Impasse (28 page)

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” But Ivan didn't move. Instead he glanced around as if looking for someone.

Unnerved, Stu did too, but there wasn't anyone for miles, as far as he could tell. The distant sound of the receding Best Bush plane and the chirp of a chickadee were all he heard. It was just the two of them.

“After you,” Stu said.

“Okay. Can I have my gun back?”

Stu had completely forgotten about the Browning .30-06. He'd grown accustomed to having it hang on his shoulder like an extra limb. He shrugged it off and handed it over.

Ivan took the rifle and backed away up the hill two steps. He gave Stu a pained expression. “I'm sorry, dude,” he said.

“It's okay. I'm fine. We just have to get some of the details straight.”
And once we do,
Stu thought,
I'm going to ruin you.

Ivan raised the gun and pointed it directly at Stu's chest. “No, I mean it. I'm really sorry about this.”

Stu's heart leaped into his throat. He raised his hands defensively and tried to keep his voice calm. “Don't panic. It's okay. I forgive you for leaving me at that crappy cabin.”

“Cabin?” Ivan licked his lips, confused and exasperated.

“We don't need to talk right now if it's not a good time. Things worked out. I'll just go.”

Ivan glanced about again. He cocked the gun and flipped off the safety. “Things did
not
work out. Jeezus! They most certainly did not! You're
supposed
to be dead.”

“Don't pull that trigger. You can't take it back if you pull that trigger.”

“Sorry, dude,” Ivan said again, and he pulled the trigger.

The gun's hammer made a quiet click as it fell on the empty chamber. Time stood still for a moment as they stared at each other, each of them surprised. Then Ivan turned and ran toward the house.

Other guns!
Stu remembered that Ivan had four more rifles and two pistols in the closet just inside the back door, undoubtedly as loaded as Ivan had wrongly assumed the Browning would be. Stu glanced around. There was no safe place to run on the property and no neighbor for miles. If he fled, the obviously unstable pilot could simply grab another gun and hunt him down.

There was no time to debate it. Ivan already had a five-step lead on him. Stu yanked Blake's bone-handled hatchet from his belt and hurled it at Ivan's back.

It was a good throw. Not perfect. A bit low. But good enough. Ivan took three more steps up the hill before the heavy blade turned over and sank into his left buttock with a meaty
thunk
. He cried out and went down.

“Ahh, God!” Ivan groaned

Stu ran to him, kicking the empty rifle away for no better reason than that it had just scared the shit out of him. He flipped Ivan over, his skinning knife in his hand, though he didn't remember drawing it.

But the pot-smoking pilot was no longer a threat. He clutched his buttocks and writhed. The hatchet had fallen into the dirt. Stu grabbed it and threw it clear.

“Why?” Stu shook him. “Why did you just try to kill me?” Saying it aloud made it real and frightening.

“My ass.” Ivan was moaning now.

“Damn right, it's your ass! Attempted murder, pal. Fifteen years in prison. Why the hell did you do that?” Stu held the knife up. His pulse raced. His breaths came hard and fast. He was so hyped up, he felt as though, if Ivan tried anything, he might lose it and stab him in his goddamned face.

Ivan raised one shaking hand as if to ward him off. It was covered with blood—not spattered, but painted solid so that it looked like he was wearing a red glove. Stu looked down. Ivan's jeans were stained dark around his thigh. A small pulse of blood spurted into the dirt through the gash in the denim. The hand ax had hit an artery, he realized. Ivan was bleeding out.

“Hey! Hey, don't die on me.…”

But Ivan's eyes were glazing over more than usual. Stu recognized the symptom; it was straight from
Edwin's
.
Shock.

“Aww, shit!”

He tore Ivan's belt loose and yanked down his pants. The blood was flowing, but the wound spanned Ivan's cheek and the thick flesh of his upper thigh. There was no way to apply pressure. Stu couldn't tie a tourniquet around a butt cheek. He took Ivan's face in his hands. Ivan was conscious, but fading.

“Keep talking, Ivan. I'll get you help. Why did you try to shoot me?”

Ivan spoke with great effort. “I was just supposed to leave you there. No offense. I don't even know you.”

Stu stood, horrified, and backed against a carved tree. “You left me out there on purpose?”

Ivan's breathing grew shallow and rapid. He clutched at Stu's pant leg, but Stu kicked his hand away in disgust, and it fell to the ground, twitching.

Ivan wheezed, his voice weakening. “You said you'd help.…”

Stu recognized a dying animal. He'd seen them all winter. “Sorry, dude.”

 

CHAPTER 33

It felt different killing a man. Stu thought it would feel more tragic than killing the bear. But the bear was the nobler creature. It came at him head-on. No deception. No pretense. It didn't try to trap him or trick him. It simply challenged Stu to a straight-up fight for supremacy, for life.
Well fought, bear!
he might have said, whereas he wanted to spit on the sneaky son of a bitch on the ground at his feet.

The
explanation
for killing a man, however, would be decidedly more complicated than for a wild animal. Stu wondered what he might say.

I came back to confront the pilot who left me in the woods with shelter and plenty of gear. I was angry because I was an incompetent camper who ruined my cabin and almost starved myself. I hit my victim from behind with a hatchet while he was running away because he pointed a gun at me that I knew to be unloaded. Then I pulled down his pants and let him bleed to death. That about sums it up.

Stu gave his summation standing over Ivan's body, then smacked himself in the forehead. It sounded terrible. It
was
terrible. If someone had dropped such damning facts on his desk when he'd been a prosecutor, he would have charged himself.
Murder two, at least.
Twenty years. Ten with a good plea bargain.

He glanced at the lake, then at the house. He'd seen enough police reports to know that suspects made hundreds of mistakes at the scenes of their crimes. If he thought of fifty of them, he'd be doing well. He already had Ivan's DNA on his clothes. But he had one advantage. He was dead. Like Blake, he was a ghost. Or, at least, nobody knew he was alive.

The first item on the agenda was to get away from the body. He wouldn't hide it—that would be an entirely new crime. There was no posing the scene as an accident. That never worked; forensics were too good these days.
And how does a guy accidentally hit himself in the ass with a hatchet?
He had to get somewhere and think, and as little as he wanted to go into the house, it was the only immediate choice.

The back door was open. There was nothing of interest in the kitchen. The living room offered little more. The smell of marijuana was overpowering as soon as he opened the bedroom door.
Big surprise.
He wanted badly to call Katherine.
But not from here.
Nor was it a good idea to charge his cell phone. It could be traced as soon as it was turned on. In fact, he was lucky its battery was as dead as the man lying out in the creepy forest of carved trees with an extra hole in his butt.

Stu shivered. That man had tried to kill him. Not just today, but also six months ago. He'd clearly said Stu was “supposed to be dead.” Stu wondered why. Was he protecting a stash and thought Stu was DEA instead of ex-DA? He was dumb enough, Stu supposed.

Stu wore his gloves as he walked through the house. The more time he spent here, the more danger there was he'd get caught at the scene or leave evidence. He had to make it quick. The computer was on, but he didn't dare touch it. Use of the computer after the time of death would be noticed, and anything he was interested in searching for would likely hint at his identity.

The Browning would have to be disposed of. It was possible Ivan had told Search and Rescue he'd loaned the rifle to Stu. The lake would serve that purpose, somewhere away from Ivan's property. He couldn't take Ivan's car, either, obviously; nothing was easier to trace. Stu kicked a carved wood bear, frustrated.

In the end the only thing he took was a wad of eight one-hundred-dollar bills he found in the bedside table beside several bags of weed. It would spare him using his credit card before he absolutely needed to. Cash, especially drug money, was one thing an investigator wouldn't know was missing unless the owner said so, and Ivan certainly wouldn't be saying so.

Stu hiked three miles before hurling the Browning into the lake, then another three before trying to thumb a ride into town. The hitchhiking was good in Alaska. The first truck stopped, and he rode in the backseat of the extended cab with Blake's deerskin cap pulled down, pretending to sleep so the driver wouldn't chat with him.

At the airport he registered himself at a kiosk under his middle name, Paul. He listed Stuart as his surname. Then he paid in cash. His Massachusetts driver's license contained both names in only a slightly different order, and it got him past security after a short breath-holding moment in front of the guard's podium. He was on the plane almost before his heart rate returned to normal.

Ivan's words haunted him. The dead pilot had said he was “supposed to” abandon Stu in the Alaska interior. Stu analyzed the words from every angle and concluded that, unless Ivan had been hearing imaginary voices—which was a distinct possibility—another person was involved. Thus, it was possible somebody else wanted Stu dead.
Another reason not to reveal myself yet.
He immediately wondered if Clay was in danger too. His partner had also been slated to come on the trip.
Or Katherine.
If someone had it in for him, she might be a target. When he got to Seattle, he'd be brave enough to go online and peek at his e-mail accounts to confirm that the two of them were okay. Until he got out of Fairbanks, however, he wouldn't log on to anything, and the cell phone would remain as dead as he was supposed to be.

*   *   *

Katherine was alive. A moment on a pay-by-the-minute computer terminal at the Seattle airport revealed recent pretentious e-mails between her and her friends—someone was furnishing a beach house. He had only a half an hour, so he didn't linger. She was fine.

He needed to check on Clay, too. Stu plugged in his cell phone, but the account had been discontinued, and so the thing was now little more than an expensive clock. He used the terminal to tap into the law firm's computer system. The front page had been changed. There was a new professional photo of their building and, oddly, a second phone number for a Providence office. It also had a memorial photo of Stu and a short obituary. Exactly as he'd predicted, everyone thought he was dead. He couldn't help reading it.

New Bedford resident Stuart Stark recently went missing in Alaska and is presumed to have passed on. He was forty. A good lawyer, Stu devoted his life to serving his clients. He is survived by his wife, Kate. He will be missed.

That was it. Stu puzzled over it. It was odd to see his life summed up in a paragraph. He thought he'd done more, but it was disturbingly accurate; he'd apparently devoted his life to people who paid him to deal with their problems, and he was survived by a woman who was now called Kate.
Survived
was a bizarre word. It sounded like they'd both been lost in Alaska and only she had made it out. And he never called her Kate. No one did.

Stu took a chance and punched the firm password into the log-in box. The photo of the building disappeared, and document lists came up as the screen morphed from scenic to functional. He was in. Motions were getting filed and billings were being logged. The firm was still up and running, which meant Clay was okay too. That was good. Stu had the urge to call him. Or Katherine. The yearning to tell someone he was alive was strong.
But not smart.
He hadn't analyzed things thoroughly enough yet. There was more investigation to do, and neither Clay nor Katherine was known for discretion; either one might blab to other people as soon as they hung up the phone. But if he saw them in person, Stu thought, he could impress upon them the seriousness of his predicament. Contact with those he loved and trusted was going to have to wait.

Just then a message box popped up.

Who is this?

Someone else was in the system, possibly Clay himself. Stu's common sense told him to get out, but he was typing before he could stop himself; the longing for contact was suddenly overpowering, and he really needed a friend.

Who is THIS?

His message popped up below the first like a visual echo. There was a time lag, during which he regretted answering, and Stu half hoped that the person at the other end would simply shut it down, thinking him an interloper. But then a reply appeared.

This is associate attorney Audra Goodwin.

 

CHAPTER 34

Katherine directed the men installing the Viking stove, yelping and waving her arms when they began to drag it across the inlaid wood floor.
Idiots!
A coordinating Sub-Zero refrigerator was due on Tuesday. She was satisfied; they were the best she could get without jumping to something exotic. Holly had a Viking and swore by it.

The house had just closed, and she was already starting to furnish the place and sleep in the master suite. She'd been reluctant to close the deal at first, but Clay had encouraged her. When she'd fussed about it, he'd smirked, written her another check for a hundred grand from the firm's account, and told her to shut the hell up.