ACTIVE REACHED THE Cessna first.
Cowboy puffed to a stop beside him a few seconds later. The plane was deserted. “Where the hell are they?”
Active peered into the fog and shook his head. He made a megaphone of his hands and shouted into the murk. “Governor? Pudu? Hello-o-o-o-o?”
No answer, then the rifle cracked again.
“Come on,” Cowboy said. “I think I got a direction on it.” He sprinted off the same way Mercer had gone minutes earlier. Active followed, noticing now that a trail of boot tracks led the same way.
“Over here, guys,” came the governor’s voice. “I got us a caribou for dinner!”
The trail led to the edge of the slough, up the snowy bank, and into the willows, where they found Mercer and Pudu standing over the downed caribou, a bigbellied female with spiky little antlers. Judging from the blood on the gray-brown fur, she had been hit once in the stomach and once in the ear. And judging from the red snow, she had thrashed out her last moments in agony until someone had put the kill shot through her ear.
“Come on, Pudu, get some more video.” Mercer put her foot and the butt of a rifle on the caribou’s shoulder. “I spotted a little band in the toolie bushes here while I was using the facilities, so I went back to the plane and looked, and sure enough, you had this trusty old .308 in your survival gear, Cowboy, so I got Pudu and his camera and we came back with the rifle and I shot the caribou and Pudu got it all on tape and now we’ve got ourselves a real Bush Alaska dinner! And it’s gonna look great on YouTube.” Mercer beamed at her son.
“Arii, Mom, I told you not to shoot a cow, they’ve got their babies in them now.” Pudu poked the animal’s swollen belly with a boot. A rivulet of half-digested reindeer moss oozed out. “And you gut-shot her.”
“Oh, never mind that,” Mercer said. “Leave it out of the frame. Just get me and the caribou’s head and shoulders in the shot.”
“And then I had to finish her off for you because you didn’t want blood on your clothes!”
“Pudu. Get your camera.”
Pudu thrust gloved hands into the pockets of his snowgo suit and glared at his mother. “This is dumb.”
“I said, GET. YOUR. CAMERA.”
Pudu dropped his gaze and turned to pull the Canon from its case on the snow a few feet away.
“Teenagers!” Mercer said with a bright smile.
“Governors,” Active muttered to Cowboy.
Pudu flicked on the camera’s light and taped for a minute or so as Mercer posed in the glare.
“You want me to get some video of you cutting it?”
“Please, Pudu. I’m pro-life, remember? You’re seriously asking if I want to be on camera when that calf gets cut out if its mother’s belly? Seriously? Is that what you want?”
“Arii, Mom,” Pudu said. He put the camera away, pulled an Old Timer folding knife from a zipper pocket on the leg of his snowgo suit and opened the blade, muttering what Active thought might be, “Like you could cut caribou anyway.”
Mercer didn’t hear, or pretended not to. She turned the bright smile on Decker. “So, Cowboy, whatcha got in that survival kit we could throw in the pot for some caribou stew?”
The pilot shot Active a resigned glance before he spoke. “A lot of Mountain House. I guess there’s some chili mac in there, maybe some potatoes and broccoli?”
“Mmm,” Mercer said. “Pudu, you bring up the backstrap and we’ll be eatin’ like real Alaskans tonight!”
Pudu grunted and slid the blade in at the cow’s anus, then drew it up the midline of the belly, deftly parting the hide without puncturing the stomach lining underneath. He flipped off his gloves and began separating hide from muscle with bladelike motions of his hands.
“Um, Governor?” Nathan said as they started for the plane. “He will bring all the meat, right? Otherwise, Tundrabunny and the other bloggers will be all over you for wanton waste.”
“Of course,” Mercer said. “We’ll take it with us to Isignaq and Pudu can get video of me giving it to the elders.”
Active nodded, feeling a little dizzy. There was no end to the woman. “And, um, you do have a hunting license, right? Otherwise, Tundrabunny—”
“Of course, Nathan. I’m the governor of Alaska. And call me Suka, OK? Like I said?”
“OK,” Active said. “Suka.”
“Governors,” Cowboy muttered.
“I GOTTA HAND it to you, Governor,” Cowboy said an hour later as he lit a Marlboro. “You make a mean caribou stew.”
They were sitting on bedrolls and spruce boughs around a pretty nice campfire Pudu had made by scavenging wood from deadfalls. Cowboy had thrown a cup of avgas from the Cessna’s tanks on top of the pile and tossed on a match to start what he called a Bush pilot fire. Beside it, the remnants of the stew were freezing to the sides of the pot on Cowboy’s camp stove.
As they cleaned their bowls and licked their spoons dry, Cowboy’s face lit up. “Wait a minute, I think I’ve got dessert.”
He dug into the survival kit again and came up with a Ziploc bag of Butterfingers. Active peeled his open and reflected that there probably were, in fact, worse places on earth to be than huddled around a campfire in the fog on a slough somewhere along the Isignaq River with a bowlful of caribou stew in his stomach and that first salty, chocolaty, sugary bite of Butterfinger sliding down his throat.
Pudu scooped the stewpot full of snow and fired up the stove again to melt water for what little dish washing would be done, then hiked off into the willows to answer the call of nature.
“We probably should think about sleeping arrangements,” Mercer said. “How big’s your tent, Cowboy?”
“Actually, we can all sleep in the plane, if you don’t mind sitting up.”
“I do,” Mercer said. “So, the tent?”
“It’ll take two easy, three maybe. Four could be a problem. But you and Pudu can have the Arctic Oven and we boys can sleep in Two-Five-Sierra, right, Nathan? I’ll hafta run the engine now and again to keep her alive, which will warm up the interior, plus my sleeping bags are pretty good.”
Active nodded.
“I don’t know,” Mercer said. “I think Pudu—”
Just then the boy crunched back up from his trip to the woods.
“They want you to sleep in the tent, Pudu,” she said. “Don’t you need to back up your memory cards and charge your batteries?”
“Oh, yeah,” Pudu said. “Every night, all right. I gotta be in the plane.”
Mercer raised her eyebrows. “Looks like it’s the Arctic Oven for you and me, Nathan.”
“Us? In the tent? All night? Won’t Tundrabunny and the bloggers…you know?”
“Let’em. They’re gonna sexualize everything I do, anyway. Better they say I spent a night in a tent with a cop than my own son.” She brightened. “I know—I’ll bring in Cowboy’s rifle and put it between us!”
Active could think of nothing to say, so he said, “Cowboy’s rifle.”
“Posilutely,” Mercer said.
“My rifle,” Cowboy said.
Mercer nodded. “That way, if Nathan tries anything in the Arctic Oven, I’m all set.” She flashed them the campaign grin. “And if the bloggers try to make something out of it, well, by golly, I’ll show ‘em my rifle and you can show’em your great big Glock. Right, Nathan?”
“Right, Suka.” Active hoped he sounded less doomed than he felt as he pictured himself explaining this to Grace. “I’ll get the tent.”
Active set up the Arctic Oven over a mat of spruce boughs as snow sifted down, and the murk deepened. Mercer waited by the fire and Cowboy and Pudu pulled the seats out of the 207 and set up their own beds on the cabin floor.
“Been kind of a taxing day,” Active said when the tent was ready. “I guess I should unroll the sleeping bags. You got a light, Cowboy?”
The pilot handed over an LED flashlight, then rummaged in the back of the plane and came up with two sleeping pads and a puffy, down-filled sleeping bag.
“Just one?” Active muttered. “I’m not sharing a bag with that wo—” he glanced at Pudu and Mercer, who might or might not be within earshot “—with the governor.”
“It’s a Woods double-single,” Cowboy muttered back. “It’s all in how you zip it. Strictly your choice, Nathan.” He looked at Mercer, eyes aglow in the firelight. “Or hers.”
Active headed back to the tent. As he passed the fire, Mercer spotted the Woods.
“Just one?” she asked. “That’ll be cozy.”
“Don’t worry, Suka. It zips apart into two singles.”
“Oh, the double will be fine,” she said as he pushed into the Arctic Oven.
Active pulled his head out of the tent. “Seriously? The double?”
“Of course. After all, I’ve got Cowboy’s trusty .308.” She patted the rifle propped on the log beside her.
Active stooped into the Arctic Oven, tucked the flashlight under his chin, laid out the pads, and unfurled the bag in the center of the floor so they could get in and out without crawling over each other. He shucked off his parka and rolled it up for a pillow, kicked off his Sorels, then slid into the bag in his RefrigiWear and stocking feet. “All set in here,” he called out.
Mercer came into the tent on all fours, then turned and closed the flaps in the beam of his flashlight.
He debated turning off the light so she could undress if she wanted to. Then he decided he didn’t want her to, and left it on. He watched in unease as she studied the layout, taking in the parka rolled up under his head and the straps of the snowgo suit looped over his shoulders.
She took off her own parka, wadded it up, and dropped it at the head of her side of the bag. She hesitated, tapping her lips with a forefinger.
He waited, then caved. “Would you like the light off?”
“No, this’ll be fine.” She kicked off her own Sorels and slid into the bag in her snowgo suit. “Good night, Nathan. And thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure.” He switched off the flashlight and tucked it into a pocket of his RefrigiWear to keep the batteries warm.
An alarm bell went off in his head. He pulled out the flashlight and switched it on again. “Did you forget the rifle?”
Mercer raised her head and peered around the tent. “Did I? Gosh, I guess so.” She gazed at him. “But surely I’m safe with a sworn officer of the law.” She rolled away and pulled the bag over her head.
“You should leave a breathing hole,” Active said after another debate with himself. “Otherwise the bag will ice up.”
“I’m from around here. Remember?”
“Of course, sorry.” He switched off the light, rolled away from Mercer, covered his own head, and made his own breathing hole.
“It’s OK, Nathan. I’m not a complete twit, no matter what they say in the lamestream media.”
Boots crunched up to the tent in the dark. “Hey, guys, don’t panic, but I’m gonna warm up Two-Five-Sierra before Pudu and I bed down,” Cowboy said.
“No problem, Cowboy,” Mercer said.
“You two sleep tight in there,” Cowboy said.
“You mind your own business. Nathan and I will be just fine.” There was a hint of feline rumble in her voice. “Won’t we, Nathan?”
“Just fine.”
A few seconds later, the Cessna coughed to life. The engine was still turning over when Active drifted off to sleep, as far as he could get from Helen Mercer without unzipping his side of the bag and curling up on the floor in the cold.