A Cold War

by Alan Russell

  “Why would anyone choose to live this life?” she asked.

  “You’ll see why,” said Baer, “and sooner rather than later. When the shit hits the fan, and believe me it will before very long, the civilized world will go up in smoke. The war games are coming, and those will be the final games for most. Only a few will survive. One day you’ll have an appreciation for hardtack, even more than Claude and his pan chocolate.”

  Nina tried to hide her surprise. She didn’t remember mentioning Claude and his pastries to the monster. It must have been something she’d said while drugged. Baer missed very little. She needed to be as vigilant as he was, and more.

  “If you want to soften up the hardtack, you can soak it. That way you won’t lose your fillings when you eat it.”

  He gave her a sly look. “But you don’t have any fillings, do you? You have thirty-two perfect teeth.”

  Nina didn’t like him knowing that she had no fillings; she didn’t like him knowing anything about her.

  Baer went back to his work. The top of the makeshift stove was crowded with pots. Steam rose from a vat of boiling water. Next to it were two large pots with lids. Baer carefully lifted the lids and dropped in tins filled with dough.

  “You like my dual ovens?” he asked.

  Nina didn’t respond, but he didn’t seem to notice. “The stovetop needs to be nice and hot to get the oven effect,” he said.

  Her New York apartment had come with a designer kitchen, but Nina rarely cooked. Her Wolf stove and range were both immaculate. That’s because cooking eggs and boiling water for pasta was the extent of her culinary repertoire. She couldn’t remember whether she’d ever used her convection oven. You would have thought in the three years she’d lived in the same apartment that she would have cooked a frozen pizza, but it was always easier just calling for takeout. Maybe that explained the glistening state of her Sub-Zero refrigerator; it was usually empty save for yogurt and sparkling water. As for entertaining friends, in addition to all her favorite take-out places, she had two caterers on her speed dial.

  She watched as Baer mixed flour, water, and salt into a paste. He reached for an old wine bottle that had apparently seen long use as a rolling pin, and rolled out the dough, measuring its thickness by the top of his index finger’s fingernail. When he seemed satisfied with the shape and consistency, he pulled out his knife and began cutting the dough into several dozen squares. Next he poked holes into the squares. He used a salvaged plastic dispensing tube, whose point was about the same thickness as a knitting needle. Each biscuit ended up with at least a dozen holes.

  When Baer finished with his first batch, he turned to Nina and asked, “You ready to get your hands dirty?”

  She tried to hide the unsteadiness in her voice. “I’d rather get my hands clean. It’s a wonder I don’t have an infection already.”

  The condemning note came through in her voice, but Baer ignored it. “That wasn’t going to happen. I made sure I doused my knife, and your wound, with alcohol and antibacterial soap.”

  And you cut off my finger while doing it, Nina thought.

  He reached up to a shelf and pulled down a small pot. Using it as a ladle, he scooped out some of the water that was already boiling on the stovetop and dumped it into a bucket.

  “There’s your hot water. And on the shelf over the table is a jar of spruce pitch salve. That’s the bush answer to just about everything and anything. It’s an antibacterial cleanser, cleaner, and solvent. Dab some of that on your wound if you’re worried about germs.”

  He returned to his hardtack assembly. Even though he appeared to be ignoring her, Nina was wary of potential traps. She made a careful approach to the bucket, skirting the back of the kitchen, before retreating with the bucket and salve in hand.

  There was only one actual chair in the cabin, a compilation of cut birch put together to form a tripod. Nina didn’t expect much in the way of support or comfort, but was pleasantly surprised the chair wasn’t rickety. The wooden seat even had a cushion of fur. As much as she hated to admit it, Baer was one of those people who could manage to build just about anything with only chicken wire and chewing gum. He understood how things worked and seemed to have an innate sense of how to put things together and take them apart.

  She carefully removed the dressing on her hand. The bandage hadn’t been changed since Baer cut off her finger. Nina tried not to wince; if he was watching her, she didn’t want to look weak. No matter what she saw, no matter how awful her hand looked, she wouldn’t react and give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch or look repulsed.

  The last of the bloody dressing came off. The wound had no smell—a good thing. An ugly red scab had formed over the remains of her ring finger. Baer had made his cut at the middle joint, leaving about a quarter of her finger.

  He left me a stub, thought Nina.

  She lifted her hand up, staring at it critically. Enough of the finger remained to house a ring, even her oversize engagement ring. But she knew she’d never put a ring on that finger. That would be like celebrating her amputation. And it would be no more effective than putting lipstick on a pig.

  When she was a teenager, Nina had been approached by the first of many model scouts. But modeling held absolutely no interest for her. They tried to entice her with the prospect of big money and exotic shoots, but she wasn’t swayed. When one scout pushed too hard, Nina said, “I’m not giving up pizza to be a model.”

  “You can have your pizza and eat it, too,” the scout had told her. “What about being a hand model? You’ve got the long, tapered fingers; narrow hands; and perfect fingernails we’re looking for. And the best thing about being a hand model is that you can eat anything you want.”

  Nina had heard of people using their hands to make a living, but had never heard of them using their hands that way. She thanked the scout, but she had no interest in being a hand model, either.

  Now even that isn’t an option, Nina thought.

  She dipped her left hand into the water and gingerly started rubbing, being careful to leave the scab intact. The warmth of the water felt luxurious. Nina splashed some of the water on her face and then rubbed her cheeks and forehead. She closed her eyes and could almost imagine herself in a warm, sudsy bathtub.

  The aroma of baking biscuits filled the air. No perfume had ever smelled so enticing, and despite her best intentions, Nina found herself drooling like some dog. As much as she told herself that she wanted nothing from the monster, Nina wanted biscuits.

  When Baer announced, “Biscuits are out,” Nina let a few minutes pass before going to get some. She wasn’t going to let him know how desperate she was. Nina stole into the kitchen while Baer was busily making hardtack. She grabbed four of the biscuits and then scurried out. In the living room, she sat with her back to Baer and ate. The biscuits were warm and delicious. Nina was usually a slow eater, but she bolted the food down. In New York she would have eaten the biscuits with butter and honey, but at that moment, she doubted any condiment could have made them taste any better.

  When she returned to the kitchen for seconds, Baer said, “Back already?”

  Nina’s only response was to grab four more biscuits. The second batch went down almost as fast as the first. Once more she ate with her back to Baer, and Nina remembered how their family dog had eaten with his back turned whenever he got into something he shouldn’t have. But she wasn’t eating on the sly like Caesar had; it just felt that way. The cabin was too small for there to be any privacy.

  I’ve been here less than a week, thought Nina, and I already have cabin fever.

  There were no books to read, other than Elese’s secreted journal. There was no television or radio, no audio or CD player, no tablet or computer. There weren’t even playing cards or games. Most of the cabin’s contents wouldn’t have looked out of place three centuries ago—or in the time of cavemen.

  Nina knew she should be following Elese’s advice and learning whatever she could, but right now al
l she wanted to do was digest her meal as far away from Baer as possible.

  As she cleaned up the bowl of water and replaced the salve, she looked at her maimed finger. The idea that her ring finger would never again be whole bothered her more than she would have thought. She had the sense that not only had her finger been cut away, but part of her spirit as well.

  Before returning to her cell, she looked carefully around for anything she might use as a weapon. The traps had sharp edges, but getting one into her holding pen wasn’t a possibility. There were no knives out in the open, and Baer’s bowie-size knife always stayed with him. From what she could determine, he even slept with it.

  While Baer continued making his hardtack, Nina crawled inside her pen. If only she could lock the door behind her. Nina covered herself in the fur blankets and then felt around for her piece of sharpened bone and clenched it tight.

  Sleep was slow to come, but that wasn’t surprising with her rapist lurking nearby. Finally she did fall asleep, but not before visualizing several scenarios in which she plunged the sharp bone deep into Baer’s eye. It was a strange way to ease into slumber, but at least it allowed her to still her underlying rage long enough to fall asleep.

  She awoke sometime later in a panic. It’s a nightmare, she told herself, but a nightmare would have been far preferable to what it really was. The nightmare was just starting. Muscled arms had pulled her from her cell and now pinioned her shoulders. As dazed as she was, Nina tried to find her bone.

  “Looking for something?” Baer hissed. “Next time you scheme to stick me with a bone shank, I’ll cut you with your own weapon and make you squeal. You’ll scream even louder than you’re screaming now.”

  Only then did Nina realize she was screaming, but she couldn’t stop.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Greg Martin stood at the doorway of Sergeant Hamilton’s office, awaiting permission to enter.

  “Nice haircut,” said Hamilton, and gestured for Martin to take a seat.

  Martin took off his sleet-drenched coat and hung it on the coatrack outside of the office. “The calendar says it’s October fourth,” he said. “Doesn’t that mean we’re barely into fall?”

  “Alaska only has two seasons,” said Hamilton. “Winter and construction.” He pointed to a coffeepot. “The joe is hot. It’s shitty, but hot.”

  Martin poured himself a mug, took a sip, and winced. “You’re right on both counts,” he said, and took a seat.

  “So, was it worth traveling more than two thousand miles to get a haircut?”

  “It was if it helps catch Elese’s killer.”

  “Does that mean you got something?”

  “I think our Grizzly lives somewhere in the vicinity of Manley Hot Springs.”

  “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  “It was something Danni remembered.”

  “Tomcat told her he was flying there?”

  Martin shook his head. “You know how he had his nicknames for just about every city?”

  The cop nodded.

  “Well, while Danni was doing my hair, I was asking her about the last morning she spent with Tom. I think it was easier for her to do her talking and remembering in the salon. It was clear she was more relaxed there than when we saw her. The only bad thing was that she wasn’t able to just blurt everything out because of the other people there. But even that might have worked to my advantage because she started leaning in and whispering in my ear. I kind of felt like her confessor.

  “I learned she and Tom made love very early that morning. According to Danni, that put a bounce in his step, and he went around loudly singing a dirty song. I asked her what song, and she told me it was the theme to Two and a Half Men. Being familiar with that show, I said I didn’t remember any dirty lyrics, and Danni said, ‘Well, you know Tommy.’ Then she whispered his song in my ears. I think it stuck in her mind because of his choreography.”

  “The floor is yours,” said Hamilton. “Feel free to demonstrate the song and dance.”

  “I’ll pass. But what Tom was singing was, ‘Men men men men, Manly Cock Springs men!’ Only he apparently cupped himself with his hand when he sang the manly cock springs part.”

  “And you interpreted that to be Manley Hot Springs?”

  Martin looked a little deflated by his tepid response. “Why else would he say ‘Manly Cock Springs’?”

  “Because men are stupid, and he just got laid, and he probably liked going around waving his hard-on to a song with the word ‘manly.’”

  “I think you’re missing the context. Danni was telling him he should stay put and cancel the flight, and Tomcat was thinking about where he had to fly. That explains his coming up with those lyrics.”

  Hamilton wasn’t convinced. “Or it could explain him extolling his erection.”

  “Remember what Danni told us about Tomcat giving every place a nickname? Like Fairbanks was Square Banks and Homer was Homeroid, and how we interpreted Talkeetna to be Stalk Meaner? Judging from his wordplay, what could Manley Hot Springs be other than Manly Cock Springs?”

  “I don’t think I want to conjecture.”

  “I wouldn’t have even known that name if I hadn’t been studying maps of the Alaskan interior. Danni didn’t even know there was such a place as Manley Hot Springs.”

  “It’s usually just called Manley,” said Hamilton.

  “You know the place?”

  He shrugged. “There’s not much to know. I’ve been there once. I’m guessing a hundred people live there, which makes it one of the major metropolises in the interior. For a long time, it was where the most easterly road in Alaska ended, but now they’ve begun expanding the road to go another forty miles east to Tanana.”

  “What kind of hot springs are there?” asked Martin.

  “The nonexistent kind. During my visit the locals told me the closest I could come to soaking in a hot spring was paying for a cement bath in this greenhouse in town that was fed by a spring.”

  “I guess tourists wouldn’t be curious to visit a place called Cement Bath.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Tell me about the surrounding area.”

  “It’s pretty much complete wilderness.”

  “The kind of place a mountain man would like to call home?”

  “If you were looking for isolation, you could sure do worse.”

  “I’m betting that’s where he’s holed up.”

  “Even if you’re right, you have no idea of how big an area you’re talking about. Finding him would likely take a coordinated aerial search.”

  “I’m ready to fly there when you are.”

  “I’m talking about a search where you’d need multiple aircraft, or maybe bringing in the air force, and even that might not be enough.”

  “So, how are we going to make this happen?”

  We, thought Hamilton again. The cop still wasn’t comfortable with that royal we. It had almost been easier when the two men were adversaries.

  “I need to build a better case than what’s currently there, which is what I am trying to do.”

  “What are you working on?”

  Hamilton debated whether to answer. If Martin hadn’t flown to Anchorage and then driven to Seward, he probably wouldn’t have told him anything. But he’d come a long way for his haircut.

  What the hell, he thought.

  Hamilton raised himself out of his seat and walked to a wall where there was a mounted map of Alaska. He pointed to Talkeetna, which was north of Anchorage.

  “I kept wondering if we could be right about Tomcat flying Grizzly out of Stalk Meaner, aka Talkeetna. On the face of it, that just didn’t seem to make sense. It’s not like Talkeetna is convenient to anything.”

  His finger settled on a spot in the southern Kenai Peninsula. “But I came to realize maybe that was the point. When Grizzly snatched your wife in Seward, he would have needed to get out of town fast to avoid roadblocks or having his vehicle searched. He proba
bly counted on a two- or three-hour head start, and knew the more distance he put behind him, the better would be his chances of not getting caught.”

  Hamilton traced a route north with his finger. “As it turns out, Talkeetna is about a five-hour drive from Seward. It was a spot far enough away from where the main search was taking place to avoid any police scrutiny.”

  He moved his finger up the map, stopping on the city of Fairbanks, and then began tracing a route south. “Talkeetna is also a five-hour drive from Fairbanks, but in the opposite direction. With both abductions Grizzly’s idea would have been to grab the victim and get out of town before anyone noticed.

  “Talkeetna would have been a perfect spot for Grizzly to take off from, especially if he was using an unwitting pilot. He even found a way to bypass the Talkeetna airport and any unwanted scrutiny. Three rivers merge in Talkeetna, and there are lakes all around, so floatplanes are a common sight. And if you’re looking for privacy, that’s the place. Remote camping spots abound, with no one looking over your shoulder. I think it tells you something about the mind-set of Talkeetna that their long-standing honorary mayor is a cat named Stubbs. It’s a live-and-let-live community.

  “But there was one sticking point to my theory of Talkeetna being where Tomcat and Grizzly met and where they took off from. How was Grizzly able to transport his victims? He either had help from a third party, or he had to be driving some kind of vehicle.

  “On a hunch I decided to check on any stolen vehicles found abandoned in Talkeetna. As it turned out, my timing was good. Just yesterday a cargo van was found tucked away among trees on the outskirts of Talkeetna. No one knows how long it’s been there, but we do know it was reported stolen in Fairbanks on the day after Nina Granville went missing. That prompted me to do some more digging. I went back and checked on every stolen vehicle dumped in the Talkeetna area in the last five years. As it turned out, there have only been six vehicles abandoned there. And lo and behold, one of those vehicles was found four days after your wife went missing, and five days after it was reported stolen in Anchorage.”