Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  Stunned, Lola dropped the expandable baton. Getting hit in the brachial nerves was a hell of a lot like grabbing a handful of electric fence, and she was lucky to keep her feet. Exhaling hard, she spat a mouthful of blood, feeling it get torn away in the wind. Sascha was on her again in an instant. She raised both arms, warding off blow after blow meant to knock her out. Sascha grabbed her by both shoulders, attempting to drive a knee into her groin. She managed to twist sideways, taking the knee on her thigh, and getting the sinking feeling that it had done some real damage.

  Jolene screamed for him to stop. The judge rushed in again, landing at least one more good punch before Green knocked him back with an elbow to the nose. Markham fell back on his knees, still conscious enough to spew curses into the blizzard. Lola used the few moments to shake off the pain in her neck and hip. She needed to finish this quickly or risk getting her ass kicked—at which point Sascha Green would likely kill her, judge or no judge, Jolene or no Jolene. That much was clear in his eyes.

  He turned toward her, chest heaving inside his open parka. His lips drew back in a vile sneer, revealing bloody teeth. Someone had connected.

  Thick black hair blowing like a curtain across her face, Lola bent slightly forward at the waist, shoulders rounded, hands loose and low. She’d been described as beautiful many times; men hit on her often when she went out with friends. But those same Polynesian eyes and prominent cheekbones above full lips could be terrifying if twisted into her warring haka face. She’d once made one of her nieces break into tears. Lola wanted Sascha Green to believe her to be a weak thing—not a woman who relished battle.

  She did her best to keep her face relaxed, fighting the natural urge to open her eyes wide in challenge and sneer at the evil creature in front of her. She wanted him to rush in, thinking he’d won. Then, she’d arrest him if she could. If not, she’d beat him to death—judge or no judge. Jolene or no Jolene.

  He charged in again, a little farther out than suited her. He grazed her belly with a sloppy right as she turned to let him go by. The blow would hurt later, but she barely felt it now. Green slid on the ice, waving his arms to keep from falling. Lola moved directly in front of him now, presenting the tantalizing target of a woman who didn’t know what she was doing. He’d no sooner stopped flapping his arms than he rushed her again, but this time he was over the same patch of ice he’d just slipped on.

  Lola took quick advantage, planting her back foot on solid ground while she drove her right knee into a startled Green’s groin three times before he could arrest his forward momentum. He screamed, doubling over in agony, and when he did, Lola Teariki’s knee was there to meet his face. Her hands came down at the same time her leg came up, catching Sascha’s parka hood on both sides and slamming it down to meet her knee. Downward momentum arrested, his teeth cracked together like a pistol shot. His head snapped up and his feet flew out from under him, depositing him flat on his back in a snowdrift. His skull missed the edge of a concrete walk by mere inches. Pity, Lola thought, her aggression still pumping from the heat of battle.

  “Deputy!” Markham shouted, obviously sensing that she was about to do something she couldn’t take back.

  Lola shook her head, then stooped to grab Sascha by the wrist, staying out of his reach just in case he wasn’t as hurt as he made out to be. She extended his arm and gave his hand a hard twist toward the pinkie finger, forcing him to turn over onto his belly.

  Once she had control, she stepped over Green’s outstretched arm, retaining control while she walked around his body to place her knee firmly in the small of his back.

  “Give me your other hand.” She increased the pressure on his wrist until he complied and she could ratchet on the handcuffs. She coughed, spitting more blood in the snow. It had been a while since she’d taken a hit like that. It didn’t exactly make her smile—but it was exhilarating nonetheless. “Sascha Green,” she said. “You are under arrest for urinating in a national park within three hundred feet of an authorized outhouse.”

  He turned his head, face covered in snow, and looked up at her as if she were crazy.

  Behind her, Markham laughed out loud.

  Green thrashed his legs, but she lifted up on his arms, putting pressure on his shoulders until he stopped. “Knock it off!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m not finished.” Knee still against his back, Lola pulled the windblown hair out of her face with her free hand and continued. “You are also being charged with violation of a domestic violence court order, assault on a federal judge, assaulting a federal law enforcement officer—and for calling me a gash.”

  Now Jolene laughed, which Green appeared to take harder than the knee to his face. He was near tears when he lifted his head out of the snow again.

  “That’s not a crime.”

  Judge Markham stood over the prisoner, ignoring his own bloody nose.

  “It is today,” he said.

  CHAPTER 44

  Sarah began to think of her plan as her only possible hope— and even that was thin. She had enough sense not to focus on the little details. That would only slow her down.

  She stayed put at the foot of the bed. Rick’s fist had put her there, so neither of the men appeared to give a second thought to the fact that she was near the axe. David had become more animated since they’d lightened up on his beatings, and spent a lot of time dazed and blinking as he looked around the room trying to get his bearings. Sarah wondered if he remembered why he was here. He recognized her, and kept apologizing through the bloody mask of tears and saliva and snot that covered his face.

  Morgan Kilgore looked at her differently now, hungrily, like there was no point in pretending anymore. That’s what people like him did. They drew you in close with a bit of warm soup and soft crackers, and then, when it suited their purposes, they tore you apart.

  Sarah spent a good deal of time testing the grip in her hands. The cords they’d used to tie her had damaged some nerves. She was sure of that. Just days before she’d been capable of splitting a pile of spruce logs as high as her waist before lunchtime. Her back and shoulders and forearms knew and understood hard work. There was no way to know how much they’d forgotten until she tried to pick up something heavy—like the axe. Until then, she bunched the corner of her stinking blanket into a tight ball, squeezing and releasing, testing her grip as best she could. It was painful at first, even making the roots of her teeth throb, but she pushed through it. She was likely to have more than a few broken teeth on the other side of this.

  Her poor grip was only the first of many problems. The axe was like a single-shot rifle. Even if she killed one of them, she’d need time to reload and swing at the other—who would be stunned by the attack, but probably not enough to stay in one place long enough for her to hit him too. She’d gotten her axe stuck in a piece of wood enough times to know it took time to pull it free, not to mention more grip strength.

  She found herself wondering about targets. A blow to Rick’s head would certainly kill him, though maybe not right away. And the skull was hollow. Would the blade lodge in there too tight for her to retrieve? That would leave her a sitting duck for Morgan, who would probably just take out his pistol and shoot her while she tried to wrench the axe out of Rick Halcomb’s brain. Soft tissue would be better—like a young willow branch—but you needed a sharp axe for that, and this one didn’t look like it had seen a stone in a while. Morgan was squatting next to the open stove again, staring at it like it was TV or something. His neck tilted to one side slightly, offering a tempting target. If it was sharp enough, maybe she could just take off his entire head . . . She pictured it—or what she imagined it would be like. Surely cutting off someone’s head wouldn’t be liberating, but in her mind, it was all of that and more.

  She glanced sideways now, measuring the distance to the axe. She looked at Rick, who stood glued to the frosted window, then Morgan. Maybe she should kill Morgan first. They wouldn’t expect that.
The high side of that, she thought coldly, was that Rick would just kill her if she wasn’t able to get him too. Morgan would eventually kill her if he was left alive, but not for a while. He had other plans. She could see it now in his eyes every time he looked at her. He was probably imagining them now. Drawing out his pleasure by pondering on what he would do, while he looked at the fire.

  Sarah gave an involuntary nod, sending more pain down her neck. She squeezed the blanket tighter in her fist. No, she would take Morgan first. Dying was far from the worst thing there was. All she had to do was look at David to know the truth of that.

  Another gust of wind hit hard, feeling like it was about to tear the roof off. A flurry of sparks blew out the open door of the stove. It happened every time the wind gusted, and Morgan stomped out any embers that hit the floor. Rick glanced over his shoulder, almost caught her looking at the axe. Then both men resumed their vigils of fire and ice.

  Another gust rattled the window.

  Sarah released the corner of the blanket, using the palm of her hand to smooth it flat against the bunk.

  Rick scratched more frost off the glass.

  “I think she’s here,” he said, leaning close enough to touch the windowpane with his nose.

  A dog yipped outside, setting Sarah on edge. Donna was coming. She had to move now.

  Sarah rolled off the bed as soon as both men’s attention was focused on the door. Morgan was still squatting by the fire, groaning, putting both hands on his knees to stand the way he always did. Brimming with relief and excitement, Rick put a hand on the doorknob, ready to go greet his wife.

  He was closer. She’d have to hit him first.

  Sarah swung the little axe with everything she had at the same moment he turned to give some last bit of instruction. The blade hit him just below the nose, stopping his words as it cut downward, bisecting his chin and then opening his windpipe from top to bottom before severing his jugular.

  Her legs were wooden from sitting for so long, and she stumbled, carried away with the ferocity of the swing, burying the blade in the side of the wooden bed.

  Rick Halcomb slumped to his knees, croaking in dismay, hand clutching his throat. Sarah turned away as he fell, struggling to free the axe.

  Morgan Kilgore was on her in an instant.

  “You little shit!”

  He grabbed her by the hair and heaved her backward, away from the axe. Flailing, she slipped on the growing puddle of Rick’s blood and fell face-first against the logs. Morgan left the axe where it was, hopelessly lodged in the wood, and turned to check on Rick. He cradled the dying man’s head in his lap, looking up every few seconds at Sarah to make sure she didn’t move. It was impossible to stanch the massive flow of blood. The axe had done its job too well. Rick Halcomb could not have survived if he’d fallen directly onto an emergency room table.

  Morgan stood, wiping blood-covered hands on his shirt. “That man was my friend,” he spat, seething with rage. “You worthless little whore, I’m—”

  He stopped midsentence as more barking erupted outside. A contemptuous smile spread across his face. “That will be Donna,” he whispered. He threw on his coat and hat, and dragged Sarah to her feet.

  “Come on,” he said, dragging her toward the door. “I’m going to help her with the dogs. You can explain how you just split Rick’s face in half.”

  Sarah pedaled backward with her bare feet on the rough plank floor, attempting to pull away. He only pulled harder, nearly tearing her arm out of the socket.

  “My shoes . . . What about a coat?”

  “Forget ’em,” Morgan said, flinging open the door to the raging blizzard. “We won’t be—”

  A white dog came out of the curtain of snow, free from any lines or sled. Another dog, darker, and colored like a small wolf, came next. Both were tentative, investigating.

  “Something’s not right.” He pulled Sarah in front of him, like a shield, then reached inside the door, coming out with Rick’s big rifle. “Donna!”

  Squinting against the wind, Sarah thought she saw someone in the trees to her right. Morgan saw it too and turned to look.

  “Donna!” he called again. “You all right?”

  A bright light suddenly cut through the blowing snow directly ahead, casting long shadows among the trees. The growl of an oncoming ATV rumbled over the wail of the storm.

  Morgan Kilgore came up on his toes like he’d just been shocked. His whole body stiffened. “This isn’t right,” he said again, a hoarse whisper now. He looked to the right, where they’d seen movement before, then ahead at the oncoming light. He was deciding what to do.

  Sarah Mead gave him a nudge.

  CHAPTER 45

  Cutter watched from the back of the ATV as a man dragged a barefoot woman out of the house. She wore no coat or gloves. Birdie had thrown a couple of meat scraps at the door, causing the dogs to rush in snarling for food, luring the man outside. There was only one of them, which was not what Cutter had expected—but he’d learned long ago not to expect any particular scenario too often. It was much better to roll with the punches.

  The man looked back and forth, called for Donna over the wind, and then reached around the doorjamb to come out with a rifle.

  The woman suddenly threw her feet out from under her, falling out of the man’s grasp and into the snow. Instead of reaching down to gain control of her, the man took one look at the approaching headlight and fled pell-mell into the trees.

  The woman just sat there in the snow, dazed, looking out at nothing. Cutter relaxed a hair when no one else came out to secure her. He circled around, keeping the cabin between himself and the place where the man had disappeared.

  One glance inside the cabin told him what had happened. Sarah Mead said the man’s name was Morgan Kilgore and he’d been on the verge of raping and killing her when they’d arrived. Birdie held her rifle close, and told Cutter to go.

  And he did.

  Tracking a man in the snow is simple. Following that man in the dark when he is armed is tricky business, especially since Cutter was teetering on the razor’s edge of hypothermia. He felt and looked like Jack Nicholson in the last scene of The Shining, certain there were icicles hanging off his forehead. He moved quickly, his hand a frozen claw around Ned Jasper’s .270 rifle. There was a round in the chamber, and three more in the magazine. If that wasn’t enough, he’d resort to his pistols. The blowing snow helped to give Cutter some concealment, but Kilgore could easily just lie down in the snow and wait for him. Cold seeped deeper into Cutter’s bones with every step, and he couldn’t help but think he’d freeze to death before anyone had a chance to shoot him. For some reason, the thought of cheating Kilgore out of the opportunity made him laugh into the howling wind.

  After he’d trudged through calf-deep snow for fifteen minutes, the trees began to thin. Kilgore was moving back to his right in a big arc, circling back the way he’d come. It was likely an unconscious move, common in people who ran without thinking. People who were lost often walked in circles, thinking all the while that they were walking out of their predicament. Cutter found a spot where Kilgore had indeed lain in wait in the snow. The imprint of his prone body told an easy-to-read story to someone who knew what to look for: splayed legs, elbows offset to reveal that he was behind a rifle rather than looking through a pair of binoculars. Thankfully, the bitter cold had forced the outlaw to keep moving instead of sitting still.

  Cutter closed the distance about the time Kilgore realized he’d traveled in a big circle. He came out of the willows a hundred meters from the cabin, with Cutter another fifty meters behind him.

  Cutter gave a shrill whistle to get his attention, post-holing now through knee-deep snow.

  The big .404 boomed as Kilgore spun and fired a snap shot. The round went wide, missing Cutter by a dozen yards. Still, the adrenaline of being downrange to gunfire gave his chilly bones a much-needed rush of warmth.

  Cutter paused long enough to aim. Putting the crosshairs of
Ned Jasper’s scope on the gray spot that was Morgan Kilgore’s chest. The shot kicked up snow at Kilgore’s feet, sending him running again, this time for the safety of the cabin.

  Cutter groaned, the cold coming back full force now as exhaustion chased away the effects of adrenaline. Kilgore had likely figured out it was just him out here. And now, with Kilgore running away, a shot was more problematic—if Cutter was even able to hit his target with his hands shaking so badly from the cold. He turned the scope power all the way down to 3X, the lowest setting, giving him less magnification but allowing a wider field of view and letting in more light.

  Kilgore probably doubted anyone would shoot him in the back, but he didn’t know Arliss Cutter. Cutter sat down cross-legged in the snow so he could steady his shivering body. There was no way Kilgore was getting back to the cabin with that rifle. Cutter welded his cheek to the cold stock of the rifle, aligning the crosshairs in the scant light, before releasing half a breath. Another miss. Kilgore was less than thirty yards from the cabin now, floundering in the deep snow.

  Cutter chambered another round, and looked through the scope again. Both his shots had been low. This time, he aimed at the back of Morgan Kilgore’s head.

  Kilgore pitched forward at the shot, screaming and thrashing. Cutter chambered his last round and slogged forward, his rifle at low ready.

  “Hands!” he yelled when he was twenty yards away. He could see the rifle barrel sticking up in the snow, but Kilgore could still easily have a pistol. “I said let me see your hands!” The rifle barrel jerked and twitched with his shivering muscles.