Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  The frigid water closed around her, flooding her heavy clothing, dragging her downward with the unstoppable force of the current. She gasped reflexively, inhaling deeply of the frigid air and almost as much freezing water. Coughing and cursing, she fought to keep her head above the surface. The current pressed her hard against the downriver edge of the hole, threatening to suck her under, but for the moment wedging her in place, just below her shoulder blades. The ice was only a few inches thick, and rotten, crumpling away each time she struggled to reposition herself. The dogs looked back from the far side of the gaping chasm, scared and confused, trapped. The arched piece of hard plastic that formed the brush bow was jammed against the ice, held in place there so the sled lay at an angle with the back of the runners digging into the gravel river bed. Donna’s legs dangled over nothingness, unable to touch the bottom. She considered using the sled like a ramp to climb out. The handlebar was underwater, down by her waist. She still held on to it, using it for support, but each time she tried to pull herself forward, or bring a foot around, the entire sled shuddered. She could feel the vibrations as the runners plowed along the gravel bottom, losing precious inches—and degrees of the angle that kept the sled lodged against the ice. Much more and it would slip completely under, dragging the dogs and her along with it.

  Where her initial response at hitting the frigid water had been to inhale in shock, Donna now found it difficult to draw enough air into her lungs to scream at the dogs. She tried urging them forward, wondering if they heard her, or even if they did, if they’d have enough juice to pull the sled away. Maybe, if she let go—which would happen soon enough. Her clothing had already soaked up enough water to double her weight. Any movement threatened to break the ice behind her. Doing anything would kill her. Doing nothing would kill her.

  She worked herself up for another scream, hoping the troopers or whoever had the dog team behind her might hear. She managed no more than a pitiful gurgle. Maybe there was no one there anyway. Her mind was just playing tricks on her. She laughed out loud, wedged there against the ice over a merciless black torrent of frigid water. Anyone who saw her might think she was going crazy—but that had happened a long time ago.

  Six inches of ice crumbled away behind her, causing her to drop deeper as the river drove her backward, only to pin her against the ice again. The water reached high on her chest now. Only her fingertips touched the handlebar. If she lost it she’d be sucked under.

  Unless . . .

  An idea wormed its way into her freezing brain and warmed there long enough she could get her head wrapped around the gist of it. Panic killed most people when they fell through the ice. At least that’s what she’d read, but that was when they fell in a lake and the rushing water itself wasn’t trying to beat you to death. Still, if she could calm down, and moved slowly, she might be able to turn around, to work with the current to get her chest out of the water and up on top. Her gear was gone, the cabin too far away, so she’d probably still freeze to death, but that wouldn’t be as bad as drowning in the dark as she bobbed along trapped under the ice.

  She rolled sideways, kicking as best she could in the heavy clothing while applying the tiniest bit of pressure to the handlebar to assist her movements without dislodging the sled. She tried twice, but it was no use. The hydraulic force held her fast. It was simply too strong, but the attempted movement did free the rifle sling—and gave her another idea.

  Carefully, moving sloth-like from fear and cold, she pulled off her right mitten with her teeth, then reached with a shaking hand to unsnap the top swivel of the rifle sling at her shoulder. Her fingers were dead nubs at the end of a dead hand. They seemed to belong to someone else. She almost dropped the gun four times in the process, but miraculously, she was able to bring it around in front of her. The hole was relatively narrow, just wider than the sled. She set the gun across the ice, the barrel on one side, the butt on the other, forming a crossbar she could hang on to. The ice wasn’t strong enough to pull herself up, but she found she could now let go of the sled handle without getting swept away. It was only a momentary stay of execution, but momentary was better than the alternative.

  Her dogs heard the other team before she did. They went crazy, yelping and jumping against their lines. The movement dislodged the sled and it began to slip farther into the water, dragging the team backward.

  “Serves you right!” Donna sputtered, her sodden arms draped over the rifle. The grip of the cold water was slowly squeezing the life out of her. “I hope you all drown!”

  And then the beam of a headlamp cut the night, illuminating the falling snow and the terrified dogs. Low voices whispered behind the light, then a second sled slithered out onto the ice without any dogs attached. A parka-clad figure lay facedown in the basket, reaching forward over the brush bow with mittened hands.

  Donna shuddered, at once flooded with relief and fear.

  It was Birdie Pingayak. Out of all the people in Stone Cross, she was the closest to the VPSO. She was also the bravest. Of course it would be her.

  * * *

  Cutter stood as far back on the runners of the double-trainer as he could, skating gently to push it and Birdie with it onto the thinning ice. The howling wind made it impossible to hear the tiny fractures spider-webbing across the surface, but he knew they were there. Birdie had unhooked her own team and left them on the bank along with Smoke, anchored with the snow hook. She lay on her belly now, distributing her weight along the entire sled. Donna called out, but instead of helping her, the little Eskimo woman reached across and unsnapped the gang-line from the sled.

  “Are you kidding me?” Donna screamed. “Birdie! Forget the dogs and pull me out of here!”

  Freed from certain death, Donna’s trapped team made a mad dash for the bank, allowing the sled to slip beneath the surface and tumble downriver under the ice.

  “Birdie!” Donna began to sob. Pleading now, her voice wobbly with cold. Black water seemed to boil around her, hissing against the ice. “I can’t hold on—”

  Cutter shifted the sled, taking it dangerously close to the edge.

  Birdie gave a shrill whistle. She’d angled her headlamp slightly away so it wasn’t blinding the other woman. “Donna! Look at me.”

  Side-arming, she threw a piece of yellow line, laying it expertly across Donna Taylor’s shoulder.

  “Tie this around the rifle and we’ll pull you out.”

  Donna lifted her hand to grab the rope, but slammed it back in place. “I can’t,” she said, panting, eyes wide. She tried to speak, took on a mouthful of water, then spit it out, sputtering and coughing. “It’s . . . It’s . . . pulling me under. I’ll go down if I let go. Please . . .”

  Birdie inched out farther so her torso hung over the brush bow well beyond the front of the basket.

  The ice snapped in earnest now, clearly audible over the wind, as the angle of Birdie’s lean focused more weight on a smaller portion of the runners.

  “That’s far enough,” Cutter yelled. “Donna, the ice will break if she comes any closer. You have got to grab the rope.”

  Donna shook her head. “You just want me to die.”

  Birdie pulled the rope back, hand over hand, tied a quick loop, and then tossed it again. She was throwing into the wind and it took her three attempts to get it back in place across Donna’s shoulder. “Here,” she said. “All you have to do is get an arm through the loop. But you have to let go of the gun.”

  “I never . . . planned . . . to hurt the girl,” Donna said, shaking her head. “It’s just that . . . My son . . . I have to know . . .”

  “Where did you take the girl?” Cutter asked, seeing how this was going to end.

  “Cabin,” Donna said. “Half . . . a h . . . h . . . half mile north . . . They expected . . . me . . . hours ago . . . killed her . . . by now.”

  Donna’s arm slipped off the rifle. She flailed. Her chin dropped beneath the surface, then she caught herself on the gun, barely keeping her head above wa
ter.

  “Donna,” Birdie pleaded. “Take the rope!”

  “I . . . I . . . can’t . . .” Her voice was breathy, like she was falling asleep.

  “You said they,” Cutter said. “Who has the girl?”

  “Husband,” Donna said. She turned her head directly toward Cutter, staring hard, trying to make him out behind the glare of his headlamp. She’d stopped shaking now. A bad sign.

  “My sweet little boy,” she said, her words hissing out of her. Both arms slipped off the rifle, and the water quietly swallowed her up.

  Smudge barked once, standing on the bank looking down at the river. Cutter turned his headlamp on the little wolf-dog. No, animals didn’t have human characteristics, but this one didn’t seem too awfully sad that Donna Taylor was out of his life for good.

  Birdie was still facedown, hand on the rope, staring transfixed at the spot where Donna vanished. Cutter whistled to get her attention.

  “I’m pulling you in.”

  Birdie wriggled backward on her belly, farther to the rear of the basket.

  “Be careful,” she said, grunting. “I can hear the ice snapping under me.”

  Cutter kept most of his weight on the runners, skating backward inch by inch toward the bank where the dogs were waiting.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, pivoting the sled slightly.

  “I trust you,” Birdie said, a moment before the ice gave way and they both plunged into the icy water.

  CHAPTER 42

  Cutter’s feet slammed into the gravel riverbed. He fell back ward from the momentum of the sudden three-foot drop, landing on the seat of his pants, clutching the back station of the sled as black water rushed in around him, slamming violently against his back, trying to push him downriver, under the ice. His chest and head were above water, and he still had a grip on the sled’s rearmost upright stanchion, but the sled and Birdie had both disappeared beneath the surface.

  Scrambling, Cutter grabbed a sled runner with his other hand. Then he leaned toward the bank and pulled, using his legs to press with every ounce of strength. For a moment, it seemed the sled was hopelessly stuck, but little by little it began to swing in the current. Cutter was able to take a half step backward, getting better purchase with his boot in the gravel. Then, hand over hand, he drew the heavy sled toward him under the water. Seconds later Birdie’s head broke the surface. She dragged herself forward while Cutter pulled the sled, until she was close enough he could reach out and grab her parka ruff. Filled with water, the clothing acted as an anchor, effectively doubling her weight and threatening to tear her from his grasp.

  Cutter let go of the sled, feeling it slip away with the current as he got both hands around the parka and towed a gasping Birdie Pingayak into the icy shallows. She sputtered and coughed, clambering up alongside him in the shallows as they splashed and stumbled their way through and over rotten ice until they reached the actual bank.

  “Took you long enough,” she said, laughing like a crazy woman as she fell back in the snow. Her headlamp was still working and fired a beam skyward, straight up into the storm. Snowflakes swirled above her in the white light.

  “The sled’s gone,” Cutter said, not even sure if Birdie could hear him. Without the sled, they had no food or dry clothes. Without food and dry clothes, they would be dead in hours, maybe even minutes. “I’m game to hear some of your Native wisdom about how to survive this.”

  Birdie rolled over and pushed herself up on all fours. Groaning, she took Cutter’s hand and used him to get to her feet.

  “The meaner you are the longer you last,” she said. “How about that for Native wisdom?”

  Her teeth were beginning to chatter, but she was still joking and seemed no worse off than Cutter after having been underwater for the better part of a minute.

  “Come on,” she said. “Help me let the dogs go.”

  Cutter plodded after her. At least the dogs would find their way home.

  “You got good wool drawers on, right?” Birdie asked, slipping harnesses off each dog and freeing them as she spoke.

  “I do,” he said.

  “Good. You should be okay for a few minutes.” She pointed downriver, the direction they’d come from. The hair on her parka was beginning to freeze. “We crossed some ATV tracks about two hundred yards back. Caribou hide out in the thickets during storms like this. James Johnny is probably trying to catch one there. His camps aren’t much, but he’ll have some food. Maybe some emergency blankets. He might even have a fire going.”

  Cutter stepped in close. His own teeth chattered now. He felt as though even his belly was shivering. “Let’s just go to the cabin.”

  Birdie shook her head. “I don’t trust the river. Snow’s too deep if we go cross-country. We’d have to post-hole all the way—and that would kill us. Even if we don’t freeze to death, we’ll be in no shape to fight. James’s camp is on the other trail. We can make it from there, but we’ll need to borrow his Honda.”

  * * *

  Smudge and five of the other dogs, including Smoke, Digger, and Hawke, stayed with Cutter and Birdie as they trudged south along the riverbank through bitter wind and blowing snow. The rest of them disappeared into the night. Just as Birdie said, they crossed an ATV track less than two hundred meters back. Leading the way, Birdie pointed, then turned to the east without speaking a word. She was a picture out of time, a sturdy Eskimo woman, her back to the blizzard, surrounded by a half dozen Alaska huskies.

  It took too much energy to try and talk so Cutter sang songs in his mind to keep it active. He thought of Mim and the kids. This would be one of those stories like Grumpy had. His stories were always too big to believe, but somehow you believed them anyway, because they were true. When you’d lived a life like Grumpy Cutter, you didn’t have to make stuff up. Cutter wondered if the boys would believe him. I was chasing a murderer through the Alaska wilderness and had to walk through snow up to my knees back to camp after falling through the ice with my dog team . . . It sounded bizarre even thinking about it. But things like this happened. People froze to death in the bush—bad guys and good. The tundra didn’t care.

  The twins would eat it up. Constance would roll her eyes and call him a dumbass—ass was her pet word nowadays. Mim would give him that cloudy, suspicious look like he was being too frivolous with his own safety—which was probably true most every waking moment of his life.

  Grumpy would have had something to say about this. Grumpy Man-Rule number . . .

  Cutter stumbled on a hidden clump of willows, face-planting in two feet of wind-driven snow. He caught himself on both hands, risking a sprain. Stupid. Just let yourself fall. He brushed himself off and floundered to his feet. Both arms and hands still worked, no worse for wear except that he looked like a sugar cookie and was freezing to death. He kicked his way forward, picking up the pace so he didn’t lose sight of Birdie. She was a fast walker, as if pushing through snow up to her knees while wearing sopping wet clothes in subzero temperatures was an everyday occurrence for her. She was the personification of Grumpy Man-Rule number . . . What was it again? Cutter’s mind was a wall of frozen fog. This rule was important, so it was up there at the top somewhere. Rule number one—Watch your heading. Rule number two . . . That was it! Cutter pounded his forehead with the flat of his frozen mitten.

  Grumpy Rule number two—Fight on!

  Head down, he almost ran over Birdie when she stopped in the trail.

  “Not good,” she said, so cold now her arms and shoulders jerked and bounced as if a puppeteer were pulling randomly on her strings. She turned so her light fell on a parked ATV and trailer with knobby balloon tires. Beyond the four-wheeler, the dark form of a body lay half hidden in the snow.

  The dogs rushed forward to investigate, no doubt hoping to find something to eat at the smell of a camp. They bypassed the body to sniff at the carcass of a dead bull caribou in front of the ATV. Cutter and Birdie stumbled forward side by side.

  The hole in James Jo
hnny’s neck left no room for doubt that he was dead.

  Birdie stood in the wind and prodded the bull with the toe of her mukluk. “He must have caught it right before he was killed. Looks like he was gutting it when they got him. This meat might be enough to save us . . .”

  Johnny had rigged a tarp on the lee side of the ATV trailer to use as a windbreak. He was probably planning to cook a bit of his catch before heading home, Birdie observed. Cutter noted how the Natives he’d met all said they caught things instead of killing them. Where a white hunter would say he killed a caribou or caught a fish. To an Eskimo, the act was catching in both instances. For some reason, Cutter found he liked the Native way more.

  Birdie turned mechanically, forgetting about the caribou, and went straight to work, searching the small trailer until she found a dozen pieces of scrap two-by-four lumber Johnny had brought along to use as firewood. Cutter helped her unload it and piled half of it on the spot where he’d had a previous fire, protected by the tarp windbreak. Birdie doused it liberally with gasoline from a spare fuel jug James Johnny had bungeed to the rack of his ATV. Cutter tried his Zippo lighter, but it was soaked. Birdie reached down the front of her shirt and drew out a leather cord, at the end of which was a small plastic match case. She gave him a stupid grin and said something he couldn’t quite hear about being prepared. It took her several failed attempts with ungainly, half-frozen hands, but she was finally able to touch off the gasoline.