Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  “Outstanding,” Warr said. “My AST pilot will meet us at the hangar. I have another trooper bringing the van over to grab your gear. It’s only a nine-minute flight to Stone Cross once you’re in the air, but I have to warn you, the weather is looking bum out there. To top that off, I need the plane. Earl has to do a turn-and-burn and leave to pick up a body in Nightmute right after he drops you off.” The trooper pushed the flat brim of his Stetson back a little with a knuckle. “If this weather settles in like they say it’s going to, he won’t be able to come back and get you when you’re ready to leave—which might be ten minutes after your boots hit the ground, to be honest. Bush villages can be a little daunting if you’ve never been to one. I’ve seen new teachers spread out at the aircraft door like a cat over a bathtub. They flat-out refuse to get off the plane when they get a good look at the place.” He glanced at Cutter. “Speaking of that, the special education teacher from Stone Cross has been in the lower forty-eight for a couple of weeks on a family emergency. All but a handful of the teachers in the village are brand-new, but this will be her fourth year at Stone Cross. That makes Natalie Beck a friggin’ maven of local knowledge. She’s a good kid. Well respected. Anyway, she needs a ride out so I thought it might be good if you had someone to give you a quick brief—conditions on the ground, as it were.” He grimaced, sucking air through his teeth. “I generally only see villages at their worst, but the hard truth is that it can be awfully bleak.”

  Markham pursed his lips, the let’s-move-this-along look any deputy who’d worked in his courtroom recognized at once. “We’ll be fine. What about the river? If it’s only a nine-minute flight, surely it can’t be that long a boat ride.”

  “You’re the federal judge?”

  Markham nodded. “I am.”

  “Well, Your Honor,” Warr said, “normally, a boat ride would be no problem. Forty-five minutes, tops. But your trip happens to coincide with freeze-up. The Kuskokwim is covered in fresh ice that’s too thick to run a boat through and too thin to drive on. An ATV might be able to do it along the bank, if it didn’t get stuck in the mud or beat you to death during the half-day ride. Air travel is the only way right now. This happens quite a bit during this time of the year. When the river freezes solid enough to drive on, they flag it and call it a winter road.”

  Speaking over her shoulder, Ms. Paisley dragged a heavy canvas bag off the conveyor. “I read that Bethel has a hovercraft. Can’t that negotiate thin ice?”

  “It can when it’s working,” Lieutenant Warr said.

  The handheld radio on the lieutenant’s belt clicked twice.

  “Your ride is here,” he said.

  Cutter looked out the terminal windows to see a female trooper in a Toyota minivan like Mim’s. The trooper pulled up to the curb so the judge didn’t have to walk too far in the blowing snow. His law clerk and the two attorneys reaped the benefit. Lowly protectors, the marshals had to hoof it across the road, carrying their guns and gear to Lieutenant Warr’s unmarked Tahoe in one of three AST parking spots. Another SUV with the distinctive golden-bear badge of Alaska State Troopers was parked alongside the Tahoe. Cutter sat in the caged prisoner compartment, leaning forward a little so he could hear through the small sliding window in the partition.

  Warr took off his Stetson to reveal a bald head. He slid the hat into a wire holder on the ceiling of the SUV.

  Lola gave him a wary smile. “How’d you know Markham was the judge?”

  “I’ve got a sense for people who believe themselves to be wise and all-knowing.” The trooper laughed. “Seriously, your boss called my boss and let us know about the threat. They emailed me Markham’s photo. That guy’s got a celebration of hair. And how about that bow tie. He wears it wherever he goes?”

  “Apparently,” Lola said.

  Warr ran a hand over his smooth scalp. “Any suspects?”

  “Nope,” Cutter said. “Unless you have a list of people in this area who hate federal judges.”

  “That’s liable to be a long list,” Warr said. “No offense, but the feds are only slightly more loved than Alaska Fish and Wildlife Troopers, which ain’t much. Subsistence rights, steel versus lead shot, fishing limits. We’re not lacking for hot-button topics in the bush. Anyway, the AST hangar’s just up the road. Earl should have the Caravan ready to go. Sorry he has to dump you off and leave.”

  Warr looked capable enough, if a little tense around the edges, like someone who had far too many emergencies on his plate at the same time, but was managing to keep ahead of everything by sheer force of will. Cutter had seen the look before, on the faces of leaders who got their orders from a headquarters who had forgotten about the chaos in the field—if they’d ever known at all.

  “We’ll be fine,” Cutter said. “I have a feeling we’ll have to pry the judge out of there. And we’re not leaving until he does. This body you have to pick up, is it a homicide?”

  Warr gave a somber shake of his head. “Nope. Accidental drowning. Eleven-year-old boy fell out of a boat when he was fishing with his dad on the Kolavinarak. The body washed downriver and got caught up under some scrub willow leaning out over the water. Took us a couple of days to find it with all the slush ice. Sad deal all around.”

  “That’s stuffed,” Lola said, her father’s Kiwi accent peeking through again.

  “I wish I could say it wasn’t common.” Warr turned in at a gravel lot in front of a large metal hangar. “These rivers are so cold, a lot of bush kids never learn to swim. But water accidents aren’t the half of it. We had a homicide three days ago in a village up on the Yukon, a double murder–suicide. The day before that, there was an ATV accident downriver that pretty well cut a poor lady in half on a utility guywire. The oversight trooper for that village had just taken an assault report from the same woman the day before he responded to the accident. Seeing her like that really shook him up. A lot to process for a twenty-four-year-old kid.”

  Lola stared at the window, releasing a long sigh. “I had no idea.”

  “Yeah, well,” Warr said, “we don’t get much play on the evening news. I think most folks in the big village of Anchorage would rather read about what’s going on in New York or Hollywood than be reminded of the shitload of deaths and dismemberments that occur in their own state.” He threw the Tahoe into park. “Sorry to get all gloomy on you.”

  “No worries,” Lola said. “I’m sorry we had to show up on such a shitty day.”

  Warr retrieved his hat, checked the brim to make sure it was still straight, and then snugged it on his head. “This stuff happens every day. If I had any hair, it would be on fire most of the time.” He nodded at the prisoner cage. “You’ll have to let your partner out. Doors don’t open from the inside.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Warr punched the code into a mechanical cypher lock on the door. Cutter couldn’t help but notice the telltale numbers scratched into the dusty metal siding of the nondescript hangar in case someone forgot their code. The heavy steel door groaned in protest against the cold as Warr pushed it open, standing back so Cutter and Lola could carry in their bags.

  Judge Markham and the others were already inside. Ms. Paisley stood near the nose of the state Cessna Caravan, chatting with a rosy-cheeked young woman who Cutter assumed to be Natalie Beck, the Stone Cross teacher who would be riding with them. Where everyone else in the room dressed in gear as if they’d outfitted themselves for a winter expedition at REI, Beck wore a serviceable combination of wool and fur. Military surplus pants were held up with suspenders and tucked into the top of insulated Muck boots. A black merino wool top, slightly frayed at the cuffs, hugged the curves of her torso. Two plastic Rubbermaid totes—quintessential bush-Alaska baggage—were secured with zip ties beside everyone else’s gear on the rough concrete floor at the open rear cargo door. From what Cutter had seen, these high-wing single-engine planes were the workhorses of Alaska. A Cessna 185 taildragger painted in the blue-and-white Troopers color scheme occupied the corner of the h
angar to the Caravan’s right. A smaller, flimsy-looking Piper Super Cub squatted on huge balloon tires in the shadows near a green portable toilet on the opposite side of the hangar. Wing covers, aircraft skis, survival gear, and assorted spare parts packed tall wooden shelves that ran along both side walls. Cutter was by no means a pilot, but he was a gearhead. Motor oil and rubber tires emitted comforting smells that reminded him of younger days working on project cars with Ethan and Grumpy.

  Earl Battles, the trooper pilot, was a Yup’ik man in his late forties. He was built low to the ground with broad shoulders and a wide, canary-eating smile—the kind of guy who was always thinking of a good joke, even if he kept it to himself. Obviously in a hurry to get going, he was situating the bags in the back of the airplane. He glanced up and saw Lola’s rifle case.

  “Natalie’s bringing food and necessaries for months, so I don’t mind her plastic totes, but I appreciate you bringin’ luggage in soft cases. Makes it a heck of a lot easier to stow.”

  Markham’s eyes fell to his fat, hard-sided suitcase and gave a nobody-told-me scowl.

  On his knees inside the plane, the pilot reached down from the cargo door and snapped his fingers at the judge. “Let’s have that one next. It needs to go near the bottom.”

  The law clerk stifled a snicker.

  Cutter turned away. It was refreshing to see someone who treated judges like everyone else.

  Earl reached for Lola’s rifle case, snapping again. “We’ll have to Jenga this in with everything, but I’ll make sure we don’t screw up your sights.”

  After securing the wide nylon cargo net across the rear of the aircraft, Earl jumped down and shook hands with everyone. He was enthusiastic as he took each hand, like he was genuinely glad to meet them.

  “So,” he said, “Lieutenant Warr told you I have to leave as soon as I drop you off?”

  “He did,” Markham said.

  “If the weather holds then I’ll check in with you later tonight and see if you’re ready to come back.”

  “Why does everyone think we’re going to want to leave right after we get there?” Tina Paisley muttered. “It’s starting to creep me out.”

  “Past experience,” Earl said, completely sincere.

  “We have a job to do,” Markham said. “And we will get it done. I am told that the school principal . . . a Ms. Pingayak, has rooms for us at the school.”

  “Pin-GUY-akhh,” the pilot said, wet-mouthed, sounding like he was clearing his throat at the end. “You accented the last syllable. The stress should be on the second.”

  “Thank you,” Markham said.

  Lola leaned in to Cutter and whispered, “Earl better hope he never has a case in federal court.”

  “Just call her Birdie,” Lieutenant Warr said. “Unless you were born out there, you’ll never get the language right. She’s a squared-away lady, so she’ll take care of you. Runs her school like a ship—which can be terrifying. Can’t it, Natalie?”

  “She’s amazing.” Beck smiled, showing deep dimples. “You’ll see.”

  Earl clapped his hands together. “Everyone has what they need? Sleeping bags, air mattresses, food, your last will and testament?”

  “He’s kidding.” Warr glanced down at his phone. “But this is the last chance to change your minds. Arbitration can always happen next month when the river is solid and the ice road is passable and flagged.”

  “It’s up to the pilot, of course,” Markham said, “but I say we go ahead. All parties are present and ready to proceed. If we have to stay in Stone Cross for a few extra days, that’s just how it is.”

  Markham’s clerk stared up at the plane, shaking his head. “Maybe the trooper’s right, Your Honor . . .”

  “Brett . . .” The judge chided him like a dog that was getting into mischief.

  Earl put his hand on Brett Grinder’s shoulder. “You ride up front with me, son,” he said. “I can tell you’re the brains of the outfit. First time in a small plane?”

  The law clerk nodded.

  “Really?” Earl leaned in and whispered, sotto voce, “Mine too.” He tapped the grab handle and folding metal stepladder that Grinder would use to climb into the right front seat. “Seriously though. This weather sucks, but it’s still doable. Not even a federal judge can get me to defy the laws of physics and fog. We should be fine. Besides, it’s only a short flight. We’ll know in a couple of minutes if we’re all gonna die in a ball of flames.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The acrid odor of something burning wormed its way inside the bag over Sarah Mead’s head. She’d read somewhere that people smelled burned toast when they were having a stroke. She had no idea if the toast part was true, but the pain in her brain made it easy to believe there was some serious damage going on up there. She blinked, licking dry lips. Even that small movement brought wave after wave of nauseating agony. She tried to push herself into a seated position. It was impossible without the use of her hands. Where the hell were her hands? And what was over her eyes?

  She coughed, a sickening ache yanking her back to the brutal reality of her situation. One big, fat mystery. How did she end up here, bound, facedown? She vaguely remembered getting hit. Twice. The blow must have done some serious damage because her head was on fire. She couldn’t see, her hearing was toast, and her hands were so numb they could have very well been gone for all she knew. She couldn’t even scream like a normal human being. And now something was burning. Maybe the lodge was on fire.

  A sudden heaviness filled the space around her, as if someone was standing inches from her face. Shadows flickered across the blindfold. A familiar odor seeped in to replace the burned toast. She tried to speak. “David?” It came out slurred and unintelligible inside her head: “Dwoooid.” Maybe her jaw was broken. She pressed her face downward, bringing more nausea. She swallowed the agony and used her tongue to check for damage. As she expected, she’d lost a couple of teeth. No wonder she could do nothing but babble.

  Locked inside her world of pain, she flopped and squirmed like a landed fish when a hand suddenly pressed against her shoulder.

  There were muffled words. Sarah couldn’t tell if something was wrong with her hearing or the part of her brain that processed sound, but she couldn’t understand what was being said. She didn’t even know if it was being said to her. The hand seemed gentle enough, but it didn’t untie her. She smelled the odor again. It was the scent of her husband—the coconut body wash he liked. He was here. She prayed he was okay. The hand pressed more firmly on her shoulder, like it wanted to get her attention. Shadows passed in front of the hood. The heaviness of another person in her space loomed over her as someone bent closer to her ear.

  More words, still garbled, but she could make out some of them now. “. . . eat . . . want to hurt you . . . be afraid . . .”

  She screamed in spite of her jaw. Be afraid. That was rich. What else could she be?

  The hand slid from her shoulder to her elbow, lifting her to a seated position. It was surprisingly gentle for a kidnapper.

  The voice spoke again, slower this time. “Please . . . eat soup.”

  The bag over her head lifted slightly, just a few inches, giving her space to reach an offered straw with trembling lips. It was incredibly painful, but she was so thirsty she drew in as much of the warm soup as she could before the straw was taken away. It was salty and rich and seemed to go straight to her core.

  “Waaer,” she said.

  The same straw came up under the hood again, now in a cup of cool water. She drank slowly, drawing out the process, looking down to see her own feet for the first time in recent memory. She had no idea how long she’d been here, but judging from her hunger, it had been a while. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Things were still blurry, but she needed desperately to see, to get some sort of bearings or she would float away. More garbled words. “. . . get sick . . . if . . . eat too much . . .”

  She shook her head, despite the electric pain. No! Don’t take it awa
y! Not yet.

  Her eyes felt like they were set in her skull with hot sand. It took all her effort to glance down, at the feet of the person holding the cup.

  She gagged when the image came into focus. Dizziness washed over her, pressing her back on the bed.

  This couldn’t be. It was wrong. All wrong.

  On the ground, gawking back up at her, was a pair of Xtratuf boots, each brown toe bearing a ludicrous smiley face drawn in black permanent marker.

  * * *

  Vitus Paul banged on the lodge door with his fist. His teeth were chattering so hard he thought they would crack any minute. Water dripped from his sodden coat, making a puddle on the wooden porch. Much longer and his body wouldn’t have the energy to warm itself. He’d seen hypothermia before—and it wasn’t pretty. He shook now. He still felt the painful effects of deep, penetrating cold. His bones ached. His lungs felt heavy. His hands refused to do what he told them. Even more important to his survival, he was still scared to die. Soon, that would change. The chill would seep into his core and he’d begin to feel warm. His coat would feel much too hot and he’d shuck it. He might even abandon all his clothing. The shaking would stop. Fear and pain would take a back seat in his brain—though they would never leave altogether. He would simply go to sleep, probably naked and certainly alone—until ravens or wolverines or shrews found his body.

  There was still enough warm blood flowing to his brain that the idea of being eaten by tiny shrews made him queasy. He banged on the door again, calling out. This was bush Alaska, where everyone had a couple of guns. Barging into somebody’s house was a good way to find out quick what kind of a shot they were. Still no answer. He thought of kicking in the door. He’d wanted to ever since he was old enough to watch cop shows on TV. But this door was made of split timber and he could barely stand up.

  And anyway, it turned out to be unlocked. No one locked their doors in the bush.

  Vitus stuck his head in, still a little worried about getting shot.