Childers and Schimmel stood in the ankle-deep mud, hoods pulled up around their faces for awhile, and smoked. Childers didn’t feel like talking to Schimmel, and Schimmel never knew what to say unless someone else started the conversation, so they stared at the hole they’d dug and listened to the stream rush down from the glaciers.
Ten minutes after he finished his second cigarette, Dallas Childers threw back the hood of his raincoat. He grabbed the bar on the side of his backhoe and hauled himself into the cab with a grunt.
Schimmel, still leaning with both hands on the shovel handle, looked up, trying to make sense of what was going on.
“What are you doin’?”
“We got a road to build,” Childers said. Settling into his seat, he snatched up a thermos and unscrewed the top to get a warmup from the coffee – and the other Kentucky goodness he had mixed in there.
“What about the bones?”
“What bones?” Childers said. “I don’t see any bones.”
“And the archeologist?”
Childers chuckled at that. “What archeologist? Auclair is taking him to the south dock to meet Mr. Dollarhyde. Nobody’s gonna see him get on that boat.”
Schimmel gave a slow nod as the understanding crept in like a tickle on his brain.
Mr. Dollarhyde would shoot Merculief, or maybe hit him with a rock. You could never tell with that guy. He might even tie an anchor around the kid’s feet and dump him over alive – that dude was always licking his lips and smiling that sadistic smile. Schimmel didn’t want to know the details. Not knowing meant he could tell himself he wasn’t a witness to a murder. He wouldn’t have minded killing the dumbass kid himself. But witnessing a killing made you a loose end, and Schimmel sure as hell didn’t want to be a loose end with lip-licking Dollarhyde sneaking around tying things up for Mr. Grimsson.
Schimmel stepped back as the backhoe’s diesel engine rattled to life. This shit was about to get real. It was better to stay in the dark about the details.
“Get your ass outta that dig!” Childers yelled. He bent over to fiddle with his backhoe controls.
Schimmel stooped quickly and lifted the edge of the tarp, scooping up the bone rattle while Childers was busy, and shoving it in the pocket of his Frogg Toggs. He glanced sideways, holding his breath, bracing himself for the shit storm that would fall on him if Childers saw him try to walk off with evidence that the burial site existed. Tension always made him feel like he had to pee.
Childers sat up straight in his seat again. “I told you to get out of the dig!” No mention of the rattle. Childers was so deaf from the rumble of diesel engines and gunfire over the years that Schimmel was sure he hadn’t heard a thing the archeologist kid had said about how much the bone rattle was worth.
Schimmel scrambled out of the roadbed, dragging the blue tarps with him so there would be no trace when Childers put the skeleton and creepy deer-hoof apron back where it belonged, deep in the dirt. His hand dropped into the pocket of his rain coat, fingers wrapping around the handle of the bone rattle. It felt exceptionally heavy, especially with Childers frowning down at him, with the big gun strapped across his chest. Half a million bucks was a lot of money. Worth the risk, Schimmel told himself. Still, you couldn’t spend a dollar if you were dead. He could sell it at a discount to someone who knew how much it was worth. But he didn’t know anyone who had more than a couple hundred bucks besides Mr. Grimsson or Mr. Dollarhyde, and he sure as hell wasn’t telling them. No, he’d have to figure something out. But he had time.
He wondered if the rattle might be cursed. It could be. There were curses in the Bible. Bad ones, and witches too. Maybe. He wasn’t really sure about the witches. Schimmel lit another cigarette and ran a finger along the bumps and ridges of the carved horn inside his pocket. Maybe Isaac Merculief had eaten all the bone rattle’s bad luck. Knowing Mr. Dollarhyde, the kid was already taking a saltwater snooze by now.
He adjusted his earmuffs and then leaned on his shovel to formulate a plan. If everything worked out just right, he’d make some good money, and it probably wouldn’t get him killed.
“Kua aere a rauuru te noo nei a mata.”
“Only the drones are left. The warriors have gone to work.”
—Cook Island Maori Proverb
Day One
Chapter 1
Anchorage
Supervisory Deputy U.S. Marshal Arliss Cutter’s grandfather had warned him early on: If they’re cornered, just about anybody on earth would jam a pencil into your eye.
That was Cutter’s job – cornering people.
On paper, Jarome Pringle was just number 3 on a list of wanted criminals the Alaska Fugitive Task Force had focused on for the week – nothing special. Not dangerous. But then, Jarome Pringle had never been cornered.
Cutter took his grandfather’s teachings to heart – and passed them on to the deputies he trained, the deputies he kicked doors with.
Like today.
Whenever possible, Cutter liked to hunt his fugitives in the tiny sliver of time when dogs
