Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

“Are you really going to put him in jail?”

  “Yes, I am,” Lola said.

  “For talking to me?”

  “No,” Lola said. “For—”

  Judge Markham opened the double doors at the other end of the gym.

  “Everything all right?”

  Jolene sniffed back a tear, composing herself.

  “Thank you,” she said under her breath.

  Lola gave her a wink, then waved at the judge. “We’re good, Your Honor. Jolene and I were just discussing the mysteries of making soup.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Arliss Cutter had spent a grand total of ninety minutes on a dogsled during his entire life, and even he could tell when Smudge’s demeanor changed. The lead dog slowed at first, turning his head side to side as he ran, as if he recognized some smell.

  “We’re getting close,” Birdie yelled over her shoulder.

  Smudge slowed even more, forcing the rest of the team to slow down as well or pile up behind him. Birdie tapped the brake to keep the sled from running up on Digger and Hawke. Visibility was better than it had been with the fog, but that wasn’t saying much. Cutter could see maybe fifty feet with the headlamp, but reflected snowflakes made it look like they were making the jump to hyperspace, obscuring what he could see, and making him see things that weren’t there. There was nothing ahead but tundra—and nothing was a difficult thing to see.

  “He smells something,” Cutter shouted, before Smudge veered off the trail and trotted a few more steps.

  “Smart dog,” Birdie said. “He knows the deeper snow will slow us down and keep the sled from smacking into him.”

  She set the snow hook and unslung her rifle.

  Cutter brought his rifle around as well.

  The tracks left behind by Donna Taylor’s sled were still visible in the snow, going almost due north now. If she was out there somewhere, she must have circled back because Smudge was staring intently to the east.

  Instead of angling into the wind as they normally did when they stopped, the other ten dogs turned toward the darkness to follow Smudge’s stare.

  “Could be a moose,” Birdie said. “Or maybe wolves.”

  Rifle in hand, Cutter trudged through the gale past the team so he could study the trail at something slower than ten miles an hour. He took shallow breaths, giving his lungs a chance to warm the frigid air.

  Unimpeded by windbreaks, the storm quickly eroded the twin lines left by Donna’s sled runners down to almost nothing. But here and there, in the lee of a tussock or tiny mound of lichen, the tracks were relatively protected. Much more comfortable in the estuaries and glades of his boyhood home, Cutter didn’t have a great deal of experience with snow. But he was a quick study, and knew that when the stuff was disturbed it went through a sort of metamorphosis, often hardening like cement. Survival instructors pointed this out when they piled fluffy snow into a mound, and then waited a short time until it became firm enough to dig out a shelter.

  Pressure from the weight of Donna’s sled compacted the snow and melted it into a micro-thin layer of water. That’s what made the sled glide so well. With temperatures hovering around zero now, that water had quickly frozen into a glaze of ice. The disturbed snow at the side of the tracks remained soft, like an uncompacted snowball. It hadn’t had time to morph, to set up.

  Donna Taylor was minutes in front of them, maybe seconds. It was difficult to tell when they couldn’t see more than fifty meters.

  Cutter wheeled and made his way back to the sled, the wind now blasting his right shoulder. They were sitting ducks out here in the open. The lack of visibility offered some protection, but Donna had to suspect she’d be followed after shooting the VPSO.

  He lifted the rifle over his head, waving his free arm to get Birdie’s attention. She’d been staring into the darkness beside the dogs. He gestured up the trail with his mitten.

  “We need to go!” he shouted.

  Birdie kicked through a foot of snow to get to Smudge and drag him back to the trail. The rest of the team grudgingly followed.

  Cutter was waiting for her at the back of the sled.

  “What’s up there?” he asked, taking his spot on the runners.

  Birdie pointed north then waved her mitten from east to west. “There’s a band of spruce less than a mile in front of us. It’s maybe a quarter mile wide. Beyond that it’s just more braided rivers and open tundra for a good ten miles.”

  “She’s close then,” Cutter said.

  “Very close.”

  “Okay, guys!” Birdie said, whistling up the dogs. “Let’s go.”

  The dogs threw themselves into their tug-lines and the sled began to pick up speed.

  “Let’s go!” Birdie said again. “Good dogs. Good Smu—”

  She went quiet, leaning forward over her handlebar to get a better view. Cutter saw it too.

  A lone dog caked in snow and ice limped out of the darkness, head down, tail tucked. Smudge went crazy, arching at the end of his tug-line, trying to escape and go greet his sister.

  “It’s Smoke!” Cutter said, stomping on his footbrake. He didn’t have to look to know Birdie would do the same.

  She set the snow hook and they stumbled off the trail to the injured dog.

  “That bitch just left this dog to die!” Birdie said. “Still in harness.”

  Cutter unzipped his parka and scooped the shivering dog in his arms. He had on a lot of layers, but was hopefully sharing some of his body heat. The dog whined and looked up at his eyes. He’d never been one to attribute human traits and emotions to animals. To believe, for instance, that this dog was thanking him was absurd—but she sure looked grateful to be inside his coat.

  Birdie moved close, pulling her own parka open so the two of them made a nest for Smoke, out of the wind. It was like dancing, with a dog between them.

  “The poor thing is soaking wet,” Birdie said, not bothering to hide her contempt for Donna Taylor. “She’s been in water. If we hadn’t come along she would have frozen to death.”

  “She may still,” Cutter said.

  Birdie nodded. “Glad to see your propensity to save wounded things extends to dogs.”

  “Of course.” Cutter got the bibs out of the basket, wrapping Smoke inside the thick material. “We have to put her in the sled and keep moving.”

  “I know,” Birdie said. “You stopped though. A lot of men I know would have just gone on by.”

  Cutter was struck by a sudden thought as he made the little dog as comfortable as possible. “She’s covered with more ice than snow. You think she fell in the river?”

  “I do,” Birdie said. “Probably some overflow up ahead. Easy place to get into a jam if you’re not careful.”

  She took her position on the runners and retrieved the snow hook.

  “If she went into overflow,” Birdie said, “there’s probably bad spots all along the river. If we press her, then there’s a good chance we’ll catch her before she gets to the trees.”

  “Press her then,” Cutter yelled.

  A familiar tickle crept down the back of his neck, not unlike the feeling he got when he was about to kick down a door with a fugitive on the other side. Smudge picked up the pace, hurling himself and the rest of the team into the teeth of the storm. They were closing in. The dogs could feel it too.

  CHAPTER 40

  “I’m going after her,” One-Eyed Rick said, using his finger nails to scrape away the frost from the tiny window. “I’ll take care of these two first, then I’m leaving.” He looked up at his friend, turning his head farther than normal so his one eye would come into play. “Unless you want to do it.”

  Morgan Kilgore looked up from where he was reading the back of a pilot-bread box he’d gotten from wherever he got the coffee and his new hat. He held up the dark blue box. “These things are tasty for just water and flour.”

  Sarah pushed her back flat against logs, getting as far as possible from these two insane men. Rick had been glaring at her wit
h his single eye for the past half hour. All the while, Morgan did nothing but make idiotic observations about trivial things—a red-backed vole that kept poking its little head out from under the eaves over the stove, the way the pitch and timbre of the wind sounded like a bad orchestra, and now the stupid Sailor Boy crackers.

  She couldn’t take this inane banter anymore. Knowing she was about to die imparted a certain freedom that she’d never felt before.

  She sneered at One-Eyed Rick. “You’re so tough.” The pain in her jaw and teeth still gave her trouble when forming some words but she was infinitely more understandable now. “Beating a man who is half unconscious. What do you expect him to tell you when you don’t give him a chance to talk? No one has asked me a single question.”

  Still at the window, Rick wheeled, giving her a squinty glare before stomping to the woodpile next to the stove. He picked up the camp axe by the bit and pointed at her with the handle. “You should shut your mouth,” he said. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”

  Spewing curses, he split a piece of wood that seemed too large for the stove and then buried the hatchet into one of the logs in the pile.

  Morgan dropped the pilot-bread box on the table and got to his feet with a groan. “Don’t worry so much, brother,” he said. “Donna said she would be here, so she’ll be here. She probably just had a bit of trouble slipping away from the village.”

  “Maybe so,” the one-eyed man said. “But what if something’s happened? It’s blowing like hell out there. Could be the troopers figured out who she is. Or maybe she broke her leg. You don’t think I should go check on her?”

  “It would just piss her off,” Morgan said. “You know how mad she’ll be if the boy dies before she gets a few minutes to talk to him.”

  Rick squatted in front of the open stove door holding the length of wood he’d split, staring at the flames. His eye was red from the drugs and lack of sleep. He rubbed his face with his free hand and then began to bounce his fist off his own forehead. “This didn’t go like I pictured it,” he said. “I thought it would . . . I don’t know, give me some answers, make me feel better about Reese.”

  Sarah threw back her head and screamed. “Will someone tell me what I’m doing here? Who is Reese?”

  Rick crammed the piece of wood in the stove, disturbing the fire and sending up a shower of sparks. He ignored Sarah altogether, but his hulking shoulders heaved with emotion.

  Morgan looked at her and raised a hand, as if to warn her off. It did no good.

  “Who is he?” she asked again. “You’re going to kill me anyway. You may have already killed my husband. I have a right to know why we’re here.”

  “Reese was his son,” Morgan said.

  “And you think David hurt him?”

  Rick wheeled, snatching up the axe, and stood so he brandished it above her. His voice was low, viperous.

  “Your precious husband let my boy die. I want to know how it happened.”

  Sarah was too exhausted to be terrified anymore. Pain and futility flatlined all her emotions. What should have been white-hot anger had dulled to a mechanical frustration directed at these two men. Unclouded by panic or fear, her mind began to form the sparks of a plan. It was likely to get her killed—but doing nothing was worse.

  “Does it occur to you that David might have told me whatever it is you want to know?”

  Rick reared back, holding the axe higher, as if he were about to swing it. He paused for a moment, considering what she said, and then scoffed. “Not a chance. This guy doesn’t have the balls to tell the truth about anything.” He gave David an openhanded smack of contempt to the side of his head. “He’s too much of a coward.”

  Sarah slammed her hands down flat on the bed. “Stop it! Stop hitting him!” She snapped her fingers when Rick turned away. “Here, jackass! Here. Focus on me. You’re going to kill us whenever this Donna gets here, because you think my husband hurt your child.” She shook her head, crying now, not begging, merely pointing out the idiocy of the situation. “I have done nothing wrong. I’m someone’s child, and you plan to kill me. Should my parents come after you when this is over? Maybe scoop up one of your other children in the process and kill them too?”

  “Yeah, well.” Rick sneered. “Reese was my only kid.”

  “What does all this accomplish?”

  Rick shrugged. “I’m going to hell, but my boy will get a little justice. That’s what it accomplishes. It’s your sorry luck you married this spineless worm. I guess life’s a bitch.”

  “And you’re a bastard,” Sarah hissed. “A weak and pitiful bastard.” She leaned forward, daring him to do something. “You know what I think? I think you probably never paid any attention to your son anyway. You were too busy out scoring drugs or killing other people’s kids. That’s why you’re so broken. So twisted up in the brainpan. The guilt of being such a shitty father when he was alive—”

  Rick roared, his one eye opening wide. He came up on his back foot to put power into the axe. Morgan rushed him, catching the big man’s arm mid-swing.

  “Knock it off!” Morgan snapped. “Both of you.” He gave Rick a withering glare as he took the axe out of the man’s hand and tossed it to the corner. “Can’t you see that she’s just trying to make you mad? She knows what’s happening here. She wants you to kill her quickly so you can’t use her as leverage to get David to talk. Take a breath, my friend. Calm your ass down. Donna will be here any minute and you can finish what you came here to do. This girl is broken. She isn’t going anywhere.”

  Sarah stared into Rick’s eye. Mocking him. Men like this fed on fear. Letting him know she wasn’t scared starved him of what he needed. It made him weak. Morgan Kilgore gave her one of his soft smiles—but she saw through it. He wasn’t saving her life. He was just saving her for later.

  She rolled her lip into a snarl, showing broken teeth, and then spit a slurry of blood and mucus on Rick’s crotch.

  His hand came around in a powerful haymaker, connecting with the side of her head. Her already injured brain fairly exploded with molten pain—but she’d been hit before and knew it was coming. She rolled with the blow, landing on her side, her face pressed against the old blanket that smelled like motor oil. Her right hand broke her fall, clutching the edge of the bed, a mere three feet from the axe.

  It was just where she wanted to be.

  CHAPTER 41

  Donna Taylor heard the first bark behind her during a momentary lull in the storm. It was a shrill, chattering sound, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard. She screamed for her dogs to pick up the pace, kicking repeatedly alongside the runner to help move the sled along. She wondered if it was a wolf. They were out here. She’d never heard a wolf bark like that. Maybe Smoke was able to keep up. These dogs were tough.

  Donna hunched low over the handlebar to cut the wind. Every inch of her body was cold. Parts of her she didn’t know she had, ached. Even her mind—no, especially her mind—was on fire. Cold, foggy, and on fire at the same time. She felt as though she’d jumped aboard a runaway train, and she was powerless to stop it, unable to get off. Wherever it was going, she was going there too. She was so ready for this to be over—one way or another.

  Still following the river, she was ever on the lookout for overflow after her previous screwup. There were dangers everywhere, hidden under the snow, but this was the fastest route to the cabin. The dogs knew the way, so it was even faster. She hadn’t been out since the night they’d taken David and Sarah Mead. The girl had been unconscious then. It was a big mistake not to leave her where she fell. They’d left the big Norwegian after Rick blasted him with the Africa gun, but there was no saving him.

  The troopers might take a while to get organized looking for a missing man. They’d surely go on the hunt for a murderer, but they’d pull out all stops to save a kidnapped woman.

  Even crazy with grief, Donna should have known better. They’d discussed killing the girl at the cabin while she was still unconscious. Rick s
aid it would be easy. He’d just put a hand over her mouth and she’d never wake up. Easy peasy. Morgan Kilgore had suggested they keep her alive in case they needed her for leverage on her husband. Donna had thought that a good idea at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure. Kilgore wasn’t going soft. It was the opposite, really. Killing came easy to her husband, but Morgan Kilgore was like a cat. He liked to play with his food.

  The barking came again. Her heart sank when she realized it was a dog team. She was less than an hour from the cabin. The truth she’d wanted, needed, so desperately for two years now was within reach. She was so close to finding out what had happened to her boy—not the lies the newspapers told.

  And now someone was actually chasing her with dogs? Seriously? She’d known the troopers would eventually come when they found the VPSO’s body. But they would be on snow machines or ATVs. She would have heard the engines. Maybe it was some of Ned Jasper’s friends. No, he was new to the village, and he was a cop—not well-loved enough for anyone to risk frostbite and death to hunt his killer. The marshals didn’t seem likely. They were more worried about their precious federal judge than the goings-on in the bush. This made no sense at all.

  The barking grew closer now, close enough to hear over the storm. She thought she heard a shout, but couldn’t be sure. She tried to look over her shoulder, but the cumbersome parka would have made it difficult in perfect conditions. Her hood had gotten wet when she wrecked and was frozen into a football-shaped tunnel of cloth that extended six inches out from her face. In order to see directly behind her, she would have to turn a complete 180 degrees.

  The river straightened out ahead, narrowing to just fifty feet or so from bank to bank, making the water run faster, slower to freeze. The week before that had meant an area of thin ice. Donna had hugged the back then, in the shade of a high bank where the ice was already thick enough to support the weight of the dogs. She hit it mid-river this time, caught unaware when she looked back and forth after trying to see over her shoulder.

  Collectively, the dogs weighed somewhere around four hundred pounds, but their weight was spread out over the surface. They made it across with no problem. The sled was an entirely different story. The ice under the runners cracked like a rifle shot, sending out a web of long fissures the instant Donna crossed it. She slammed forward against the handlebar as the brush bow plunged through a soft spot. Terrified, the dogs kept pulling, miraculously getting the front end back up on solid ice, but the lip of the basket stuck on the edge, anchoring the team in place as surely as the snow hook. Donna screamed, chided, and threatened, begging the dogs to pull. The sled hung there over the gaping hole for an agonizing second before a ten-foot section of ice shattered, all but vaporizing beneath Donna Taylor. The rear of the sled fell like a stone, sending Donna’s stomach into her throat and her feet into the river.