Ice Hunt (11 page)

She quickly spotted her father standing before the cabin’s doorway. He was dressed in traditional Inuit clothes: fur parka, fur pants, and mukluk boots. He clutched an old Winchester hunting rifle across his chest. Even from here she could see the angry spark in his eyes.

“Dad!”

He turned toward her, startled. She urged her dogs on, now kicking with one leg to keep the sled careening toward the cabin.

Once clear of the forest and sailing into the open, sunlit meadow, she yanked out her pistol and hopped off the rig, running to keep her momentum and her legs under her. She raced toward her father. Behind her, the unguided sled glanced over a boulder and toppled. She ignored the splintering crash and searched for danger, her eyes darting all around.

Then it lunged at her. A large black shape leaped toward her from the shadows of the porch.

Wolf,
her mind screamed. She swung her pistol.

“No!” The shout was a bark of command from behind her.

Her eyes adjusted, changing focus. The large dark shape dissolved into the familiar.

“Bane,” she cried with relief.

She lowered her weapon and dropped to one knee, accepting the exuberant attention and hot tongue of the huge dog. After being thoroughly slicked with saliva, she twisted around. Two men stood ten yards away in the fringe of the forest. Nearby, a horse chewed leaves from a low-slung branch of an alder.

Her father spoke from the doorway, harsh and angry. “I warned the bastard to get away from here. He’s not welcome around these parts.” He lifted his rifle for emphasis.

Jenny stared over at her former husband. Matthew Pike smiled back at her, but a trace of nervousness shone behind his white teeth. She glanced over to her ruined rig, then back to her father.

She stood up. “Go ahead and shoot him.”

11:54 A.M.

Matt knew his ex-wife was only venting, but he still kept his post at the forest’s edge. The two stared at each other for a long breath. Then she shook her head in disgust and crossed to her father. She took the rifle from him and spoke softly but sternly in Inuktitut. “Papa, you know better than to shoot a gun into the air. Even out here.”

Matt studied her, unable to look away. Because of her mother’s French-Canadian blood, Jenny was tall for an Inuit, almost six feet. But like her father, she was as lean as a willow switch. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee, soft, inviting to the touch, and she had the most expressive eyes of any woman. They could dance, spark, or smolder. He had fallen in love with those eyes.

Now, three years after their divorce, those same eyes stared at him with bald anger…and something deeper, something more painful. “What are you doing here, Matt?”

He couldn’t find his tongue fast enough, so Craig spoke. “We’re sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But there was a plane crash.” He fingered the fresh wrap that Matt had applied to his scalp wound. “We’ve spent the past two days hiking out from it. Matt here rescued me.”

Jenny glanced back to him.

“It was Brent Cumming’s plane,” Matt added, finally finding his tongue. He paused as understanding slowly hardened Jenny’s face. Brent was not standing with them. He answered the question that now shone in her eyes. “He’s dead.”

“Oh my God…” She raised a hand to her forehead, sagging as she stood. “Cheryl…what am I going to tell her?”

Matt tentatively walked forward, leading Mariah. “You’ll tell her it wasn’t an accident.”

The lost look in her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” Matt glanced to the smoke rising from the chimney of the cabin. He had helped build the homestead ten years ago. It was constructed of unpeeled, green-cut logs and a sod roof. He had followed a traditional design. There was even a small
lagyaq,
or meat storehouse, out back. But to aid in heating the main dwelling, he had modernized the cabin’s design with a propane tank and triple-paned windows.

As he stood, old memories superimposed over the present. He had spent many a happy time here…and one awful winter.

“Maybe we could discuss this inside,” he said. “There are two other bodies out in the woods.”

Concern crinkled her forehead, but she nodded.

His words, though, did little to soften her father’s expression. “I’ll see to the horse and dogs,” John Aratuk said, stalking forward and taking Mariah’s lead. He had calmed enough to rub a palm down the mare’s nose, but the old man refused to make eye contact with Matt. He did, however, nod perfunctorily to Craig as they passed each other. He plainly bore the stranger no ill will, only begrudged him the company he kept.

Jenny shoved the cabin door open and set the bolt-action Winchester rifle just inside the doorway. “Come in.”

Matt waved Craig ahead of him. The reporter passed inside, but Matt paused on the threshold.
It’s been three years since I last stepped inside here
. He girded himself, licked his dry lips, and ducked through. A part of him expected to see Tyler’s tiny body still sprawled on the pine table, bony arms crossed over his chest. At that time, Matt had stumbled inside on limbs leaden with grief, half frozen, frost bitten, his heart an icy stone in his chest.

But the cabin was not cold now. It was warm, scented with old smoke and a deep woody musk. Across the room, Jenny bent over a small cast-iron stove. She opened the door and used a poker to stoke the firebox and stir up the coals. A pot of coffee rested atop a griddle, steaming gently.

“There are mugs in the cupboard,” Jenny said. “You know where they are.”

Matt crossed to the sideboard and removed three earthenware cups. He straightened and stared around the great room, raftered with logs overhead. Nothing much had changed. The main room of the cabin was lit with three traditional
qulliq
oil lamps, half-moons of hollow soapstone. The cabin had electricity, but that required running the generator. A river-stone fireplace stood in one corner. The chairs and sofa were made by a native craftsman from caribou hide and fire-aged spruce. Pictures hung on the wall, taken by Jenny herself. She was a superb photographer. Around the room, bits of native artwork and artifacts finished the decorations: small totems, a carved figure of the Inuit sea god, Sedna, and a painted shaman mask used in healing ceremonies.

Each item had history. It was hard standing here. Tragedy seemed to follow him. During his first year at the University of Tennessee, his parents had both been killed in a home-invasion robbery. Left without resources, he was forced to join the Army. There, he channeled his anger and pain into his career, eventually joining Special Forces and becoming a Green Beret. But after Somalia, he could no longer stomach bloodshed and death. So he quit the service and returned to school, earning his degree in environmental sciences. After graduation, he came to Alaska because of its wide-open spaces and vast tracts of parklands.

He came here to be alone.

But that changed when he met Jenny…

With mugs in hand, Matt stood transfixed between the past and the present. Off the main room were two bedchambers. He turned away, not ready to brush against those more intimate memories. Still, some reached out and touched him.

In one room…reading
Winnie-the-Pooh
to Tyler by lamplight, the entire family nestled in thick woolen pajamas…

In the other…curled under heavy goose-down quilts with Jenny, her naked body an ember against his own skin…

“Coffee’s ready,” Jenny said, drawing him back. With a worn oven mitt, she lifted the hot pot and waved the two men to the sofa.

Matt set the mugs on the knotty-pine table.

She filled them. “Tell me what happened.” Her voice was emotionless, professional, a sheriff’s voice.

Craig began, telling his side of the story. He related all that had transpired since he left his Seattle newspaper office. He finished with the harrowing plunge in the plane.

“Sabotage?” Jenny asked. She knew Brent as well as Matt did. If there was a problem with the plane, there had to be another reason besides neglect or simple equipment failure…not in Brent Cumming’s plane.

Matt nodded. “I suspected as much. Then this second plane appeared.” He gave her the call signs painted on the plane, but he wagered either the aircraft would be discovered stolen or the call signs were bogus. He told her as much. “As it circled, two commandos dove from the plane with ice choppers and rifles. They clearly didn’t want to leave anyone behind to tell tales.”

Jenny’s brows knit together. Her eyes flicked to Craig, but the reporter was carefully inspecting his coffee as he swirled in some sugar. “What happened then?”

Matt detailed the fate of the two assassins as plainly as possible. She unfolded a topographic map of the area, and he marked down the plane crash site and roughly where the bodies of the two men could be found.

“I’ll need to call into Fairbanks for this,” she said as he finished.

“And I need to contact my newspaper,” Craig added, perking up with a jolt of Jenny’s strong coffee. “They must be wondering what happened. I was supposed to update them when I reached Prudhoe Bay.”

Jenny stood up, flipping closed her notepad. “The satellite phone is over there.” She pointed her pad to a desk. “Make it quick, then I’ll need to reach my office.”

Craig took his mug of coffee with him. “How do I use it?”

“Just dial like you would any other phone. You might get a bit more static due to the recent solar storms. They’ve been fritzing everything lately.”

Craig nodded and sat at the desk. He picked up the receiver.

Jenny stepped to the fireplace. “What do you make of all this?” she asked Matt.

He joined her, leaning a hand on the hearth’s mantel. “Clearly someone wants to keep the newspapers away from the drift station.”

“A cover-up?”

“I don’t know.”

In the background, Craig spoke into the phone. “Sandra, this is Teague. Connect me to the big guy.” A pause. “I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. I’ve got news that can’t wait.”

Matt imagined the reporter already had more story than he’d expected when he left Seattle.

Jenny turned her back a bit on Craig and lowered her voice. “Does this guy know more than he’s telling us?”

Matt eyed Craig. “I doubt it. I think he just ended up here because he pulled the short straw.”

“And these commandos…you’re sure they were military?”

“Military background, at least.” Matt recognized the tension building in Jenny as she stood by the fireplace. She kept her eyes averted from him, her words terse. She had a job to do here, but his presence kept her on guard.

He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve any better. Still, he wanted to find some way past this unnaturally forced discourse. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t touched a drink in over two years, but would she even care? Did it even matter any longer? The damage had been done.

He studied a single framed picture of Tyler on the mantel: smiling, towheaded, a pup in his arms, Bane, then eight weeks old. Matt’s heart clenched with joy and grief. He allowed himself to feel the emotion. He had long given up trying to drown it away. It still hurt…and in many ways, that was a good thing.

Jenny spoke. “Any other impressions?”

He took a deep breath to keep the pain out of his voice and stepped away from the fireplace. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his brow with a knuckle. “They might have been foreign nationals.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They never spoke a word within earshot. In retrospect, it was like they were purposefully keeping silent, hiding their origin. Like they had done with their weapons.”

“Could they be hired mercenaries?”

He shrugged. He had no idea.

“So far we don’t have much to go on.” Her gaze grew long as she began to plan. “We’ll get forensics up there and see what they can dig up. But something tells me the real answers are going to be found over at the polar base. And if so, the FBI will need to be called in…and military intelligence if the Navy is somehow tied in with all this. What a mess…”

He nodded. “A mess
someone
wanted to clear up at the end of a rifle barrel.”

She glanced to him. It looked like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

Matt took a deep breath. “Jenny…look…”

Craig had been conversing in low tones, but his voice grew suddenly louder. “Prudhoe Bay,
why?”

Jenny and Matt both turned toward him.

“I don’t see why I have to—” A long pause. “Fine, but I’m with a sheriff now. I can’t promise I’ll be able to get there.” Craig rolled his eyes and shook his head. Finally, he sighed and spoke. “I expect a big-ass raise after this, goddamn it.” He shoved the phone down.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.

Craig blustered for a moment, then collected himself. “They want me to stay here. Can you believe that? I’m supposed to meet with the paper’s contact at Prudhoe and follow up on events. See if they’re somehow connected to the research station.”

Jenny crossed to the desk as Craig vacated it in disgust. “Either way, you’ll have to stay here for now until Fairbanks clears you. We’re still in the middle of an investigation.”

“That’s fine by me,” he groused.

Jenny picked up the phone.

Before she could dial, the door to the cabin swung open. Her father stomped in, knocking snow off his boots. “Seems like we’re going to get more unexpected visitors.” He glared over at Matt. “Looks like a plane might be trying to land here.”

With the door open, the rumbling of an engine echoed into them. Dogs barked in the background.

Matt met Jenny’s gaze, and both hurried to the door.

From the shelter of the doorjamb, they studied the skies. A white Cessna slowly circled into view, drawing parallel with the wide river.

“Matt?”

He stared up at the plane. Blood drained into his legs. “It’s the same one.”

“Are you sure?” She shielded a hand over her eyes, clearly attempting to spot the call sign on the underside of the wings.

“Yes.” He didn’t need to read the stenciled letters and numbers.