A bottle she’d missed exploded in the mine entrance and everybody jumped. Mutt barked, a single, sharp sound, and kept barking. There was a scrabble of feet behind Kate. The ax twisted out of her hands and thudded into the snow six feet away, and she whirled to face a blade that gleamed in the reflection of the whiskey fire. She halted in a half crouch, arms curved at her sides.
Where was Mutt? A bark answered the question somewhere off to her right. She couldn’t look away from the blade to see what Mutt had found more important than guarding her back. They would discuss the matter, in detail. Later.
The bootlegger’s grin taunted her, and he wasn’t looking so handsome anymore. “Sorry, Kate.” He gestured at her scar with the knife. “Guess I get to finish what one of your baby-rapers started. No offense,” he added. “I’m just making me too much money to let you walk away from this one.”
“No offense,” she agreed, and as he took a step forward dropped to her hands, kicked out with her right foot, hooked his ankle, and yanked his feet out from under him. He landed hard on his back, hard enough to jolt the knife out of his grip. She snagged it out of the air and in one continuing smooth motion had the point under his chin. The grin froze in place.
She pressed up with the blade. Very slowly and very carefully he got to his feet. She kept pressing, and he went all the way up on tiptoe. “What is this,” she said, “a six-inch blade?” A bead of bright red blood appeared, and he gave an inarticulate grunt. “I personally think your brain is too small for the blade to reach if I stick it in from under your chin.” She pressed harder “What do you think?”
His voice broke on a sob. “Jesus, Kate, don’t, please don’t.”
Disgusted, she relaxed enough for him to come down off his toes. The point of the knife shifted, and he jerked back out of range. Blood dripped from his chin. He wiped at it and gave his hand an incredulous look. “You cut me! You bitch, you cut me!” He backed away from her as if he could back away from the blood too. His heel caught on something, and he lost his balance and fell over the bank of the creek. It was short but steep, and momentum threw him into a heavy, awkward backward somersault. He landed on a fallen log. Kate heard the unmistakable crack of breaking bone from where she stood. The whiskey fire was high enough to show the white gleam of bone thrusting up through the fabric covering his left thigh.
Becoming aware of a low rumble of sound, she turned. Mutt stood in the middle of the airstrip, legs stiff, hackles raised, all her teeth showing as she stared into the trees. A steady, menacing growl rumbled up out of her throat. Kate followed her gaze. Five pairs of cold, speculative eyes met her own. Five muzzles sniffed the air filled with the scents of burning whiskey, leaking hydraulic fluid, broken flesh, the rust-red smell of fresh blood.
Behind them Pete clawed his way up the creekbank and saw. “Kate.” His voice sweated fear.
She turned her head to look at the man lying on the frozen creekbank, and she did not see him. She saw instead eight kids in Alakanuk, drunk and then dead drunk. She saw a baby drowned in Birch Creek, left on a sandbar by parents too drunk to remember to load him into the skiff with the case of beer they had just bought, and just opened.
She saw her mother, cold and still by the side of the road, halfway to a home to which she never returned and a husband and a daughter she never saw again.
Kate picked up the ax and took a step back. Five pairs of eyes shifted from the prone man to follow her progress. “Mutt,” she said, her torn voice low.
The steady rumble of Mutt’s growl never ceased as she, too, began to retreat, one careful step at a time.
“Kate,” Pete said. “That thing with your mother, that was business. A guy has a right to make a living, you know?”
Her camp was already packed and stowed. The ax went in with it. The brush concealing the Polaris was easily cleared, and she’d left the machine pointed downhill for an easy start. She straddled the seat. “Kate!” His voice rose. “Your mother would fuck for a bottle! Shit, after a while she’d fuck for a drink! Goddamn you, Kate, you can’t leave me here! Kate!”
The roar of the engine drowned out his scream.
Gathering clouds hid the setting sun. It would snow before morning. It was sixty miles across country to her homestead. Time to go. Mutt jumped up on the seat behind her, and Kate put the machine in gear.
Excerpt
If you enjoyed “Nooses Give,” we think you’ll like Breakup. It’s a novel in the popular Kate Shugak series by Dana Stabenow, and it’s now available as an e-book at stabenow.com.
Breakup
KATE SURVEYED THE YARD in front of her cabin and uttered one word. “Breakup.”
Affection for the season was lacking in the tone of her voice.
Ah yes, breakup, that halcyon season including but not necessarily limited to March and April, when all of Alaska melts into a 586,412-square-mile pile of slush. The temperature reaches the double digits and for a miracle stays there, daylight increases by five minutes and forty-four seconds every twenty-four hours, and after a winter’s worth of five-hour days all you want to do is go outside and stay there for the rest of your natural life. But it’s too late for the snow machine and too early for the truck, and meltoff is swelling the rivers until flooding threatens banks, bars and all downstream communities—muskrat, beaver and man. The meat cache is almost empty and the salmon aren’t up the creek yet. All you can do is sit and watch your yard reappear, along with a winter’s worth of debris until now hidden by an artistic layer of snow, all of which used to be frozen so it didn’t smell.
“The best thing about breakup,” Kate said, “is that it’s after winter and before summer.”
Mutt wasn’t paying attention. There was a flash of tail fur on the other side of the yard and the 140-pound half-husky, half-wolf was off with a crunch of brush to chase down the careless hare who had made it. Breakup for Mutt meant bigger breakfasts. Breakup for Mutt meant outside instead of inside. Breakup for Mutt meant a possible close encounter with the gray timber wolf with the roving eye who had beguiled her two springs before, then left her flat with a litter of pups. All five had been turned over to Mandy a nanosecond after weaning. One had been on the second-place team into Nome the month before.
Kate tried not to feel resentful at being abandoned. It was just that it seemed someone ought to have been present, looking on with sympathy as she plodded through the million and one tasks produced by the season’s first chinook, which had blown in from the Gulf of Alaska the night before at sixty-two miles per hour and toppled the woodpile into the meat cache, so that the miniature cabin on stilts looked knock-kneed.
The chinook had also awakened the female grizzly wintering in a den on a knoll across the creek. Kate had heard her grousing at five that morning. She was hungry, no doubt, and a knock-kneed cache was probably just the ticket to fill her belly until the first salmon hit fresh water.
And speaking of water, before Kate started work on the truck she had to check on the creek out back. With the coming of the chinook the ice had broken, and the subsequent roar of runoff was clearly audible from her doorstep. The previous fall had brought record rain, and the boulders that shored up her side of the creek had been loosened to the point of destabilizing the creek bank, but before she could do anything about it she’d had to go to Anchorage, and by the time she got back the creek had been frozen over.
Before her lumbar vertebrae could start to protest at the mere prospect of such abuse, she went to take a look, shoving her way through the underbrush that closed in around the back of the cabin to the top of the short cliff overlooking the course of the stream.
From the top of the bank at least, the situation did not look that bad. The tumble of boulders, some of them as tall as she was, broke the current, supported the bank and excavated and maintained a small backwater just downstream within the arm of the outcropping, good for salmon tickling and skinny-dipping.
The thought of skinny-dipping called up a memory from the previous summer
, one that included Jack Morgan, whose behind had suffered from sunburn that evening. He hadn’t complained.
She flapped the collar of her shirt. It had to be forty degrees. A veritable heat wave. No wonder she was feeling flushed. There was a length of three-quarter-inch polypro fastened to evenly spaced posts leading down the side of the bank, and she went down backwards, breathless not just from the exertion, light of foot and heart.
Up close she was happy to see that the situation looked even less dire. The two boulders that formed the point of the mini-peninsula had shifted, but it looked now as if they had merely to settle in even more firmly than before. No collapsed banks, no rocks sucked into midstream. She scaled the natural breakwater and to her delight found that the alteration had caused the backwater to increase in size and depth, just a little, just enough to increase her crawl from four overhand strokes to five, and Jack’s from two to three.
Or just enough to catch her.
“Get a grip,” she said, shifting inside clothes that had fit perfectly well when she put them on that morning. It was her own fault for reading Robert Herrick and Andrew Marvell late into the previous night. Those damn Cavalier poets were always headfirst in love with somebody, and none of them had the least sense of moderation. Charles II had a lot to answer for.
It was Jack’s fault, too, for not being here, right here where she could get her hands on him.
A rueful grin spread across her face. If Jack had the least idea of her mood he’d be on the next plane.
The water at her feet was so clear it was almost invisible, crisped at the edges with a layer of frosty ice, and she bent over to scoop up a handful. It was tart and oh so cold all the way down. Smiling, she splashed a second handful over her face.
Over the rush of water came a kind of snuffling grunt. Her hand stilled in the act of scooping up more water, and very, very slowly she looked up.
Fifty feet away, standing in midstream, thick, silvered hide spiked with water, a female grizzly stared back.
Ten feet downstream of mama came the bawl of a cub.
Five more feet downstream came the answering bawl of its twin. Neither of them looked more than a day out of the den.
Involuntarily, Kate stood straight up and reached for her shotgun.
It wasn’t there.
The grizzly allowed Kate just enough time to remember exactly where it was—in the gun rack above the door of the cabin—before she dropped down to all fours in the water and charged.
There was a bark and a scrambling sound from the top of the bank. “NO, Mutt!” Kate roared, a shaft of pure terror spearing through her. “STAY!”
The bear stopped abruptly in midstream and reared up on her hind legs, so immediately on the heels of Kate’s command to Mutt that a bubble of hysterical laughter caught at the back of her throat. The bear’s lips peeled back to reveal a gleaming set of very sharp teeth that snapped in her direction. When they came together it sounded like the bite of an axe blade sinking into wood.
All thought of laughter gone, Kate backed up a step, casting a quick glance at the bank behind her. It wasn’t as tall or as steep as the bank down to the outcropping, but it was still taller than she was and lined along its edge with a tangled section of alder and diamond willow, with no line to aid her ascent. Mutt barked again, and again Kate yelled, “NO! STAY!” without turning around, because she purely hated turning her back on a bear. She took another step back and began to speak in what she hoped was a soothing monotone. “It’s okay, girl, it’s all right, you’re between me and your cubs, I can’t get to them, it’s all right, I mean you no harm, settle down now and I’ll get out of your face, just calm down and—”
There was another roar from the grizzly and she dropped down on all four feet with a tremendous splash and charged again, water fountaining up on either side.
“Oh shit,” Kate said, and on the spot invented a technique for climbing a steep creek bank backwards that might not have been recognized by any international mountaineering organization but got her up and over the lip of the bank a split second before the bear, moving too fast now to stop, crashed headfirst into the wall of dirt with such force that a large section of it caved in on her.
It didn’t improve her disposition any, but Kate wasn’t hanging around to watch. On hands and knees she wriggled through the undergrowth, branches scraping at her face and tugging at her hair, nails broken, knuckles split and bleeding, all the while listening to the outraged roaring of the grizzly behind her. The sound provided unlimited fuel for forward motion. Kate broke through the other side of the brush and collapsed, only to be pounced upon by an anxious Mutt, who thrust a nose beneath Kate’s side and flipped her like a landed halibut, sniffing her from head to toe in between bellowing threats to the grizzly. Between the growling of the infuriated grizzly, the bawling of the terrified cubs and Mutt’s challenging howls, Kate’s eardrums would never be the same.
“It’s okay, girl,” Kate said, as Mutt nosed her over for the second time. “It’s all right. Calm down, now. Come on, calm down. Mutt, dammit, knock it off!”
Mutt ceased triage with a hurt look. Unhindered, Kate managed to get to her feet and stagger to the cabin to retrieve the shotgun. She got back in time to listen as the grizzly proceeded to tear up an additional six feet of creek bank, which from the sound of it included the felling of a great deal of timber, before taking her frightened offspring in charge and marching them off in the opposite direction. They heard her baying defiance for a good fifteen minutes, and then it faded only as she put distance between her family and Kate’s homestead.
It took every second of that fifteen minutes for Kate to swallow her heart, control her respiration and amass sufficient authority over her muscles to still her knees. Her jeans were soaked through with snowmelt, her shirt with perspiration. Her blood thudded against her eardrums and the walls of her veins. With every indrawn breath oxygen fizzed along her pulmonary arteries. She felt ten feet tall and covered with hair. She felt as naked and defenseless as a newborn babe. She was terrified, she was exhilarated, she was most definitely alive.
Biography
Dana Stabenow was born in Anchorage and raised on 75-foot fish tender in the Gulf of Alaska. She knew there was a warmer, drier job out there somewhere and after having a grand old time working in the Prudhoe Bay oilfields on the North Slope of Alaska, making an obscene amount of money and going to Hawaii a lot, found it in writing.
Her first crime fiction novel, A Cold Day for Murder, won an Edgar award, her first thriller, Blindfold Game, hit the New York Times bestseller list, and her twenty-eighth novel and nineteenth Kate Shugak novel, Restless in the Grave, will be released in February 2012.
Find her on the web at stabenow.com.
Bibliography
Kate Shugak Mysteries
A Cold Day for Murder
A Fatal Thaw
Dead in the Water
A Cold-Blooded Business
Play with Fire
Blood Will Tell
Breakup
Killing Grounds
Hunter’s Moon
Midnight Come Again
The Singing of the Dead
A Fine and Bitter Snow
A Grave Denied
A Taint in the Blood
A Deeper Sleep
Whisper to the Blood
A Night Too Dark
Though Not Dead
Restless in the Grave (2012)
Liam Campbell Mysteries
Fire and Ice
So Sure of Death
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Better to Rest
Star Svensdotter Series
Second Star
A Handful of Stars
Red Planet Run
Other Novels
Blindfold Game
Prepared for Rage
Copyright
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensat
ion. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy. They are reasonably priced and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.
This digital edition (v1.0) of “Nooses Give” was published by Gere Donovan Press in 2011.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Errata
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