Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  Taylor was gone, but she hadn’t been gone long.

  Holstering the revolver, Cutter ran to Ned’s side, dropping to his knees. A line of blood-soaked snow trailed behind the VPSO for nearly twenty feet, where he’d been trying to drag himself toward the safety of the cabin.

  Birdie knelt beside them, shrugging off the cord yoke that held her mittens around her neck. She lay her rifle on top of the beaver fur to protect it from the damp. Frantically, she dug the snow away from Jasper’s face so his mouth and nose were clear, then pressed her fingers along his neck.

  “I got a pulse,” she said.

  “Entry wound here,” Cutter said, pointing to the small hole above the knee in the back of Jasper’s uniform pants. He handed her the flashlight. “Hold this up for me so I can see if there’s an exit wound.”

  Ned groaned at Cutter’s touch. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open.

  Birdie took the light with one hand and kept her fingers on Jasper’s neck, as if to reassure herself that he was indeed still alive.

  “Ned!” Cutter said, gently but firmly. “Stay with me, buddy. We’re with you now.”

  Ned Jasper was a large man, at least two-seventy and pushing six feet tall. Cutter rolled him on his side, using his own knee to prop him in place. The exit wound wasn’t difficult to find. Blood soaked the VPSO’s brown uniform slacks, pooling in the snow beneath where he’d fallen. A quick scan revealed a golf-ball size hole approximately six inches above his left knee, slightly toward the inside of his thigh. Cutter rolled the wounded man all the way onto his back, then used his pocketknife to slice away the pant leg, exposing the wound.

  Blood arced out with each beat of Jasper’s heart.

  “Artery!” Birdie gasped.

  “The shot must have nicked the femoral,” Cutter said. Snapping his fingers to get Birdie to give him the flashlight, he pointed to the junction where Jasper’s thigh met his pelvis and then to the wound itself. “Push there,” he said. “And here. The heel of your hand in each spot. Lean in. Put all your weight into it.”

  Jasper moaned at the sudden pressure. His eyes fluttered open, glancing down at his crotch. “Well, Birdie,” he said sleepily. “I didn’t know you felt that way . . .”

  “Hey, Ned,” Cutter said. “How you doing there, bud?”

  “The bitch shot me!” Jasper said, suddenly angry, then sedate again, breathless. “Sorry, Birdie, but this pisses me off.”

  “Save your energy, Ned,” Birdie said.

  “I can’t believe she shot me . . .”

  Cutter held the light between his teeth and reached into his back pocket for a coiled length of bright orange cord. Far too many peacetime protectors suffered from it-will-never-happen-tome syndrome. Cutter had watched enough people bleed out in Afghanistan that he always carried some kind of tourniquet in his pocket or bag—even if only for self-care. This one was called a RATS, Rapid Application Tourniquet System—essentially a flat elastic bungee cord with a metal clasp on one end.

  “Okay, my friend,” Cutter said, his words garbled by the light in his teeth. “This is gonna hurt some, but I have to put it high and tight.”

  “Do it,” Jasper said, coughing a little. “High or die, right?”

  “Nobody’s gonna die,” Birdie said.

  “Except the bitch who shot me . . .”

  Looping the RATS around Jasper’s thigh, Cutter pushed it up well past the wound, so the bright orange band nestled against Birdie’s hand as she maintained pressure. The cord was long enough he was able to take a second wrap, pulling it tight as he went, and tucking the end into the metal clip.

  He checked the wound, flashlight in a blood-stained hand.

  “We’ve slowed the bleeding for now,” he said. “But we need to get you out of the snow.” Cutter shrugged off his coat and rolled it into a ball. Ned winced when he stuffed it under his leg.

  “Pulse is awful fast,” Birdie whispered, looking grimly at Cutter. Jasper’s body was struggling to make up for blood loss.

  Cutter fished the cell phone out of his pocket, punching in a speed-dial number with his blood-covered thumb. He looked up at Birdie while he waited for the call to connect. “Health aide,” he said.

  She understood and got her own cell phone.

  Lola picked up right away.

  Cutter gave her a ten-second brief, then said, “Wake up the judge, Ewing, Paisley, everyone and get them out here to help.”

  In addition to the village health aide, Birdie activated the emergency telephone tree. It took less than ten minutes for Melvin Red Fox to arrive on the first ATV, pulling his plywood trailer. A second headlight rounded the line of willows a half minute later as Daisy Aguthluk rode up with her twenty-year-old daughter, who happened to be the village health aide. Lola and the others followed moments later with Judge Markham. Aften and Bobby Brooks rode in behind them. The machines formed a large circle around Ned Jasper, like musk oxen protecting their young, providing enough light to get him on a backboard.

  A frigid wind had pushed the fog away, filling it with snow.

  “Let’s get him loaded in the trailer,” Melvin said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the barking dogs.

  “Wait,” Cutter said. “Is there oxygen at the clinic?”

  Daisy’s daughter held up a bag. “I got oxygen, and an IV. Only thing at the clinic is a bed and phone to call the doc.”

  Snow was coming down fast now—big, popcorn-size flakes, driven at an angle by the arriving storm. The temperature had fallen over ten degrees in the last few minutes.

  “We have a bed here.” Cutter pointed toward the cabin. “Let’s get him warm and stable before we move him that far.”

  “He’s right,” Birdie said. “Here is better.”

  Cutter shot a glance at Lola. “Jolene’s not with you?”

  “I sent her to pick something up,” Birdie said.

  Four men, including Judge Markham, grabbed the backboard and lifted together. Jasper gritted his teeth as they shuffled him quickly into the house. Cutter went ahead, putting a boot to the locked door. It was heavy timber, but there wasn’t much to the lock and it gave way with a single kick. He stepped inside to clear a path, pulling the single bed away from the wall so the men could walk up both sides and more easily lower the heavy backboard without too much discomfort to Jasper.

  Lola posted outside the door, keeping an eye on the trail. If Donna Taylor had any sense at all, she had to know she’d burned her return the moment she shot Jasper. But Cutter knew all too well that people did strange things under pressure. Birdie remained outside as well, presumably calling to check on her daughter.

  Judge Markham stoked the stove while Aften Brooks turned on all the lights. Daisy Aguthluk’s daughter got an IV started in Jasper and was already on the phone with the doctor in Bethel. Cutter did a cursory search of the cabin. The one-room cabin was roughly sixteen feet square, with a plywood counter in the back corner serving as a kitchen. There was running water in the sink, and electricity. The toilet was through a door that led to a small addition off the same corner. It was cluttered but clean, decorated like a sporting goods store during inventory. Bamboo fishing rods hung on pegs in the log wall above a workbench with a fly-tying vise. Pallets of dry dog food, partially covered with a striped Pendleton wool blanket, took up much of the south wall. A couple of rifles leaned against the one corner. A Remington 870 pump shotgun hung over the door. Insulated bib overalls, too big to belong to Donna Taylor, were draped across a rack beside the stove. A mound of multicolored fleece dog booties sat on a plastic storage tote in the corner next to an unopened bulk bag of wool socks from Costco. Several harnesses in varying states of repair lay stacked on the floor along with several neatly coiled ropes and cables that Cutter assumed to be lines for a sled. The whole place smelled faintly of wood smoke and wet dog, which Cutter found oddly comforting despite the circumstances.

  There was little inside the cabin that said Donna Taylor had ever even been there. She’
d apparently been living out of a suitcase and a Rubbermaid storage tote. The lid was off the tote, with some underwear and a digital camera set on the floor as if she’d been looking for something.

  The judge stood beside Cutter, watching him search. “You don’t expect she’ll come back for any of this, do you?”

  “No, sir,” Cutter said, thumbing through a notebook that was by the bed, hoping to find contact numbers, addresses, anything to help him locate Donna Taylor if she made it out of the bush. “I have no idea what her escape plan is, or if she even has one.” He gave Markham a quick thumbnail of Taylor’s connection to the Meads, including her violent record and her husband, Rick Halcomb.

  “How did such a horrible woman ever get hired as a teacher?” Markham said, mostly to himself. He squatted down to grab something behind the plastic tote, then held it up for Cutter to see. “What do you make of this? Some kind of bracelet?”

  Cutter had seen one before. A band of a dozen or so black plastic-like cords lying together, untwisted, each a little smaller in diameter than a pencil lead. Two knots of twisted copper on either side of the bracelet were used to adjust its size. He held the open circle between his fingers and gave a light squeeze, testing its springiness.

  “Elephant hair,” he said.

  “From a real elephant?” Aften Brooks asked.

  “Looks like it,” Cutter said. “Fits the scenario. The .404 Jeffery cartridge that killed Rolf is over a hundred years old, but it’s still used by game management folks in Africa.”

  Daisy Aguthluk gave a somber nod from where she stood assisting her daughter with Jasper’s IV. “I’ve seen Ms. Taylor wear that bracelet before.”

  “Been to Africa, have you?” Markham said to Cutter.

  “Nope,” Cutter said. “I just read a lot of Capstick and Ruark when I was growing up.”

  Ned Jasper suddenly became more lucid, squinting at Cutter through the bright cabin lights. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Gathering evidence for the troopers,” Cutter said, keeping his voice low and calm for Jasper’s benefit. “You just rest.”

  Jasper gave an emphatic shake of his head. His voice was tight with pain, like he was trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

  “She shot me, Marshal. You gotta go after her. Find the Meads.”

  Cutter checked his watch, then moved nearer to the bed so Ned didn’t feel he had to work so hard to be heard.

  “The troopers will get here in less than an hour.”

  He didn’t say it out loud, but that was assuming the troopers’ aircraft was able to make it out at all with the tiny window of marginal weather before the full brunt of the Bering Sea storm hit with a vengeance.

  Jasper tried to push himself up on his elbows, then fell back against the pillow. “Too long. You got a few minutes before snow’s going to cover any tracks. My pack’s out on my Honda. It’s got all the gear you need. Food too. I see a good pair of bibs on the wall over there and you can wear my parka.” He coughed, then spoke through clenched teeth. “You gotta go right now.”

  Cutter gave Jasper a pat on the knee and stepped outside to think. Markham followed tight on his heels. Both men stood in silence for a moment, heads bowed against the storm. In the bright headlights of two parked ATVs, Birdie Pingayak led a dog to a picketed gang-line where seven others already stood in harness. Behind her, in the yard, other dogs yipped and squealed like a barrel of squeaky toys, hoping to be chosen next. The hood of Birdie’s parka was pushed back on her shoulders, exposing the top of her head and half her face. A stiff wind blew strands of black hair across her cheek. She snapped in the dog and stood up straight, arching her back from the effort of hitching up this many dogs so quickly. Rifle slung diagonally over her back, she took a moment to stare into the night at the trail left by Donna’s team—which was rapidly disappearing under a heavy snow—and then went to get another dog.

  Jasper was right, and Birdie Pingayak knew it. They needed to go now.

  CHAPTER 34

  The large door that comprised most of the eastern wall of the Alaska State Troopers hangar stood raised and open to the weather when Lieutenant Warr led Doctor Marta Dubois inside. Four men stood under the wings of a blue and white Cessna 185 that bore the golden bear badge of the Alaska State Troopers. The pilot, an affable guy named Huston, was a trooper himself, which made what Warr was about to do a little bit easier.

  The YK Delta was an unforgiving place in any season. Cold-weather gear was cumbersome but vital, so the packs were nearly as big as the men. They made last-minute checks to gear and stowed black padded Cordura gun cases containing their M4 carbines.

  The Caravan’s little brother, the 185, was a taildragger, with two balloon-like tundra tires up front under the cockpit and a single wheel under the tail. There were seat belts for six passengers, but weight restrictions made it a decent four-person airplane. Even then, with the survival gear required on the airplane at all times, along with all the equipment specific to this mission, Trooper Huston had to be judicious with how much fuel he took on. Fortunately, Stone Cross was a short hop away, so he was able to fill up the aircraft with people and bags, and still take on plenty of fuel for a roundtrip before he went over gross weight.

  Warr was not a pilot. Even in the Marines he’d never seen the allure of flight, except to get from point A to point B. He let “the surly bonds of earth” keep a firm hold on him every chance he got, thank you very much. Sure, planes were a necessity here in C Detachment where roads, such as they were, ended at the edge of town. Sometimes, though, the aircraft section seemed more trouble than it was worth.

  As the boss trying to move pieces around the map every time the shit hit the fan, it seemed to him like the aviators told him no a lot more than good to go. A get-it-done guy with a Devil Dog mentality, Warr took a while to learn to trust his AST pilots when they told him it just didn’t matter who was hurt or sick or lost. A lucky pilot might find a hole in the clouds and be able to land safely—or what was left of him might end up in a hole in the ground. The axiom that There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots, proved all too true in the Alaska bush.

  But for now, they had a weather window. According to Trooper Huston, the trip to Stone Cross was “only slightly suicidal.”

  Eager to go, the troopers made ready to wedge themselves in the cramped aircraft. Each of them was dressed for a long slog in the arctic weather, with heavy boots, and insulated snowboarding bibs with loops to accommodate their pistol belts. Their layered parka systems allowed them a full range of motion in the event they had to go hands-on with someone, or sit for hours behind the scope of a rifle. All of them had enough experience to know that when a plane went down, there was a good chance that the only gear they might have was the gear they had on their persons—and they equipped themselves accordingly. Two of the men were bush veterans and wore seal and sea otter fur hats that had been made by local Native women. The newer pair wore wool balaclavas they could pull down over their faces against the rapidly falling temperatures.

  “Earl called,” Warr said, when the trooper pilot looked up from the left cockpit door. The 185’s high wing threw him into the shadows. “He can’t get the Caravan out of Nightmute. Too much danger of icing.”

  “Figured,” Trooper Huston said. “That thing turns into a two-million-dollar lawn dart when the wings ice up.”

  “You’re not worried about ice?” Doctor Dubois said, smiling nervously and looking like she was drowning in her giant parka.

  “I am always worried about ice, Doctor,” Huston said. “That said, I’ve got a system that bleeds deicer on the leading edge of the wing and the prop if it becomes a problem. Honestly, though, I plan to be on the ground in a wink.”

  “I see,” Dubois said.

  Huston and the other troopers eyed the doctor warily. All of them knew her from the YK Regional Emergency Department. They also knew Mrs. Warr was not the type to look kindly on the L.T. cruising around Bethel with
a pretty physician unless there was a reason.

  Warr saw the question in their faces, and gave them the reason.

  “Trooper Fisk, the doc needs your seat. You’ll stay here until Huston gets back to pick us up.”

  Fisk, a burly twenty-six-year-old who’d played college football for Ohio State, stepped away from the airplane, swallowing his disappointment. The kid had been a star down at the academy in Sitka, but he was the newest set of boots in the Bethel post, so he drew the short straw.

  “Joe,” Warr said to the pilot, “drop the other two off to assist the marshals. If the doc says Jasper can be moved, take out the seats and bring him and the doc straight back. You can pick up Fisk and me on that trip.”

  “Roger that,” Trooper Huston said. He nodded to the other troopers, who helped them push the Cessna out of the hangar into blowing snow. The runway was visible, so that was something. Doctor Dubois walked out after them, looking awfully small in her oversized parka and heavy Sorel winter boots.

  Warr gave the pilot a thumbs-up. “They’ve got ATVs at the airport lighting the strip.”

  “Roger that, L.T.,” Huston said. “I’ll call with a sit-rep as soon as we’re on the ground.”

  Trooper Fisk moved his pack nearer the hangar door and set his rifle case beside it.

  “You’re coming too, Lieutenant?” the young trooper asked. “Want me to help you grab your gear?”

  “I got it,” Warr said. “You go ahead and shut the hangar door before we freeze some of Earl’s sensitive equipment.”

  “Mind if I ask a stupid question, L.T.?” Fisk said, moving toward the black button that would close the east wall door.

  “That’s how we learn,” Warr said.

  Fisk paused at the door switch. It would be impossible to hear over the squealing gears once he hit the button and the door began to come down.

  “If the marshals are going out after this woman to try and find the Meads, they must be taking the VPSO snow machines. I’m sure they have some extras in the village, but Robinson and Wal-lisch will be on those. What are we gonna use when we get there?”