Lord willing, rescue the Meads.” He leaned a hand against the door frame, gesturing toward his chest with his shaving kit. The leather bag probably cost more than all the luggage Cutter owned put together. “I know all the jokes about federal judges. Good hell, man, we tell them to each other. Do you know what the difference is between me and you?”
“I think I have some idea,” Cutter said.
“I don’t believe you do,” Markham said, thumb to his chest. “The difference is that I do not look down on you.”
The judge may as well have thumped Cutter on the nose with the shaving kit.
“Your Honor—”
“I merely dislike being followed too closely by anyone,” Markham said. “It makes me feel weak. I can’t speak for anyone else on the bench, but I know full well that when I issue an order, it’s the marshals who put the muscle behind what I say. I make judgments; you make certain those judgments are enforced. It’s a good system—and, by the way, it is that system which you are protecting, not me. I do not care if you like me. I stopped worrying about what people think of me or my decisions many years ago.”
