Stone Cross
Page 32
“He punched the judge,” Lola said.
“You thought Green was nothing but a CVB warrant. You didn’t do a background workup before you went out there, did you?”
“No,” Lola admitted. “But I called back from Stone Cross and had Nancy run him for me when we started hearing his name. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Good.” Phillips nodded thoughtfully. “He’s a fighter. It was good you knew that when you were ready to arrest him.”
“I’m kinda glad he fought,” Lola admitted.
“I understand,” the chief said. “Just remember, you can convince virtually anyone they need to fight you if you look at ’em just right. The trick is using that power judiciously.”
“Gotcha,” Lola said. “Speaking of the judge, I never did hear what happened between the judge’s secretary and Cutter that pissed the judge off so much.”
“Gayle?” Phillips smiled. “You’ll have to ask Arliss about that. Or the judge. You can ask him if you want.”
“Markham’s a good guy,” Lola said. “But I think I’ll pass on that.”
* * *
Cutter had a nephew on each hand, Michael on his right, Matthew on his left. They were both quiet, looking as though they might break into tears at any moment. Losing a dog was part of growing up, but Cutter wondered if the memorial was too much, this close to the death of their father. Mim had insisted they attend together.
An honor guard of four officers in dark blue Anchorage PD class A uniforms carried the small wooden casket to the grave and laid it gently across the support ropes. The chief of APD said a few words, as did the mayor, and the Eagle River woman who had donated the money to the department to sponsor Zeus’s training and upkeep. A piper from a local pipe-and-drum corps played “Amazing Grace.” Associated with police funerals, the song always brought a tear to Cutter’s eye—and he was not the only one.
When the song was finished, a few officers walked up and placed challenge coins or other mementos on top of the casket to honor the fallen police dog. Cutter gave a small cottonwood carving of a dog to Task Force Officer Nancy Alvarez, who passed it to her boyfriend. Officer Theron Jensen nodded in gratitude, and then placed the wooden figure on top of his partner’s casket with the other items. The chief then stepped forward and set a handheld police radio upright at the foot of the casket.
Even the wind seemed to fall quiet as a female dispatcher’s voice crackled loud and clear over the radio.
“K9 Zeus.”
Silence.
“Anchorage Police Dispatch calling K9 Zeus.”
More silence.
The dispatcher’s voice trembled now as she tried in vain to hold it together.
“K9 Zeus, no response. K9 Zeus is out of service. God speed, dear friend. You are gone, but not forgotten.”
The twins were bawling by the time the end-of-watch call was over.
“I’m so sorry,” Cutter whispered, wiping away a tear.
Mim spoke between her own sobs. “If you don’t cry when your friend’s dog dies, then you’re not much of a man.”
“I never heard that Grumpy Rule,” Cutter said.
“It’s a Mim Man-Rule . . . Check that, a Mim Human-Being Rule.”
A rare smile spread across Cutter’s face. “I just love you, Mim,” he said, hoping it sounded nonchalant, brother-in-law-like.
She reached to touch his arm. “I just love you, Arliss Cutter—and don’t you forget it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writers are like mollusks. We strain the world around us for stories and characters that we can use later to flesh out the tales we want to tell. Over the last two decades in Alaska, I’ve had the opportunity to know and work alongside astounding law enforcement officers from Anchorage Police Department, Alaska State Troopers (including AST pilots), Village Public Safety Officers, my own agency, the United States Marshals Service, and a host of other agencies that have a footprint in The Great Land. The characters in Stone Cross, while not based on any one individual, are certainly inspired by many of these stellar people. The bad guys, and the fights, too, are inspired by people I’ve arrested, and the violence that happens in rural Alaska virtually every day.
The forty-ninth state makes a wonderful if somewhat fickle character. There is a callousness that goes with the cold and wide-open spaces that lends itself to adventure—and terror. Out of necessity, I’ve touched on some of the darker issues facing rural Alaska. The problems are real—but so are the wonderful people and rich cultures. Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent huddled around a stove, driving a river boat, or riding snow machines with friends in the Alaska bush.
Over the years, my dear friend Brian Krosschell (a talented rural teacher) has guided me to villages on the Kuskokwim, Yukon, and Kobuk rivers. His wife, Lila, welcomed me into their home, feeding me seal oil, tomcod, and muktuk, among other traditional foods. My friend Perry Barr took me up and down the river when we were both still wearing badges—inviting me to his fish camp on our off time and sharing his smoked salmon strips, which are like gold. James Hoelsher and his family hosted me in their village countless times, and then invited me into their home, giving me salmon, homemade agutaq, and friendship.
The folks at Northern Knives in Anchorage don’t just help with the Jericho Quinn books. Their shop provides a place where I can sit among friends and talk—about blades, or whatever.
As always, my friend and martial arts instructor, Jujitsu Master Ty Cunningham, provided wise counsel and comment when it came to fight scenes and conflict in general.
Robin Rue, with Writers House, is the best literary agent I’ve ever even heard of. My editor at Kensington, Gary Goldstein, took the time away from his busy schedule to come visit me in Alaska and see what all the fuss was about. A real “author’s editor,” he’s a good guy to have in my corner.
The teachers who serve in the remote villages of the Alaska bush are an adventurous lot. I’ve spent many nights in a sleeping bag rolled out on a library or classroom floor, often sharing a cup of cocoa or tea with these bush teachers while I listened to their stories late into the evening. My hat is off to them for what they do. It’s too difficult to be only about the money. I asked a young teacher once if he thought it took something special to be a teacher in the bush. He smiled and said, “I think it takes something special to be a teacher.”
He’s right. My wife, Vicky, is a teacher. Without her guidance and encouragement, I’m sure I would have stopped writing a long time ago.
Grumpy Cutter’s Cowboy Chili Pie
2 pounds ground beef
1 onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tablespoon oil
2 Tablespoons chili powder
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 Tablespoons flour
1 28 oz can diced tomatoes with juice
1 7 oz can diced green chilies
2 to 3 cups grated cheddar cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
1 8½ oz package corn muffin mix
1 12 oz can whole kernel corn, drained
2 eggs
⅓ cup sour cream
Cook beef, onion, and garlic in oil in cast iron or other oven-safe frying pan until meat is done. Drain off excess fat.
Combine flour, chili powder, oregano, and cumin, then sprinkle over meat.
Stir, cooking mixture over medium heat for one minute.
Mix in green chilies and tomatoes with juice.
Cover with shredded cheese and set aside.
Mix eggs and sour cream into corn muffin mix until dry ingredients are moistened.
Fold in drained corn.
Space rounded spoonfuls of cornbread mixture evenly on top of cheese.
Bake at 375 for 20 to 30 minutes—until corn dumplings are browned and mixture is bubbling.
Remove from oven and let stand for 10 minutes.
sp; Marc Cameron, Stone Cross