Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,87
with far too many mementos—nothing like her office, which she preferred to keep sparse. Like most people in Stone Cross, Birdie was brought up Russian Orthodox. Icons of the Virgin Mary and other assorted saints hung on the woodgrain panel in the corner of the living room. Photographs of Jolene in her soccer uniforms for every year since she was five ran the length of the couch. There was a Jolene-performing-traditional-dances section, Jolene as a baby, Jolene fishing, and Jolene’s beautiful chubby face, almost swallowed by the fur ruff of her parka as she sat on her grandfather’s dogsled. Portraits of Birdie’s parents and both sets of grandparents watched over the house from the dining nook. Her mom and dad were smiling, looking happy to be in photos together. Both had their share of issues, especially when a new batch of home brew made the rounds, but Birdie had no doubt that they loved each other. In the center of the wall above the dining table, in a place of honor that was visible from virtually anywhere in the room, hung a black and white eight-by-ten photograph of Birdie’s great-grandmother.
The black and white photo was taken a few years after World War II, when Bertha Sovok Flannigan was already an old woman. She sat flat on the floor with her legs stretched straight out in front of her while she sewed the sole on the freshly chewed skin of a mukluk. A long piece of sinew thread hung from a needle in her hand. Her hair was parted in the middle, braided on each side. Dark Asian eyes were set over prominent cheekbones on a wind-burned face that looked as though it might have been carved from polished mahogany. She looked directly at the camera, smiling so hard her eyes almost disappeared in her cheeks. The tattooed lines below her chin were faded with age, but still visible. According to the back of the original photograph, it had been taken by Birdie’s great-grandfather, Horace Flannigan, a school administrator assigned to Wainwright—Ulguniq in the old times—by Alaska Native Services. It was the only photograph Birdie had of her great-grandmother. She loved it most of all because her Protestant great-grandfather had been unashamed of his tattooed Eskimo wife. Bertha’s smile said it all, really. You didn’t smile like that unless you loved the guy taking the photo.
Birdie took another drink of water and closed her eyes. The potluck had gone by much more quickly than she had hoped. This Deputy Cutter fellow was interesting. She’d hoped to find out what he planned to do about the murder if the Troopers couldn’t make it in for a few days—as she suspected was going to happen.
They were marooned a lot this time of year, before it decided to be winter.
Her high school basketball team made up a chant about it when they got stuck in Shungnak up on the Kobuk River for three days one winter. They made up a chant about it that got them all detention. Bad ice, no dice. Bad sky, can’t fly. Planes stuck . . . you’re shit outta luck.
She wanted desperately to tell Cutter more about Sascha Green, but even giving voice to the name made her physically ill. Kidnapping was right up his alley. He’d kidnapped her, all right. He would have killed her too if she hadn’t stabbed him in the neck with a kitchen knife.
Suddenly hungry, she got the leftover agutaq out of the fridge. It took some searching to find a clean spoon. Jolene hadn’t done the dishes in two days, but that was not the hill Birdie wanted to die on at the moment. She rinsed a teaspoon from the sink and took a bite of the frothy pink stuff. The sugar came from the AC store, but Birdie had caught the caribou, picked the berries, and netted the whitefish. She rolled the berries around with her tongue, popping them as the fat and sugar melted in her mouth. Her belly warmed immediately. Energy rushed to her muscles. A single bite made her full, but she ate another spoonful before going to bed. She’d sleep better. As good as she ever did anyway.
The agutaq went back in the fridge by the seal oil. The glass and spoon went into the sink, along with the other dishes that would have to be done tomorrow.
Jolene’s bedroom door was open—an unpopular rule that Birdie strictly enforced. She’d already showered, and was now dressed in running shorts