the cabin wall read twenty-eight above. "Told you so," she said to Mutt.
Setting the chisel with a few taps of the blunt side of the axe, she
stood back, raised the axe over her head, and brought the blunt side
down on the chisel. The round of pine had seasoned through the winter
and split cleanly at the first blow, with a satisfying crack, into two
almost even halves. "I'm giving a loose to my soul," she told Mutt. Mutt
yawned and settled her chin on crossed forepaws. Her choke chain was
pulled tight, her leash stretched as far as it would go between choke
chain and wire, and the leash run as far as it could get from where Kate
was chopping wood. She was not speaking to Kate, but she still had
plenty to say, all of it eloquent. Properly chastened, Kate reversed the
axe and used the blade to split each half into two chunks.
A jangle of chain and a flurry of hysterical barks interrupted the
splitting of the second round. She looked up to see Mutt prancing
frantically, in a manner wholly unsuited to her age and dignity, at the
extreme end of the wire closest to the edge of the clearing. Every hair
on her body strained against the leash. Kate followed her gaze and drew
in a breath.
There was a timber wolf, ash gray in color, standing three and a half
feet tall at the shoulder and weighing, Kate estimated, a hundred and
sixty pounds. His eyes were large, brown and probably usually filled
with intelligence.
Today they were bright with something else, and they were fastened on
the half-wolf, half-husky tethered to the wire next to Kate's cabin. He
shook his coat into amorous order, adjusted the curl of his tail and
stalked forward.
He was, all in all, a very handsome fellow indeed. Well, Mutt was no hag
herself, and Kate understood the impetus behind and almost wavered
beneath the onslaught of imploring yips and entreating howls from both
lovers. She managed to pull herself together, though, and spoke in a
stern voice. "Dammit, Mutt, I told you. We don't need any more puppies
around here. The last bunch like to drove both of us into running away
from home. We're lucky they turned out to be halfway trainable so Mandy
could put them to work."
Mutt ignored the voice of reason, quivering, her ruff standing straight
up, her tail curled coquettishly, her wide yellow eyes fixed on the
wolf. He paused in his approach, glancing for the first time in Kate's
direction, taking her in at a single glance and dismissing her as
negligible. Kate wasn't quite sure she even registered on his peripheral
vision as human and therefore a potential threat; his attention was
clearly fixed elsewhere.
She moved over to the wire. Mutt danced around her eagerly, and Kate
took one cautionary wind of the leash around her forearm, regarded it
for a moment and took another. "Never underestimate the power of love,"
she muttered, and Mutt proved her point by almost jerking her arm out of
its socket when Kate detached the leash from the wire. Mutt pulled
avidly for the trees, Kate grimly for the cabin. Sweating, straining,
and swearing all the way, the tug-of-war turned her hands and forearm
dark red and numb to all feeling. Finally, Kate managed to get her
shivering, whining roommate back inside and the cabin door safely closed
and latched behind her. She subsided limply on the doorstep and mopped
her overheated brow. "Besides," she told the eager scrabble of toenails
against the other
side of the door, "if I can do without, so can you." From the edge of
the clearing the wolf howled, a long,
lovelorn sound that rose to a frustrated crescendo. "Oh, shut up," Kate
snapped, and returned to vent her spleen on the woodpile.
"Well, hey there, my first customer of the morning." The portly,
cheerful man turned to face him across the counter. "The mail plane
The killer shot once. The expanding nose of the soft tipped bullet
shredded the back of the man's head and stuccoed the wall of wooden
cubbyholes behind him in grayish white and dark red. The man's body
stood, swaying for a moment, before slumping slowly and somehow
gracefully to the floor.
There was a still, silent moment. The killer heard a quick, sharp intake
of breath and wheeled to see the curtain that separated the post office
from the rest of the house moving, as if someone had been holding it
open and had just released it. He jerked it back, to reveal an empty
living room, the door to it swinging wide. He went to the door and
looked out, and saw her running down the long, narrow length of the
airstrip, a pudgy little gray-haired woman in jeans and sweatshirt and
stocking feet. He thought she screamed. A movement caught his eye and he
looked beyond her. Two people on a snow machine broke out of the trees
at the middle of the strip. The running woman yelled and waved her arms.
The driver looked her way and turned the snow machine in her direction.
The woman screamed and waved her arms more frantically.
The killer brought the 30.06 to his shoulder in one smooth motion and
shot once. The driver slumped over the handlebars and the machine
swerved abruptly. The passenger screamed and tried to shove the driver
aside so she could grasp the handlebars, to no avail. She screamed
again, and went on screaming, as the machine slewed and
swerved, back and forth, across the airstrip. Lining up the sight, the
killer exhaled, held it and shot again. The screaming stopped abruptly.
The snow machine, riderless, ran into the plowed snowbank at the side of
the strip and flipped over.
He gave the Winchester a fond pat and looked around for the running
woman. He found her all the way down at the end of the strip, stubby
legs pumping tirelessly beneath the spur of adrenaline. Sighting
carefully through the peephole, down the barrel and over the darkened
bead that stood out so clearly against the hard-packed snow of the
runway, he closed his fingers almost gently around the trigger, heard
the shot and its echo immediately following, felt the kick of the butt
against his shoulder, saw her stagger and fall. She lay still for a
moment, before lifting herself up on her forearms and dragging herself
into the trees. He shook his head, almost in admiration, and went after her.
He paused at the edge of the strip to look at the bodies of the two from
the snow machine. He turned them face up with one foot, careful not to
let the blood dull the gloss of his new boots. One body no longer had a
face, the other no chest. The killer straightened one's shirt, the
other's legs, and followed the tracks into the trees.
A sharp crack echoed through the woods, and instinctively he threw
himself down and rolled. He came up shooting, working the bolt and
spacing his shots in an
arc. He paused to reload, listening. There was complete silence, and
then he saw the broken branch in one of his own footprints. He clucked
at his over-reaction and recovered her, trail. A few yards down it, he
found the body.
He app
roached cautiously, rifle held in front of him, a round in the
chamber and the safety off. Mukluks, bright pink bib overalls, a checked
shirt. "Oh," he said, on a long note of discovery when at last he saw
her face, and sank to his knees, beside her in the stained snow.
She was blonde and she was beautiful, even in death. The last time he'd
seen her, that fair skin had been flushed, the full, red lips twisted
away from her white, straight teeth in a sneer, the widely-spaced dark
blue eyes narrowed in contempt. She had laughed at him.
He smiled down at her now, touched her cheek. It was cooling rapidly. He
raised one lid to see if her eye was as blue as he remembered. It was.
He admired the perfect fans her thick lashes made on her cheeks. His
hand slid down her throat, shaped one breast, stroked her narrow waist,
cupped between her thighs.
A small whisper, perhaps of wind, rustled through the grove. A sound,
perhaps the whimper of a frightened squirrel, came from deeper in the
stand of trees. It was enough to make him withdraw his hand.
He rose to his feet and threaded his way through the trees to the
airstrip. Righting the overturned snow machine, he mounted it and
thumbed the electric starter. It caught on the first try.
The pile of split wood was waist high when Kate heard the rapid
whap-whap-whap of a helicopter's rotor. The sun was high in a
still-cloudless sky, and her shirt was damp down her spine and beneath
her arms. She sunk the axe into the tree stump that served as her
chopping block and went inside to pump up a drink of water. She drained
the glass, refilled it and brought it hack outside, narrowly missing
Mutt's nose in the door. She sat down on the front step, groaning a
little from sore muscles. A rustle of underbrush called her attention to
the edge of the clearing, where Mutt's would-be lover sat beneath a
mountain hemlock.
For a change he was not looking yearningly at the cabin but in an
inquiring fashion at the sky. She squinted up as the noise of the
helicopter became louder, and jumped to her feet when it roared the last
few feet to hover over her clearing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yelled,
her voice a furious croak. "You can't land here!" Mutt's lover decided
it was a better day for discretion
than valor and broke for the high country. As the Bell Jet Ranger with
the distinctive blue-and-gold markings of the Alaska State Troopers
lowered to the exact center of the clearing, Kate was forced back up
against the door of the cabin. She held her breath, watching the ends of
the rotors sweep dangerously close to the eaves of every building in the
semicircle of her homestead.
The blades slowed their rotation but didn't stop. The engine powered
down, and the door of the helicopter opened and a man in a state
trooper's uniform emerged. Holding on to his hat, he crouched over the
few running steps that brought him face to crotch with Kate.
She glared down at him. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Jim?
You're lucky you didn't take the roof
off everything I own!"
"Get inside!" he yelled, and suited word to deed by reaching around her
to open the door and shove her inside, thudding up the steps and in
behind her and pulling the door shut after him.
He was a tall man and a large one, and he filled up the cabin more than
she liked. "What the hell do you think you're doing," she snapped,
"pushing your way in here? What's going on?"
"You haven't heard?" "Heard what?"
He strode over to her scanner and snapped it on, to be greeted by dead
air. He shook his head and swore. "Dammit, I told them to broadcast a
warning and keep broadcasting it until we catch the fucker."
"What fucker? What warning?" she said angrily. And then she saw his
expression.- In that instant her anger changed to apprehension. The
words devoid of heat, she repeated. "Jim, what's going on?"
He turned and surveyed the room, Kate mystified, Mutt alert, both of
them wary. "At least you're all right."
"Of course I'm all right." Kate's gaze sharpened. "Who isn't?"
His lips thinned. "Two people we know of, so far." "Niniltna?" He nodded
curtly, and she tensed. Next to her Mutt whined once, a keen, anxious
sound. "What happened?" Kate said flatly.
He blew out a breath. "Near as we can figure, some guy's running around
shooting at people with a 30.06." Her mouth went dry. "Who?"
He shook his head. "We don't know yet." "Who's been shot?"
A gleam of understanding crossed his face, but he shook his head again.
"We don't know that yet, either. He shot at the mail plane as it was
coming in to land. George Perry saw some bodies lying at the end of the
strip. Then a guy on a snow machine started shooting and he hit the
throttle. He climbed to five thousand feet and circled long enough to
put out an SOS. He saw the guy on the snow machine take off. That's
about all we know, except ..."
"Except?" "Except that he's headed this way." The trooper saw Kate's
reaction and nodded once for emphasis. "The mail plane called the tower
in Tok, the tower called me, and I got in the air right away. I've been
hitting every home stead on the way in."
Kate walked around him and got the shotgun down from the rack over the
door. She broke it open to check that it was loaded. It was. She turned.
"Okay. Now I know. You'd better get on with passing the word."
His expression relaxed, and he gave half a laugh and amazed her by
swooping down for a swift, hard kiss. He laughed again at her expression
and chucked her beneath the chin. "Probably the only chance I'll ever
get, how could I resist?"
The shotgun was on its way up and if the helicopter hadn't been right in
back of him she might even have fired off a round. He looked from her
furious face to the shot gun and back, laughed again and actually had
the gall to salute her. "If he gets here before I get him, he's wearing
a black-and-red mackinaw and a brown billed cap with ear flaps. He's
driving a Polaris. Watch your ass, Shugak."
He ducked and ran to the helicopter. The engine pitch and blade rotation
increased immediately. In five seconds he was in the air, in seven over
the trees, and in ten out of sight.
"Go!" the farmer yelled at the two open-mouthed, petrified. figures of
his children. "Run, dammit!" He turned back to the killer and waved his
arms. "Here! Over here, you lousy bastard! Come get me, I dare you!"
The killer looked at him without expression. The farmer, lying against
his barn with a shattered leg and his life's blood oozing away, clutched
frantically around him for something to throw. He found nothing but
melting snow, and so he threw that, in handfuls that fell far short of
their target in ineffective, disintegrating pieces. "Shit!" The killer
watched him without moving. "Motherfucker!" the farmer yelled and
flipped him the bird with both hands. "Joe! Mary! Run!"
The two children finally broke and ran, straight out across the frozen
pond that fronted the farm build
ings. The,, killer took half a step
forward, swiveled and brought up the rifle. He frowned at the running
figures through the sights. They were so small and they ran so fast. He
squeezed off two shots. One hit, one missed. "No!" the farmer screamed,
"no, no, no goddam you, no!". The killer shot a third time. The second
figure fell hard on the grainy ice of the little lake and slid ten feet
before coming to a stop.
The farmer, sobbing, crying, gasping for breath, was clawing his body to
the edge of the lake when the killer
stepped up next to him. Their eyes met. The killer's face was calm and
still, the farmer's contorted with grief and rage.
"Fuck you," the farmer hissed. "Do it."
Kate leaned the shotgun against the woodpile and picked up the axe.
After staring at it for a moment, she put the axe back down and picked
up the shotgun. She felt like pacing, but pacing back and forth across
the clearing with a crazy person going around shooting at people seemed
like a bad idea. It might have been the safest thing to do, but she