Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,55

preference, boss?” Lola asked, sloshing ankle deep on her rubber boots into the river. She stowed her bag over the side.

“You can ride up front if you want,” Cutter said.

“Cool,” Lola said. “I’ll see if Ned needs help pushing us off.”

Judge Markham carried a small dry-bag he’d presumably borrowed from someone at the school since he’d traveled from Anchorage with a hard suitcase. “Taking one for the team,” he said.

Cutter pulled a black wool beanie out of his pocket and snugged it over his head. “How’s that, sir?”

“Not forcing your partner to sit next to me,” Markham said. He gave a sleepy half smile.

Cutter hated to admit it, but this guy was remarkably self-aware.

A professional boat driver with the Florida Marine Patrol, Grumpy would have been proud of the way Birdie Pingayak saw to her skiff. It was an open vessel that was exposed to the elements, but she kept it clean and uncluttered. A heavy wooden oar lay tucked under the starboard rail. A red plastic jug of extra fuel was bungeed up front to even out the weight. Birdie secured a bright orange dry-bag the size of a watermelon to a cleat at the stern, letting it hang inside the boat. She shot a glance at Cutter, then gave the orange bag a pat.

“First-aid and emergency gear,” she said.

The outboard motor started without much coaxing. Jasper cast off the bow line and he and Lola pushed the skiff away before clambering over the side. Curtains of fog closed in quickly. The bank disappeared as Birdie backed up enough to catch the current and turned her little vessel to the north. She proved herself a capable skipper, navigating sandbars, sweeper trees, and meandering braids of the ice-choked Kuskokwim River. Each new obstacle appeared through the fog when they were almost on top of it, giving her little time to react.

The judge slid down low so he was sitting on the plywood deck, leaning his back against the bench. He pulled his wool cap down over his ears and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his coat, knees to his chest. His life jacket rode up around his neck, turtle-like.

“Let’s have it,” he said. “Why does that woman hate me so much that she wants to kill me?”

“Honestly, Judge,” Cutter said, “I’d just learned about it when we landed in Stone Cross. Ned was about to brief me in detail when he got the call about the murder and kidnapping.”

Markham glanced toward the bow. “Officer Jasper, might you shed some light on this matter?”

“I might, sir,” Ned said. “The woman’s name is Daisy Aguthluk.” The last syllable of the name clicked in the back of his throat, like the call of a raven.

“And she was at the airstrip when we landed?”

“Yes, sir,” Ned said. He kept his voice up to be heard over the whine of the outboard. “Does Aguthluk ring a bell?”

Markham shook his head. “No. I mean, I’ve heard the name before. It’s not an uncommon name in rural Alaska.”

Birdie stared sideways into the fog, as if to distance herself from the conversation.

Jasper kept his lookout for dangerous water, but spoke over his shoulder as he continued. “How about the name Cecilia Aguthluk?”

The judge shook his head.

“It makes sense, I guess,” Jasper said. “It was a long time ago. Cecilia was Daisy Aguthluk’s auntie. Her father’s sister, if I understand it correctly. Like I said, I’m new in this village.”

Markham drew back, incredulous. “And how am I supposed to know this woman?”

“I’ll tell it,” Birdie said. “Ned just found out anyway, so he might get the details wrong.”

“Please,” Jasper said, focusing on the river again.

Birdie slowed the boat slightly, quieting the motor just enough to make herself more easily heard. She kept her eyes glued to the current as she spoke. “In 1983, an itinerant nurse named Diane Patrick was forced to overnight in Stone Cross because of a summer storm. She was part of a program vaccinating children for measles or something. Anyway, the new school wasn’t built yet but the church had a cot for visiting clergy. The elders made sure Miss Patrick was fed a good dinner, and then made her comfortable in the church. Cecilia Aguthluk was always a little . . . you know, handicapped. She was thirty-eight, but people describe her as being like a sweet little child. She was walking to pick up some blackfish from a neighbor by the church when she happened to have a seizure. The nurse,