Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,72

of split wood had nearly taken her head off, which was a shame. She’d have been a hell of a lot easier to look at without fluid dripping out her ear. Rick had wanted to leave her where she fell. Even if she would have come to, she would have just drifted off to sleep again and died from exposure. There were worse ways to die than just drifting off to sleep. It would have been a mercy.

But they had her, Kilgore had reasoned. Might as well hang on to her for a bit, see where it led. Hell, she wasn’t going to eat much with her jaw like that. Kilgore brushed a ginormous flake of snow out of his eyes, picturing the girl’s face without the swollen jaw, and hoping Rick didn’t fly off the handle and finish her off while Kilgore was out getting supplies. Rick Halcomb was unpredictable. He did his own thing, always had. But he was a hell of a useful guy to have with you in a fight, or if someone needed heating up. This was his plan, and Kilgore would help him see it through, but he sure hoped Rick didn’t kill the girl while he was gone.

The Mead kid was a different story. Kilgore kind of hoped he just keeled over from fear. It might deprive poor Rick of a little revenge, but at least this would be over. Hell, Rick hadn’t even started in on him for real yet and he’d already pissed himself. Rick Halcomb was a master at inflicting pain. When he decided to get serious, you begged for him to go ahead and kill you.

Mead was still in the bargaining stage, begging, trying to make a deal. It was pitiful and only served to make Rick angrier. So far the kid hadn’t offered up his wife, but Kilgore was certain that would come next. This kid seemed the type to run over his own mother if he thought it might save his life. People did crazy shit to wiggle their way out of the inevitable. There was no telling what Mead would do to try and save himself. One thing Kilgore knew for sure is that the kid wasn’t going to get out of this little party alive.

The singing was louder now, along with the gurgle of a flowing stream. The noises came from the other side of some gnarly evergreen trees that looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Another few steps and Kilgore could make out a fire through the branches. Sixty, maybe seventy feet away. Kilgore stopped, one foot hovering in the air. There was only one guy, a skinny Eskimo kid, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, with a wool hat pulled down over his ears. He was singing the “eye of a tiger” chorus part of that Katy Perry song “Roar,” over and over to himself while he squatted in front of the fire in his long underwear and rubber boots. Steam rose from a pair of army surplus wool pants draped over a clump of willow scrub on the opposite side of the fire.

A dead caribou lay on the tundra in front of the singing Eskimo’s ATV, about ten feet from the fire. A bolt action rifle leaned against antlers.

Crouching, Kilgore crept a few steps closer, pulling aside a wet alder branch so he could see. From the looks of things, the animal had fallen in the water after it was shot. The hunter had waded out to tie a rope on it, then used the ATV to pull it out. He’d taken the time to gut his catch—the liver lay on a piece of tarp beside the hunter along with his knife—but was evidently waiting for his clothes to dry before butchering the rest of the animal. A quick scan revealed a large rubberized duffel strapped to the rack of the ATV as well as a trailer with a hard plastic lid. Kilgore smiled. Oh yeah, he’d have coffee somewhere in there.

Red Kilgore shivered and slid the pistol out of his jacket pocket. First, he would grab this poor kid’s hat—and then the coffee. That would warm him up. Hell, he’d drink what the kid had on the fire and then brew himself another pot right here—soon as he did what he had to do.

CHAPTER 25

While not exactly friendly, Daisy Aguthluk didn’t snatch up any of the nearby cake knives and go for Judge Markham’s heart. Instead, she stood