A fine and bitter snow (12 page)

He looked down at the cabin and saw what he'd missed when he had stepped outside: an overturned plate, with what looked like some kind of stew spilled next to it. He slid back down and looked. Yes, stew—meat, some carrots, potatoes, celery, and onions in a thick gravy. He touched it. It was frosting over, but it wasn't quite frozen.

Were Dina and Ruthe in the habit of eating their lunch on the back porch? He thought it unlikely, especially in midwinter, but if he was wrong, why only one plate? And what had caused the spill? Had Ruthe or Dina been outside eating as the assailant entered through the front door? Had the beginning of the attack startled whoever was on the back porch into dropping the plate and then walking in on the scene?

Unsatisfied, he turned around and surveyed the hillside again. There was the trail to the outhouse, trodden down so that the surface was hard, with more snow piled waist-high on either side. There weren't any other tracks, except— wait a minute. He went up the trail again, this time at a trot, and discovered that the trail continued on behind the outhouse and farther up the hill. This trail was not so well packed down, showing separate footprints marking a far less frequent passage.

He was a big man with long legs. The snow was very deep and the hill very steep. His progress was slow. Once, the trail narrowed in, so that it seemed as if he wouldn't be able to squeeze through the trees.

It was a glorious afternoon. The trees were thick with frost, ghosts of their original selves. The sky was clear and cold and the dull blue, off-white of a glacier's face with the sun on it. The sun itself was a flat flaxen disk, low on the horizon, leached of light and warmth.

Fighting the spruce all the way, he emerged finally, out of breath and soaked in his own sweat, on a miniature plateau. On this plateau, the trees had been thinned out to make way for a scattering of tiny cabins, all with snow up to their eaves. From one of the chimneys, a spiral of smoke whispered up into the clear blue sky. The trail led directly to it.

He unholstered his weapon again when he was ten feet from the door. He didn't see how whoever lived there could not have heard him coming, given the water buffalo nature of his approach, but he made himself wait and listen for signs of life.

There was a lot of yellow snow around the door, as if the resident couldn't be bothered to break a trail to the outhouse. He peered into the window cut into the wall next to it. It was covered with a blanket of some kind. He looked in the window on the other side of the door. Same thing.

The door opened out, naturally. He would have traded warm feet for the portable ram in his Cruiser back in Tok.

He paused for a moment of procedural reflection. Was he in hot pursuit? Did he have to knock and identify, or not? More importantly, if he knocked, was whoever lived there standing on the other side with a shotgun?

Snow was collecting inside the tops of his boots and the sweat was freezing on his spine. The hell with it. He thumped on the door. "Hello? Anybody home? This is Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin. Open the door, please."

There was no reply, and no movement from within.

The silence of an Arctic winter day in the Bush, when no breeze stirred the air and the sun beat down coldly over all, that was a silence to be reckoned with. It was a silence with unfriendly eyes that glared out at you for disturbing it. When a magpie yelled at him from a nearby tree, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Annoyed, he thumped on the door again. "Police! Open up!"

There was loud, wild
Wraaaaaoooowl
right next to his head. He jumped back to the edge of the porch and slipped off the top step. His arms windmilled wildly and he fell heavily on his back. "Son of a bitch!"

There was another inhuman howl, and a black house cat jumped down from a timber just below the roof of the porch. Her hair standing straight out from her body, she looked like a big black porcupine. Her eyes were wild and her fur was stained red. She hit the porch once, bounced off it and landed on his chest, leaving red paw prints on his dark blue jacket, bounced off again and landed on the trail, skimming over the snow as if it wasn't there and vanishing into the trees at a dead run.

"Oh shit," he said, remembering Dina and Ruthe's cat for the first time. They had called her Galadriel, after Ruthe's favorite wood witch, and over the years the name had naturally been shortened to Gal. She was a longtime member of the family and, what was even more important, a legendary greeter of Camp Teddy's summer guests. Gal had purred from the laps of the rich and powerful for a decade. If Ruthe survived, Gal would be the first person Ruthe would want to see. He wallowed around until he managed to get to his feet. "Gal! Here, kitty! Come on, Gal, you know me! Come on back now!"

From inside the cabin came a faint sound—a whimper, perhaps a moan? He whipped around, discovered his hand was empty, and had to go rooting for his weapon. He found it, then had to clear the muzzle and the trigger guard of snow. He hoped the damn thing didn't explode in his hand if he had to fire it.

What was that sound he had heard? Perhaps nothing at all? Jim climbed to the porch again and tried the handle of the door. The latch gave.

"Hello the house. This is Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin. I'm coming inside." The door swung open, creaking.

The sound came again, definitely a whimper this time. He brought his weapon up two-handed and pointed it inside before entering. "This is state trooper Jim Chopin. Who's in here?"

There was another whimper, and then his eyes adjusted from the blazing sun of the exterior to the murky darkness of the interior of the cabin. It was tiny, ten feet to a side, with twin beds pushed against two walls, a small table and a captain's chair set against a third. A small cast-iron wood-stove stood in one corner next to a nearly empty wood box. Scrolled wooden shelves were fixed to two walls, and there were three windows, all of them iced over on the inside. To the right of the door was a counter with a two-burner propane hot plate, a tin bowl, and a plastic jug half-full of what looked like water. There was a kettle on the hot plate. A box of Lipton's tea bags, a container of dried lemon peel, and a jar of honey sat on the counter. On the wall above was a propane lamp.

One of the beds was neatly made, the other heaped with an olive drab duffel bag stenciled us
army
in black Marks-A-Lot, white T-shirts, a couple of plaid men's shirts, a pair of jeans, shorts, and a few pair of thick wool socks, which looked uncomfortably like the ones on the body of the woman in the cabin down the hill. Everything was neatly folded and laid out with almost geometrical precision in relation to everything else.

The stove was giving off very little heat, which was probably why the man was crouched down next to it, wedged against the wall between the stove and the table, and why Jim almost missed him. He was a little man, very thin, and Jim would have mistaken him for a heap of clothes had the man not whimpered again.

His hair was dirty blond going gray and hadn't been washed or cut in a while. His eyes peered out from behind it, feral, shifty, shy, not meeting Jim's. He whimpered again.

"Sir," Jim said, lowering his weapon. "I'm Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin, and ..."

His voice faded out as he took a step forward. The front of the man's clothing was covered in a dark substance that looked like dried blood.

So was the knife he held.

Without realizing it, Jim raised his gun. "All right, sir, could you put the knife down, please?"

Another whimper. "Sir, put the knife down. Now."

The man pushed himself into his corner, drawing up his knees and hiding behind his arms. He mumbled something.

"What? Sir, I couldn't hear you. What did you say?"

Dazed eyes blinked up at him. He mumbled something else.

It sounded like "angels," "angels" and something else. Jim swore to himself. He didn't want to put himself within striking range of someone who was seeing angelic apparitions, but there didn't seem to be a lot of choice, other than shooting the man outright. He transferred the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic to his left hand and took a step forward. "I'm going to take the knife, sir, all right? That's it, just relax. No one's going to hurt you. That's right, just hand it over. Let's everybody stay calm and no one will get hurt."

He continued with a steady stream of soothing babble as he inched forward, making no sudden movements as he bent his knees and reached out with his right hand, hoping he wasn't reaching out with it for the last time. "That's right, sir, just keep calm, keep still—"

The man pushed against the floor with his feet in a sudden movement that added ten years to Jim's life. "Sir. Sir. Please stay still. You might cut yourself, and we don't want that, do we?" He continued to move forward and the man continued to cringe away, his face buried in his arms, the knife clenched in his left fist. Jim's hand was two feet away, one foot, six inches. "That's it, sir, stay very still."

He took hold of the knife at the part of the handle protruding above the man's hand. More whimpering, more cringing, but to Jim's infinite relief, the man's grip relaxed and the knife slid free.

Jim took a deep breath. He took several. "Okay. That's of the interior of the cabin. It was tiny, ten feet to a side, with twin beds pushed against two walls, a small table and a captain's chair set against a third. A small cast-iron wood-stove stood in one corner next to a nearly empty wood box. Scrolled wooden shelves were fixed to two walls, and there were three windows, all of them iced over on the inside. To the right of the door was a counter with a two-burner propane hot plate, a tin bowl, and a plastic jug half-full of what looked like water. There was a kettle on the hot plate. A box of Lipton's tea bags, a container of dried lemon peel, and a jar of honey sat on the counter. On the wall above was a propane lamp.

One of the beds was neatly made, the other heaped with an olive drab duffel bag stenciled us
army
in black Marks-A-Lot, white T-shirts, a couple of plaid men's shirts, a pair of jeans, shorts, and a few pair of thick wool socks, which looked uncomfortably like the ones on the body of the woman in the cabin down the hill. Everything was neatly folded and laid out with almost geometrical precision in relation to everything else.

The stove was giving off very little heat, which was probably why the man was crouched down next to it, wedged against the wall between the stove and the table, and why Jim almost missed him. He was a little man, very thin, and Jim would have mistaken him for a heap of clothes had the man not whimpered again.

His hair was dirty blond going gray and hadn't been washed or cut in a while. His eyes peered out from behind it, feral, shifty, shy, not meeting Jim's. He whimpered again.

"Sir," Jim said, lowering his weapon. "I'm Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin, and ..."

His voice faded out as he took a step forward. The front of the man's clothing was covered in a dark substance that looked like dried blood.

So was the knife he held.

Without realizing it, Jim raised his gun. "All right, sir, could you put the knife down, please?"

Another whimper. "Sir, put the knife down. Now."

The man pushed himself into his corner, drawing up his knees and hiding behind his arms. He mumbled something.

"What? Sir, I couldn't hear you. What did you say?"

Dazed eyes blinked up at him. He mumbled something else.

It sounded like "angels," "angels" and something else. Jim swore to himself. He didn't want to put himself within striking range of someone who was seeing angelic apparitions, but there didn't seem to be a lot of choice, other than shooting the man outright. He transferred the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic to his left hand and took a step forward. "I'm going to take the knife, sir, all right? That's it, just relax. No one's going to hurt you. That's right, just hand it over. Let's everybody stay calm and no one will get hurt."

He continued with a steady stream of soothing babble as he inched forward, making no sudden movements as he bent his knees and reached out with his right hand, hoping he wasn't reaching out with it for the last time. "That's right, sir, just keep calm, keep still—"

The man pushed against the floor with his feet in a sudden movement that added ten years to Jim's life. "Sir. Sir. Please stay still. You might cut yourself, and we don't want that, do we?" He continued to move forward and the man continued to cringe away, his face buried in his arms, the knife clenched in his left fist. Jim's hand was two feet away, one foot, six inches. "That's it, sir, stay very still."

He took hold of the knife at the part of the handle protruding above the man's hand. More whimpering, more cringing, but to Jim's infinite relief, the man's grip relaxed and the knife slid free.