Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,119

hours now?”

Cutter nodded sleepily. “Has it only been that long?”

“You got to Stone Cross yesterday at the middle of fifth period,” she said. “Lots of stuff happened in that short time. I’m sorry I never told you about Daisy when you first got here.”

“Forget about that,” Cutter said, meaning it. Aguthluk’s threatening letter seemed trivial compared to everything else that had happened. “You saw things through your lens, I saw them through mine.”

“So neither of us were wrong?”

“I guess not.” Cutter winked. “But I was a little bit more right.” Birdie duck-walked sideways like a baseball catcher adjusting her position. She sidled up close until she was shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip with Cutter and then, out of nowhere, she leaned in so her nose and lips pressed against his cheek. Surprised, he didn’t move away, even when she lingered there for a few seconds before sitting back up.

“Kunik,” she said.

“Kunik,” Cutter repeated, having no idea what he was saying. The cold had made him loopy, and for all he knew he’d just accepted a marriage proposal.

“People think that an Eskimo kiss is only rubbing noses,” she said. “But it’s more than that. It is a way to greet our family and loved ones when our noses and cheeks are often the only thing exposed during the winter.”

“I like it,” Cutter said, nodding slowly at the fire. He didn’t address the fact that she’d just lumped him in with her loved ones. They were both running on fumes. People sometimes got too honest when they were exhausted. Cutter decided to change the subject. “You know what we need besides fat?”

Birdie turned to look at him. Smudge raised his head again as if he wanted to know too.

“We need a plan,” he said. “I think I might have one if you trust me.”

“Remember when I said the meanest survive the longest out here?” Birdie began to draw in the muddy snow with her willow twig.

“I do,” Cutter said. Her doodling in the dirt put him in the mood to whittle, but there was no time. The fire was getting smaller by the minute. There was no question that they’d had to stop. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if they froze to death, but he was already feeling the urgency of getting back on the trail.

“Years ago,” Birdie said, “some sociologists did a study at some villages up north of here. Their evidence was anecdotal, ’cause it’d be hard to quantify meanness, but these guys theorized that the ones who got in the most fights, got in trouble with the law the most, they were most likely to survive extreme hardships like weather. A couple years ago, I had a couple of elementary school students get caught in a blizzard when they were out lookin’ for their grandfather. That little brother and sister survived three nights in subzero temperatures beside their overturned snow machine, living on nothing but some jelly beans and a Hershey bar—and I gotta tell you, those two kids were in my office all the time. They had to be the two worst-behaved students in the school—always in fights, always breaking the rules . . .”

“Fight on,” Cutter said.

“What?”

“Something my grandfather used to say.”

Birdie pointed at him with her drawing stick, punctuating each word. “Nine and eleven,” she said. “That’s how old they were. Three nights . . .” Birdie pushed off her knees with both hands to stand. “I’m gonna have to get mean to put on that wet parka.” She hefted the still sodden fur and groaned in disgust. “You said you had a plan as long as I trusted you.”

“Do you?” Cutter asked.

She shrugged on the coat and picked up her rifle.

“I trust you to be mean,” she said. “You seem pretty good at that.”

CHAPTER 43

Lola Teariki nearly jumped out of her skin when Jolene’s cell phone rang. Jolene leaned over a library table, resting her head on her hands. She sat up on the second ring and gave a long, feline yawn. If the noise startled her, she didn’t act like it.

They were still in the library with Markham and the lawyers, waiting on pins and needles for Cutter to check in on the satellite phone. Lola had already fielded two calls from the chief. Jill Phillips was good about giving the fugitive task force a wide latitude when they were working, but she was quick to put on her mother-hen hat when things got sticky. Chasing killers in forty-knot winds and