by Marc Cameron
“You decent?”
Cutter pulled off a boot. “I’m still dressed,” he said. “Wouldn’t say decent.”
“You joke,” Lola said, mimicking the schoolgirls they’d seen earlier in the hall. She’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a loose navy-blue T-shirt with the Marshals Service star silkscreened in gray on the chest. Her hair was down, slightly frizzed, thick and full around her shoulders. It looked heavy, like it should make her head tilt. The smile faded. “You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine,” Cutter said, wondering where she was going with this. “You should get some sleep. The judge is an early riser.”
Lola sat down and leaned against the bookshelves, knees to her chest, chin on her knees, obviously planning to stay a while. She was limber enough, but it made Cutter’s back hurt to watch her sit that way.
“You need something?” he asked.
She shook her head, deep in thought. “Not really.”
Cutter worried a little that someone might have seen this cute Polynesian drip down behind the shelves where he’d made his bed. Four marriages had given him a bit of a reputation in the Service. He started to say something about it, but realized any mention of it would only make things weirder. He took off the other boot and set both at the foot of his air mattress, laces arranged so they wouldn’t get in the way if he had to put them on in a hurry, a habit that seemed particularly appropriate under the circumstances. “Good job with Birdie’s daughter, by the way.”
“She’s a great kid,” Lola said. “Nice job with her mother.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Sure you are,” Lola said. “She could use a nice guy for a friend, even if he doesn’t smile much.”
“I’m not looking for romance,” Cutter said.
Lola batted her eyes, chin still on her chest. “I know you’re not, boss,” she said. “That’s what makes you so hot.”
“Lola.”
“Not to me,” she said. “I mean, not that I don’t think you’re hot, but you’re my boss. That would be . . . I don’t know . . . problematic. I’m saying that women are naturally attracted to guys who don’t try too hard. You don’t try at all, which makes you . . . unobtainium. That stuff’s even more valuable than diamonds.”
Cutter leaned back on his sleeping bag, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Sleep fast, Lola.” He yawned, the day catching up with him. “You can dream about applying for Special Operations Group.”
“I could,” she said. “But I was thinking . . . I wouldn’t mind if you started teaching me how to track.” Her Kiwi accent came on much stronger when she was tired—which she obviously was since she made track sound more like trek.
Cutter moved his arm slightly, peeking out with one eye. He gave her the smallest of nods, like Grumpy would have given him if he was proud about something.
“I could do that,” Cutter said.
“Sweet.” Lola stood and gave him a finger-gun thumbs up. “Night, boss.”
“Night, kiddo.”
* * *
Cutter woke to the snapping flutter of mini-blinds banging against the window—like a rattlesnake on steroids. He wasn’t the jumpy sort, grabbing blindly for a pistol in the dark, but he did check to make certain the gun was where he’d left it. The wind shook the blinds again, bringing him fully awake. The storm from the Bering must have arrived. He rubbed a hand across his face, thought how he needed to shave, and then pushed the button to illuminate his G-Shock: 3:07. With any luck, AST SWAT would have found a weather window and were on their way. Cutter would still be antsy that he couldn’t get out there himself, but at least someone would be looking for the Meads—and Rolf Hagen’s killer.
He went to shut the window, hoping the racket hadn’t woken Lola in the office. His cell was ringing by the time he got back around the stacks. It was Lieutenant Warr.
“Sorry to call you in the middle of the night,” the trooper said.
“I was up,” Cutter said. He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, then stretched, feeling his back pop and snap. He was getting a little old to sleep on a library floor.
“How’s the weather out there?” Warr asked.
Cutter walked back around to the window and peeked out between the mini-blinds. “Hard to tell in the dark, but it’s blowing like hell. Getting colder. Looks like we’ve had a few inches of snow.”
“We can deal with that.” Warr sounded preoccupied, like he was reading and talking at the same time. “Listen, our intel shop ran those names you gave me. James Johnny and Abe Richards are unremarkable so far. But I did get something interesting on Donna Taylor. Turns out, her name isn’t Taylor, not anymore at least. That was her maiden name. She’s got two arrests for assault with a firearm out of Washington State, no convictions though. They don’t show up unless you run her by her married name, which is Halcomb.”
“That is interesting,” Cutter said. “Any details on the assaults?”
“Used a rifle both times,” Warr said. “Put one guy in the hospital. Looks like she’s got a temper. Charges were dropped for some reason. I don’t know all the Washington State codes.”
“Who’s her husband?”
“A thug named Richard Halcomb,” Warr said. “Goes by Rick. A real piece of work, that one. Affiliated with an outlaw biker gang that runs between Arizona and Washington. Criminal history shows a half dozen arrests for auto theft, assault, and MICS.” Each state had their own jargon and acronyms that incoming federal agents had to learn in order to communicate. In Alaska, MICS—pronounced “micks”—was misconduct involving a controlled substance. More than half the state fugitive cases the task force worked were MICS related.
Cutter yawned, mulling over the new information, finding a place for it among his various theories of the case. “That’s a hell of a background for a third grade teacher.”
“It gets even more so,” Warr said. “Rick Halcomb just finished doing a nickel in Walla Walla for manslaughter—which looks like it was originally a second-degree murder that got pled down. You’d know him when you see him. He’s got a big scar running across his face where his left eye used to be. He and Donna split the sheets about the time he went into Walla Walla. Judging from vehicle registration and driver’s license dates, Donna Halcomb moved to Alaska with her son, Reese, a year after the divorce.”
“Okay,” Cutter said, waiting for the lieutenant to make a connection but wanting to show he was still listening.
“Reese Halcomb died two years ago while he was out hiking in Hatcher Pass with two friends—Conner Brady and—”
“David Mead.” Cutter finished the sentence.
“That would be correct.”
“Suspicious circumstances?”
“It happened in late September,” Warr said. “One of those snotty, cold rains that moved in before they knew it. There was already some snow on the ground at that elevation. Medical examiner ruled the cause of death was exposure, but she also noted several areas of blunt-force trauma to the Halcomb kid’s head. One of the wounds was significant enough it could have been life threatening if the cold hadn’t killed him first.”
“That gives mom and dad both motive,” Cutter said.
“And neither appear to have any problem shooting people.”
“Hypothermic and stumbling in rocky terrain,” Cutter said. “The boy could have fallen.”
“The ME’s report says the same thing. His body was found at the base of a talus slope, one drainage over from where the other boys said they were. Mead and Brady told the troopers that they’d decided to go for help when Reese hurt his ankle. They swore he was alive and coherent when they saw him last.” Warr cleared his throat. “Both boys are athletes, so there’s a question about why they didn’t just carry the Halcomb boy out.”
“They just left him alone—”
“That’s exactly what they did,” Warr said. “Lucky for them, Rick was still in prison. Donna Halcomb made some threats at the time, but everyone wrote off
her behavior to grief. The trooper’s notes say she always had a suspicion the boys had been drinking, and that some underage girls were present on the hike. A convenience-store clerk in Palmer saw two females who looked like they were in high school with the boys earlier in the day, before they went hiking. Never did get any ID on the girls though. And the boys stuck to the story that it was just the three of them. There was also the problem of six missing hours in their timeline. Seems like Mead and Brady didn’t report Halcomb missing until well after they were back within cell range. It looked to the trooper who first made contact like they’d both showered, even had something to eat before they called.”
“They were giving the alcohol time to get out of their systems,” Cutter mused. “And dropping off the girls. Probably took some convincing to keep them quiet.”
“Seems likely,” Warr said.
The library door rattled as someone turned the lock, then creaked open.
“Hang on a second,” Cutter said, lowering his voice. “Sounds like I have a visitor.” He picked up the Colt.
Birdie Pingayak’s voice came from around the corner. It was quiet but firm, the kind of voice that had bad news.
“Marshal Cutter? I’m sorry to bother you . . .”
Cutter stood and peered over the top of the shelf, keeping his gun low and out of sight. Birdie was in the shadows, illuminated by the green glow of the exit sign above the door. Thick beaver fur mittens dangled from a braided cord yoke around the neck of her parka. Snow melted off a wolverine ruff thrown back from her face.
Lola heard the commotion and was already up, standing at the book-room door in black wool long johns, pistol in hand. She slumped a little when she saw it was Pingayak, and turned, scratching her butt with her free hand as she disappeared back into the book room.
Cutter slipped on his pants and then waved Birdie over. He held up the phone so she could see it in the scant light of the exit sign. “Troopers,” he said.
She nodded, folding her hands in front of her.
“Ms. Pingayak just came in,” Cutter said.
Warr gave a low groan. “Am I on speaker?”
“No, but hang on a second.” Cutter held the phone away from his ear and cocked his head, looking at Birdie. Jolene waited at the library door, dressed in sweats and a heavy parka. Cutter braced when he saw her. He shot a look at Birdie. “Did Sascha come around?”
She shuddered, but waved the idea away. “No, nothing like that. I just didn’t want to leave her home alone, in case.”
“Okay,” Cutter said. “This is Lieutenant Warr. Just one minute.”
“Oh, sure,” Birdie said.
“Everything all right?” Warr asked when Cutter put the phone back to his ear.
“I think so,” Cutter said.
“I’m sure she’s not going to be happy to lose a teacher,” Warr said. “Think you could do me a favor and pick up Donna Halcomb or Taylor or whatever she’s going by at the moment? I don’t want her slipping off before we get a trooper there to talk to her. Earl should be able to fly back to Bethel from Nightmute inside the hour. Until then, I have four troops gearing up to head your way in the 185 the second we get any kind of a window.”
“I’ll check in on her,” Cutter said.
“You watch herself,” Warr said. “Don’t forget, she’s got a history of being quick on the trigger.”
“Always.” Cutter nodded at Birdie. “Let me check with Ms. Pingayak before we hang up. Now I’m putting you on speaker.” He lowered the phone and held it flat in his palm between them. “What’s up?”
“Not sure if this means anything,” Birdie said. “But Donna Taylor is hooking up her dogs to go out.”
“Are you kidding me?” Warr loosed a string of expletives. “At three in the morning?”
“She runs them for Mr. Gordon,” Birdie said. “Could be she just wants to do a quick circuit and get back before time for school. Anyways, I figured I should let you know.”
“Does she have a rifle?” Warr asked.
Birdie’s eyebrows shot up, then she realized Warr couldn’t see her. “Sure. Everyone does.”
Cutter looked out the window at the falling snow. It was coming harder now and the spots that had been mud were now covered with a blanket of white. “I’ll go stop her.”
“Oh, she’s not going anywhere,” Birdie said. “I already called Ned Jasper. He’ll beat us there.”
“Ned’s going to Donna Taylor’s right now?” Warr’s voice carried more than a little panic. “Well, shit . . . Sorry, Birdie . . .”
The Yup’ik woman shuffled back and forth on her feet, stunned at the reception her news had garnered. “He said he was. Why? What’s happened?”
“I’ll call you back,” Cutter said, already putting on his gun.
CHAPTER 33
Cutter rode on the back of Birdie’s ATV. Her 7mm-08 rifle was in a hard plastic scabbard mounted by the rear fender. She assured him the magazine held three rounds but there was nothing in the chamber. Good information to know if Donna Taylor decided to shoot it out. He loved the Colt and he held a grudging affection for the Glock, but the relatively small 7mm-08 would reach out better than a handgun.
Cutter didn’t quite know what to do with his hands as they rode. The frozen ruts and new snow decided for him and he had to wrap his arms around Birdie’s waist to keep from getting bucked off the ATV. Her heavy parka smoothed out her form, and made it a little less awkward. She’d thrown the thick hood back so she’d be able to hear over the wind and growling engine. Taylor’s house was less than a five-minute ride from the school and Cutter brought her up to speed on the way.
Birdie half turned when he was finished. “If she’s gone, you know we gotta go with Ned to find her.”
With so many unknowns in play, Cutter had asked Lola to stay at the school with the judge. Now he wished she’d come along so he could talk this over with her. Donna Taylor was now the prime suspect in a murder and kidnapping. It was unthinkable to let her get away. She was also the best chance to lead them to Sarah and David Mead.
Cutter leaned in closer, catching the slight ammonia odor of the fur parka and, thankfully, the more pleasant coconut of Birdie’s shampoo. “I wish I could,” he said. “But we can’t be a hundred percent sure Daisy Aguthluk is the one who made the threat against Markham.”
Birdie turned in her seat again. Tears, caused by the cold and stress, streamed from her eyes. Her nose and cheeks shone pink in the reflection of the headlight off the snow.
“Well, I’m sure of it,” she said. “Daisy told everybody what she wanted to do to him—you know, hold his beating heart in her hand, that type of deal.”
“Wait a minute.” Cutter forced himself not to squeeze tighter with his arms. He spoke directly into her ear. “You knew Daisy mailed a threatening letter to a federal judge and you didn’t report it?”
“Everybody in Stone Cross knew,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Birdie,” Cutter said, exasperated. “That’s the reason Lola and I came out here.”
“See,” she said. “It’s lucky nobody mentioned it then. You would have arrested her and left. We needed you here to help us out.”
“I can’t believe this,” Cutter said. “We didn’t know about Aguthluk until we landed and Markham got off the plane. What if she would have followed through with her threat?”
Birdie scoffed. “She wouldn’t have. She’s angry and hurt, but she’s still just a sweet old lady.”
“Did Jasper know?”
“Don’t go getting pissed at Ned,” Birdie said, cranking the handlebars to dodge a large pothole. “He’s new in the village. He didn’t know about Daisy until just before you arrived—and he told you. Anyway, he’s the law—tegusta—just like you. The only difference is, the people he takes away come back.”
Birdie switched off her headlight when she saw the VPSO’s Arctic Cat ATV parked alongside the road next to a stand of snow-covered willows. Boot tracks led toward the cabin through oth
erwise virgin snow, so he hadn’t been there long. The dogs were going crazy with yelps and barks.
“Park here,” Cutter said. They were closer to the house now, so he dropped his voice. “We’re going to have to talk about Daisy Aguthluk later. Misprision of a felony is a serious crime. You know that.”
“You ever hear the story about the guy who shot the eider duck up on the North Slope?”
“Yeah,” Cutter said, still fuming. “Ewing told it to everybody on the flight when we were coming out here.”
Birdie gave a well-there-you-go shrug. “This is that type of deal,” she whispered, sliding her rifle out of the scabbard on her ATV. “Guess you can go ahead and arrest everybody in the village for protecting a sweet old auntie, or you could admit to yourself that the judge is safe as he’s ever going to be, and we can go find the Meads.” She stopped and turned to face him, only her face visible in the circle of fur around her parka hood. “Look, I’m not a cop. I didn’t see a threat, so I didn’t want to get Daisy in trouble.”
Cutter raised a hand, listening to the dogs. There was no point in arguing now. “Wait here. I’m going to find Ned.” He started to say something about being careful with the rifle, but decided against it.
A half moon showed through the clouds on the new snow around the cabin, bathing the area in purple blue. Dogs jumped on and off their plywood houses, howling, straining at their chains when Cutter approached.
“She’s already gone,” Birdie whispered, following close behind Cutter.
“What part of wait don’t you understand?”
“The part that says you got no right to tell me what to do.”
Cutter sighed. His right hand rested on the butt of the Colt Python as he played his flashlight across the yard with his left. The light swept across something near the cabin door that made Cutter swing it back. His Colt cleared the holster the moment he realized it was Ned Jasper lying on his face.
Birdie saw it too and rushed forward, boots crunching in the snow.
Cutter’s light crossed a fresh track, wide and flat. The dogsled. The trampled snow out front and boot prints beside the track showed clearly that Ned had come upon Donna Taylor while she was hitching dogs to her sled. The trail ran past Ned’s body and into the tree line to the northeast.
