“Well, ah—” Sable knew Jon meant his uncle Richard Gray Eagle. “There’s a place for shaman even in this day and age.”
“Well—” Lee paused and sighed.
“Dan-e-wåk’s been right on many occasions. They should follow his advice.”
“Grandfather,” she said and puffed, “It’s my scientific background. If I believed, I’d be a nut case now.”
“I have sensed a darkness around you.” Dan-e-wåk burst into the room and moved menacingly toward Lee.
“What’s going on?” Sable blocked his way but Jon shook his head.
Dan-e-wåk waved his hands in the air. “It is you who will bring this evil down on our village.”
“How can you say that?” Jon asked.
The ícht’a continued. “Because of you, many will die! You must leave now and never return.”
“I will not.” Lee pushed herself up defiantly and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“She’d never harm our village.” Jon stepped in front of Dan-e-wåk. Sable stepped between the pair.
“She must leave now,” the ícht’a said. “She’ll be the cause.”
“Get out!” Jon snarled.
Sable saw the heat rise in Lee’s cheeks. What was wrong with Dan-e-wåk? He was a nut case.
“You heard Jon. Get out or go to jail.” Sable tapped his handcuff case.
“The Army will bring poison rain and all our people will die,” Dan-e-wåk shouted.
“I said get out!” Jon clenched his fists.
Sable pulled out his cuffs.
“Leave now.” Becky entered the room and pointed towards the door. “You are disturbing my patient.”
“I saw Lee and a white-haired giant as the rain fell. She must not stay!”
“Leave.” Sable moved forward quickly, decisively, and threateningly, rattling the cuffs.
The shaman turned on his heels and began chanting in Tlingit as he left.
“What is this all about?” Becky asked.
Sable and Jon shrugged simultaneously.
“I don’t know,” Lee said.
“Sometimes Dan-e-wåk’s not completely there.” Becky pulled the stethoscope from her neck and placed the ends in her ears.
“There’s danger, I sense it,” Jon said.
“I’d like to talk to him later,” Sable said. The conversation had sounded like a scene from the “Twilight Zone.”
* * * *
When Sable returned to the office, he grabbed a ringing phone. It was Conner. “What you do have for me?”
“You’re right, Sergeant First Class Garrett Hanford was in Delta Force, but according to records he died in Iraq.”
“CIA?”
“Maybe. I found Hanford assumed a new identity as Martin Gains in the elite Gamma force.”
“So when was Hanford assigned to Arctic Warrior?”
“Six months ago. In fact, your Arctic Warrior project exists only as rumor and innuendo. I can’t find anything on it. If you hadn’t told me, I’d never known it existed.”
“Then how were able to track him down?”
“You know the Army, they have to record everything.”
Chapter 7
Back from the fishing trip with Davenport, Dean opened the door to his Clearwater River home to a deafening emergency alarm. He ran across the living room to his den, cursing.
Another false alarm at the project.
The project’s new computer and alarm system still had a few bugs. He moved behind his desk and shut off the system. He glanced at his watch—eleven-thirty a.m. The alarm had been nothing but a nightmare since it’d been installed. More than once, the alarms had awakened him and his wife in the middle of the night. On his desk sat a small box. He inserted the key and pushed the button to reset the system.
Ah, wonderful silence.
As he returned to the front room, he heard the crunch of gravel and guessed it was his wife. He moved the curtain aside, glanced out the window and cringed.
“Well, you finally got back to turn the damn thing off.” Cindy bared her teeth as she stepped through the door. “Why don’t you get rid of the damn thing? I had to spend at least two nights at some damn flea bag motel so I could have some peace and quiet.”
“I can’t help it. It comes with the territory.”
“I want that thing ripped out before tonight!” Cindy yelled as she headed toward the bedroom.
Dean walked away muttering, “I’d rather rip out your heart. In fact, this afternoon is your last day on earth.”
He headed to unload the camping gear from the car.
She’s screwed the judge in Fairbanks for how long? Almost a year. Now, Blackston, her sometime boyfriend and lover, can’t protect her.
Cindy had married him only for his money and status. Now, she loved to rub his nose in it. For two years now their marriage had been a sham; they led separate lives and slept in separate rooms. Soon, he mused, he’d be free to see Rose in the open, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
No longer would he have to listen to Cindy’s caustic references to his five-seven height. Her favorite endearing term for him was “pipsqueak.” Dean was thin and wiry, with a slight paunch, but he fancied himself a real stud.
Over several weeks, he’d devised a foolproof plan to kill Cindy and hide her body. The police had accepted his previous wife’s death as an accident. He could shift suspicion to someone else—the judge. All he had to do was make it look like she had run off with him. Let Blackston explain her disappearance. Dean would be sure to have an ironclad alibi.
“Haven’t you finished?” Cindy came up behind him unexpectedly.
“I thought you were taking a shower.” Dean cringed, placing a tackle box on a stack of camping equipment, and picked up the stack.
“I had to welcome home the great fisherman, didn’t I?” she snapped. “When are we going to get a trailer or Winnebago? I might go one of your expeditions if I could do it in comfort and style.”
“Camping is roughing it.”
Liar. You want a place you can meet your lover and save the cost of a motel.
“Not where I’m concerned. Besides, you can afford it.”
“I’ll consider it.” Dean’s nostrils flared as he felt the temperature rise in his cheeks. He clutched his fists to prevent himself from killing her on the spot.
“If you don’t start spending more on me, I’ll take it from you in a divorce. And that’ll leave your career in the crapper.”
“Just try, bitch.”
With a flick of her hand, Cindy brushed her red hair out of her face, placed her hands on her hips and stared him straight in the eyes. Her green eyes flashed defiance. “If we go to court, I’ve got you beat.”
“Then file the paperwork.” Dean’s dark brown eyes hardened. He wanted to place his hands around her neck and squeeze—but not now. Not now. He’d spend money on Rose, but not this bitch. She wasn’t getting her hands on any of his money, stocks, bonds, or certificates of deposit.
“I will.”
“Your friend won’t help.” He’d said too much.
“What—” Her face showed confusion. Maybe she knew he knew.
He couldn’t afford a fight, since he needed her to go with him this afternoon. “Maybe you’re right. We should get a motor home.” He deliberately softened his voice.
“Thanks.” She was still frowning.
“We can to fly to Oregon next week and bargain with a dealer I know. Let’s make it a vacation,” Dean said, but he knew better—she’d want to stay with her lover.
“Well, it’s about damn time.” Cindy lowered her voice, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty.
“We can discuss the trip plans over dinner,” he said. “Besides, like I promised, I’ll take you on a tour of the test labs.”
“Why now?” she asked suspiciously.
“You’ve been asking for a long time, and this seems a perfect day for it.”
“And security?”
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“You’ll have to duck when we pass the guards,” Dean said and then headed for the garage.
“See you in a few.” The sound of her voice grated on him as he heard the door slam.
When he finished with putting the equipment away, Dean cleaned his catch. It was an art that allowed him a way to alleviate his frustrations. He lined up the grayling, pike, and trout, selected one, placed an ulu over the head, sliced it off and pulled out the guts in one motion. Grinning, he pictured his wife in place of the fish. Dean placed the blade laterally along the soft underbelly, sliced from the rectum to where the head had been, removed the membranes protecting the main artery and scraped out the congealed blood. Afterwards, he ran the fish under the faucet and set it aside.
Chop, slice, slice. It was her fault his relationships with women failed. He’d watched his mother, the bitch, run his father off. When she died, he’d danced on her grave. Slice, slice.
It had been hours since he’d eaten and his stomach rumbled. Dean’s mouth watered and he picked up a large trout, filleted and skinned it. He inspected the trout’s white flesh for parasites and then popped a large piece in his mouth. “Sushi. Ex-cell-ent!”
After he’d eaten his fill, Dean wrapped most of the fish. The rest he placed in brown sugar brine for smoking. Briefly, the thought of smoking Cindy’s flesh flickered through his mind. Whistling, Dean sauntered into the laundry room where he stuffed his dirty clothes into the washer. He set it for presoak and poured an enzyme detergent over the clothes to remove the fish blood. Later, he might need to remove human blood.
Dean strode to the bathroom, still whistling. He wiped the mirror fogged from Cindy’s shower. Looking into it, he saw his disheveled reflection. After shaving and brushing his teeth, he took a long, hot shower while pleasant images of Cindy’s death danced through his mind.
Standing in the arctic entryway, Dean put on a light jacket. He checked the mirror to ensure the .38 semiautomatic pistol stuffed in the waistband at the small of his back couldn’t be seen. He stepped back again and looked in the mirror. Though he couldn’t compete in a Mr. America pageant, he was better than average. His brown hair and eyes softened the harshness of his angular features. Pure insanity. In Alaska, who was crazy enough to install a mirror in an arctic entryway? His wife, of course.
Maybe Rose would be more practical. And if he did get married again, he would be sure to have an ironclad, prenuptial agreement. Several lawyers would review the document. If his wife left him, she would receive nothing; unless he decided to kill her first.
“Hurry.”
“In a minute,” she yelled back.
“It’s almost three and I want you to have a good tour of the project.”
“What’s your problem? You’re never in a hurry—except in bed.”
The last time we—” Anger choked him, but he forced himself to remain calm. “It’ll take us forty-five minutes to get to the project.”
“So, there’s no fire.”
“Later this evening, I have reservations at the Copper Ingot,” he lied.
“Like I said—I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
She came out from the bedroom with a slinky, chiffon evening dress.
“Do you have to dress up for everything? For Christ’s sake, this is Delta.”
“Because we live in the country doesn’t mean we have to.”
“Well, I’ll see you in the Cutlass.” Dean walked out stiffly. Where did she think she lived—Hollywood?
As he closed the car door, Dean’s mind flashed to his plans. A sinkhole lay four miles southwest of the project. He could drop Cindy’s body in there and nobody would ever find her.
“Did you bring the shovel for the wild flowers?” she asked. “You know how I like flowers.”
“Of course dear.” Dean smiled broadly. “It’s in the trunk.”
Dean glanced at his watch. It was three-fifteen. Burying her would be hard, but pleasurable, and he had to be home before dusk. After which, he’d drive to Fairbanks with her car, leave it, and be back before morning.
“Buckle up, dear.”
“You’re too cautious,” Cindy said. “We live in the sticks. How could we get into an accident?”
“Very easily, dear, a moose, bison, another car.” Dean turned out of his driveway onto Jack Warren Road. He looked in his rearview mirror. A motorcycle pulled away from the side of the road. Dean made note of it and went back to reviewing his plans. As he glanced at Cindy, he saw disgust reflected on her face—probably for him.
“Can’t you drive faster? You drive like an old man.”
“Troopers.”
“There aren’t any.”
“It doesn’t look good for a general to get a ticket.”
“I haven’t seen a trooper in a year.”
“You’re always rushing to your funeral,” he said. Wouldn’t her lover be surprised when she disappeared? He might suspect but he couldn’t afford to incriminate himself. With the explicit photographs Dean’s private investigator had taken, he’d have the judge in his pocket.
For a while, neither Dean nor Cindy spoke. The underlying tension permeated the atmosphere. Dean glanced in the mirror again. The motorcycle was still behind him, a quarter mile. Was he being followed? He slowed and signaled for a right turn to the test ranges.
A small, white sign announced the home of the Arctic Test Command. After turning, Dean followed a series of steep, graded switchbacks down into the valley. At the bottom, he pulled to the side of the road, stopped the car, and listened.
“What’s wrong?” A puzzled look crossed Cindy’s face.
“Nothing. For a moment, I thought the car was overheating,” he said and sighed. The motorcycle wasn’t following him. He started past old, dilapidated, World War II structures.
“These aren’t yours?” Cindy asked.
“No,” Dean said. “They belong to Arctic Test Command.”
“Greely looks like a shit hole, but this—”
He pulled the car up to the gate and stopped. “My project’s money keeps this place going.”
“Where are the guards?”
“Cutbacks, I guess.” Luck was with him—no witnesses. He got out of the Cutlass, walked over to the gate, hit several buttons and the gate opened.
Several large, metal warehouses loomed in the center of an open field. All were painted in irregular patterns of green, black, and brown. Dean pulled the sedan to the front of the central building, rolled down the window and punched in the access code on a special control panel. As a large door opened, he drove in and pulled up to the first of three hovercrafts. He gestured to the smallest. “What do you think?”
“What is it?”
“Cutting edge of technology hovercraft—they’ll go over land or water.” Dean got out of the car and motioned for Cindy to come. “Welcome to the Gemini. It’s my personal hovercraft. She’ll carry six passengers.”
Without waiting for an answer, Dean walked over to the craft, climbed up, and unlocked the door, with Cindy following. He let her get in the front passenger seat and then went back to the car and retrieved the shovel from the trunk. After donning hearing protection, he started the cushion fans. Then he fired up the propeller engine. The craft slowly rose three feet. Checking the gauges and controls, Dean kept the rudders centered and clutch disengaged. Then, keeping the engines at an idle, he engaged the clutch and the craft slowly glided forward.
“I’ll take it easy to begin with,” he yelled. “These babies can do seventy miles and turn on a dime.”
Cindy looked perplexed. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
Dean shrugged his shoulders. After clearing the warehouse, he punched in the code to close the door.
On highways, Dean used caution, but when he got behind the controls of the Gemini in the bush, the elation, the sense of freedom spurred him on. He steered across the clearing and down a logging road. He checked the gauges. Everything was working properly. The digital speedometer flas
hed fifty. Though the project lay directly across the river, he headed upriver.
As it glided out onto the Big Delta like a skater on a frozen pond, he slowed. In places, the Delta was over a half mile wide and had narrow channels, and was covered with braided sand bars and logjams, but none of this was a problem to the Gemini. Dean saw a trail ahead and took it.
To the south, Mount Hayes stood at almost fourteen thousand feet. And to the west, slightly lower, Hess Mountain touched the skyline with large, blue-white glaciers rippling around its slopes. To Dean, glaciers were the epitome of nature. Mighty forces uprooted trees, shoved boulders, and destroyed anything in their path—much like generals. Dean brought the craft to an idle next to a high ridge and turned off the ignition. The sinkhole he’d found earlier was only a few feet away.
“It’s gorgeous out here.”
“Calm and peaceful,” Dean agreed.
“Let’s get out and stretch.” On cue, Cindy took the bait.
“Sure,” Dean said, as his breath quickened. “Need help?”
“No.” Cindy climbed down shakily, staggering as she walked away toward the ridge.
Dean felt the pressure of the gun in the small of his back. At the thought, he looked at Cindy’s lithe and sexy shape. He felt himself become hot and hard.
“Gorgeous.”
“And to hell with you,” he muttered to himself. God, he wanted her. He wanted to screw her to death, but if he took her, he’d leave evidence. In the remote possibility the police found her body, DNA tests would nail him.
“Are we still on Greely?” Cindy asked.
“No. Just off the post.” He smiled. The State of Alaska didn’t have a death penalty, but the Feds did, so he’d specifically chosen this location.
“How far are we from…”
“A couple miles.” Dean felt as if he’d swallowed a bag of cotton. He looked at his shaking hands and wiped them on his trousers. He’d killed before but it had been in combat. This was up close, personal, and invigorating. He took a deep breath trying to keep his thoughts level, but the vision’s of Cindy’s nagging and cheating burst through his defenses.
Dean pulled the gun, took aim at Cindy’s head and said, “Turn around, bitch. I want you to see this coming.”
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