A Cold War

by Alan Russell

  The sob caught in Nina’s throat. She was thinking about her sister. She took a deep breath. Later she would cry, but not now.

  “Your secret stash got me to thinking. I’m sure you never imagined that your stones would tell me a story, but you taught me too well. Of course, I couldn’t do my research at the house. I had to pretend all was well for your cameras.

  “I identified the garnets first. Wrangell garnets. Most are found along the Stikine River near a town in Southeast Alaska called Wrangell. And your epidote, which collectors call Green Monster Epidote, was probably taken on Prince of Wales Island in Alaska. And let’s not forget your nephrite jade. You likely picked that up in the interior of Alaska where you were panning for gold. That’s where you met Baer.”

  Greg’s voice was high-pitched and panicked. “I saved you! And then I took you into my home! Now you need to save me!”

  “You took me in so that you could watch my movements. Aren’t you supposed to keep your enemies near?”

  “If not for me, you’d be dead!”

  “If not for you, Elese would be alive. You made her believe she was the love of your life, and all the while you saw her as nothing more than your grubstake. The insurance money allowed you access to your true passion—your gold and gems. I should have taken into account gold fever. There are all sorts of examples of what it does when it gets its grips into a man. People like you will do anything for a chance to hunt down their gems and gold. They leave their lives behind; they travel halfway around the world. You didn’t want to toil as a geologist. More than anything else, you wanted to do your treasure hunting without any encumbrances.”

  “In the light of day, you’ll see how wrong you are. But for God’s sake, help me now!”

  “Baer wanted a woman. So you became his pimp—worse even than these traffickers. You plotted to give him your wife. He got what he wanted, and you got what you wanted. I suppose you gave him enough money for his supplies and to charter an aircraft. All you had to do was await your payout. You even hurried that along, didn’t you, when you threatened to sue the insurance company for bad faith?”

  Nina laughed, but she might as well have screamed. “Bad faith,” she said. “Can you imagine? Everything worked out for you and Baer until Elese died. This time Baer was on his own for finding another woman. I’m sure you weren’t happy when he took me and brought all that extra scrutiny. You knew if Baer was caught, he’d likely give you up. That’s why right from the first, you pestered Sergeant Hamilton. You wanted to know exactly where the case was going. Maybe you even pointed him down the right trail a time or two. Even you didn’t know exactly where Baer’s cabin was, but you had a general idea. When Terrence offered the reward for my return, you saw your chance for a big score and the chance to kill Baer. But I did that bit of dirty work for you.”

  His breathing was growing labored. “I can see how upset you are, Nina. But you have to give me a chance to prove my innocence. I’ll do that if you give me some time. But if you don’t help me, I’m going to die. And you’ll have to live with being my murderer.”

  “If you want my help, throw me the flare gun and the accelerant. I won’t come any closer as long as you’re holding them.”

  He didn’t immediately answer, but took a moment to consider his words. “They aren’t what you think. They can be explained. I needed them as protection in case the gang came after me.”

  But even he couldn’t make it sound as if he believed his explanation.

  She caught a glint of metal and heard the skittering of the metal flare gun as it unevenly passed across the hardscrabble earth, followed by a squeeze bottle.

  “Are you there?” he asked. “Are you fucking there?”

  She could hear him panting. She could feel his rage.

  “Nina?” he asked.

  “I’m here.”

  He turned his head in the direction of her voice. “I made some mistakes. But lately I’ve tried to make up for them. Haven’t I taken care of you and Ellie?”

  Nina began laughing. “Oh, Greg, you’re like that boy who shot both of his parents and then threw himself on the mercy of the court because he was an orphan.”

  “And what about you? Don’t act like you don’t have your own secrets. I read Elese’s book, and I read between the lines of your hospital confession. You murdered Baer in cold blood, didn’t you?”

  “In blood so cold that it froze. Yes, I did.”

  “We can figure out all of our sins later. We can come to some understanding. I can make it right for you. I promise I will. But now I need your help. You don’t want another death on your conscience.”

  “Did you ever think about Elese when she was imprisoned and tortured? I pray she died without knowing you were the Judas goat who led her to slaughter. My sister and I thought Baer was the monster. We had no idea there was another monster, one even worse than him.”

  “I realize what a terrible mistake I made. Give me a chance to show you and make up for it. I can do that! And you owe me. You would have died if I hadn’t rescued you.”

  “I’m not even sure you didn’t help Baer in my abduction.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. He mailed me your ring from Fairbanks. Can you imagine that? He sent it in an envelope with a note asking me to sell the diamond and then give him half the money. I knew he was out of control, but there was nothing I could do.”

  “You manipulated the investigation. You cut off a piece of that diamond to throw off the investigators and give you more time to try to collect the reward. You had to be the first on the scene to make sure Baer never revealed your conspiracy.”

  “That’s water under the bridge. Get me out of this fucking trap!”

  “You don’t need my help to do that.”

  He attempted a tone of hurt and helplessness. “I have two wooden spikes impaled in my leg. If I try to pull free, I’ll probably bleed out. You need to cut the branch off. And then with a tourniquet, we can stop the bleeding.”

  “Do you remember the story I told you about the wolf who chewed off part of her foot to escape Baer’s trap?”

  “This is no time to talk about Peter and the fucking wolf.”

  “Different story,” she said. “But seeing as you’ve been crying wolf for a long time, I can see how you’d like that one better.”

  His tone changed, becoming more wheedling and groveling. “Help me, Nina. You believe in doing the right thing. That’s why you helped these women.”

  “I did that for Elese. And for me.”

  “You’re a better person than I am. Show that now. You don’t want what happens today to haunt you.”

  “You know what I’m going to remember about today? My little girl said, ‘Mama.’ That’s what I’ll remember. And I’ll remember seven women who were given a chance to get their lives back. Those will be great memories. They’ll be the light that will block everything else out.”

  “I am sick. I get that now. I’m asking you for help. No, I am begging you.”

  “When the monster raped us, you raped us. And what the monster taught us, you taught us. I won’t be foolish enough to forget that now.”

  “Please . . .”

  “You betrayed your wife. You sent her to a living hell. And like it or not, you killed her. Despite all that, you would have me find a way to forgive what you did. But I can’t do that. Do you remember Elese’s Eighth Rule? She told me that when I got the chance, I had to kill the monster. She said it wasn’t a matter of right or wrong, but something that had to be done. And so I will not betray the memory of my sister.”

  As Nina picked up the flare gun and bottle of lighter fluid, he was able to see her for the first time that night, and his body recoiled, suddenly afraid.

  “Wolf!” he screamed. “Wolf!”

  It must have been a trick of the shadows or the sliver moon or the way she approached. Maybe his blood loss caught up to him. His eyes were wide and white. She wasn’t wearing the wolf mask, but he most definitely saw a wolf
.

  As she drove away, Nina looked in her rearview mirror. The trash fire was almost out.

  Soon the sun would rise. A new day was about to dawn. Ellie was waiting for her. And so were those who would benefit from her sister’s legacy. She slid her eyes from her rearview mirror and looked to the road ahead.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m lucky that Caitlin Alexander is not the kind of editor who settles for “good enough.” She constantly pushed me to write the best book possible. Her prodding sent me back to the drawing board—several times. I know how rare it is to get that kind of TLC. I am not sure if that’s an abbreviation for “tender loving care” or “tough loving care.” Either way I’m still thankful.

  One of the most difficult things about writing this book was trying to come to terms with Alaska. The state is huge beyond belief. Maps don’t do it justice. Moving characters from one place to another isn’t something done easily (imagine a state that is about the size of two-thirds of the continental United States). I hope I can be forgiven with a little literary license in trying to come to terms with the state (for example, indicating there was a White Alice station in a location where I know there wasn’t one).

  Although I’ve visited Alaska, I could spend a hundred lifetimes there and still not have scratched its surface. Luckily I called upon longtime Alaskans Jim Misko and Greg Durocher to help me. In addition to being a great resource, Jim is a fine author, and I asked him to look at my manuscript with an “Alaskan eye” to try to make sure a Native wouldn’t toss the book aside in disgust. As for Greg, he works with the US Geological Survey in Science Information Services in Anchorage. Greg was kind enough to answer my geology questions. When next I get to Alaska, I would love going out with Greg and the Chugach Gem and Mineral Society on one of their outings. I hope it goes without saying that any mistakes made are of my own making and shouldn’t reflect on Jim or Greg or other Alaskans I pestered with questions.

  As always, I appreciate the patience and understanding of my editor, Alison Dasho. A tip of my hat, also, to the rest of the hardworking crew at Thomas & Mercer. I’m grateful to be working for a publisher that does such a good job in getting my books out there.

  I would also like to thank my readers. One of the great things about being a writer is hearing from you. You can reach me through my website at www.alanrussell.net or “Like” me on my Facebook page, Alan Russell Mystery Author.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2012 Stathis Orphanos

  Hailed as “one of the best writers in the mystery field today” by Publishers Weekly, Alan Russell is the bestselling author of the acclaimed novels Burning Man, Guardians of the Night, St. Nick, Shame, and Multiple Wounds. “He has a gift for dialogue,” raves the New York Times, while the Boston Globe calls his work “complex and genuinely suspenseful.” His books have earned him a Lefty Award for best comedic mystery, a USA Today Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award for Lifetime Achievement from the San Diego Writers/Editors Guild. A California native, Russell still resides in the Golden State with his wife and three children.

  If you liked A Cold War, here’s an excerpt from another book by Alan Russell—Multiple Wounds.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  She thought of Chaos, and the original confusion, and felt as if she were a part of that tumult. Earth and sea and heaven and hell were mixed up, and everything inside of her was a whirligig. The Greek chorus was screaming in her head, all of them wanting out.

  Cube state. She tried to hold on to the phrase. That’s how the doctor described her states of flux. Everything was multiplied, squared, cubed, a Picasso painting.

  The yellow tape stopped her: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. The words repeated themselves throughout the tape, runes for rumination.

  “Gordian knot,” she said, talking over all the vying voices.

  What was the oracle telling her? She decided the words on the tape had to be an anagram, but there were so many possibilities.

  She looked at the words and deciphered a welcome among the letters. PROCEED IN. She didn’t bother with the remaining letters, just slipped under the yellow banner, dragging her bag behind her. As she walked into the gallery, she thought, What if the words are a warning? They could be saying, Sirens Plot, or Cronos Inside.

  Sometimes a cigar is just a smoke, Freud had said. Her analyst had once told her that.

  She was at the art gallery because one of the voices had clamored louder than the others, had insisted that she change the statues’ clothing, to show her respects that way. She avoided the display area, walking down the corridor toward the garden. Not for the first time she wished for blinders to help her when she was like this. She remembered watching a program on insects and being given a bee’s-eye view of the world. Bees perceive scores of images and look out into a different universe than humans. In cube state, so did she.

  There was a buzzing in her head and a sting in her heart as she entered the garden.

  CHEEVER WAS THINKING about death. That’s what homicide detectives do, but in this instance there was a merging of mortalities. The all-nighter had taken its toll on him. The echoes were getting assertive, were shouting back from the caves. You’re too old for this. And you’re bucking the odds. Cops who retire at fifty have the same mortality stats as butchers and bakers and candlestick makers, but those that stay on the job until they are fifty-five or older usually die within two years of leaving the force. Cheever contemplated his fifty-four years. Then he thought about Bonnie Gill. She hadn’t done very well by the actuary tables herself, dying at the age of thirty-seven. That was how they had been introduced.

  Bonnie Gill had been murdered in her own art gallery, Sandy Ego Expressions, a one-story structure on Tenth and J near the old Carnation Building. She had died in a garden out back, an area full of wind chimes, flowers (especially carnations), crafted pottery, and ornamental fountains that expanded on the usual motif of little boys peeing. Her throat had been slashed adjacent to an exhibition that a placard announced as Garden of Stone. Daylight hadn’t improved Cheever’s opinion of the display, but it had been worse the night before when everyone had kept being confronted by the statues. Most of the damn things were clothed. That had made it worse, especially in the semidarkness. He had kept mistaking them for human beings.

  The statues weren’t the kind found in public squares or the park, the men on horses and the women saints. These were statues with faces of pain and fear and anger. He had almost pulled his gun on one of them. The piece looked real enough, and threatening enough—a man holding a knife with both hands over his head. That’s how Bonnie Gill had died, or close enough. She had been killed with two knife wounds—had been stabbed in the back, then had had her throat slashed.

  He sought out the offensive statue with his eyes, wasn’t sure whether it was the morning light or the softer stone around the knife wielder’s face that gave the head such a glow. Maybe both. Cheever supposed the man with the knife was some kind of priest. That didn’t seem to matter to the woman being sacrificed. Her expression was one of terror.

  Cheever decided he had indulged himself too long at the crime scene. He liked to take his own impressions without the jostling of the evidence tech, and the ME, and the rest of his homicide team. He wrote down a few notes, not for himself, but for the opposing lawyers in case he ever got called to the stand. Around the department Cheever’s memory was legendary. The other detectives knew he didn’t need to write anything down once it was in his head. He liked to go out on a call, spot somebody he had popped ten, even twenty years back, and yell out a first name greeting. Many didn’t like to be remembered. They felt uneasy, marked, like Big Brother was watching them, monitoring everything they did.

  He turned and was startled to find a woman standing at the entrance to the garden. This time he was the one under observation. Shaken, it took him a moment to get his breath back, but when he did, he put his wind to good use. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

&
nbsp; His yelling helped her. It was louder than her chorus. The cacophony submerged into the background. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them her world had changed again.

  She had big eyes, he noticed. They were alert and blue and aware. She was like one of those Margaret Keane paintings where the kids’ eyes take up half the picture. He had started angrily toward her, but stopped now that he saw her terrified look. He was afraid she would bolt if he breathed hard. She looked like she was ready to drop her athletic bag and run.

  “I’m Detective Cheever,” he said. His words didn’t put her at ease.

  “I’ll show you identification,” he said. From a distance, he offered up his brass shield. She relaxed, but just a little.

  “You’re trespassing,” he advised her, “on a police investigation scene.”

  She considered his words and finally spoke: “I am the sculptor.”

  Cheever motioned with his head. “You did these?”

  The smallest of nods claimed credit. Cheever took his time examining the artist, could tell by her body language that it was still not the right time to approach her. He figured she was in her mid-twenties. She stood around five eight and was quite thin—weighed maybe one-fifteen. The woman liked jewelry. Her ears had been pierced more than Custer’s body, with at least six earrings hanging from each lobe. She went for the shiny metallic look, jewelry that could have been mistaken for fishing lures or perhaps was. Bracelets ran up her arms, and baubles and bangles had found their way to most parts of her body. She wore plenty of rings, but no apparent wedding ring. The only non-ornamental piece among her trimmings was a medical alert bracelet, but she might have been wearing it as another misplaced fashion statement. She had done a yin-yang kind of thing on her mane so that it was half black and half white. Cheever was surprised. It detracted from her natural beauty.