Alaska Dutchman

Prologue

Whop! The fist hit Red Bennett’s jaw so viciously, it telegraphed pain to every joint in his body.

Where’s d’ mine? the tall, wide-shouldered man growled in gangster speak. A deep scar running from his left eyebrow to his jaw had turned from pink to dark red.

There ain’t no damn mine, Bennett said in a broken southern drawl, spitting blood on the floor.

The mine, idiot? Can’t you understand English? The tall man drew a .357 magnum Smith and Wesson from his holster and swung it.

Not with your illiterate mealy-mouthed accent.

The aggressor’s blood-spattered plaid shirt and stonewashed jeans stretched and strained against his large muscles as he again stepped threateningly toward Bennett. Let me annunciate…M I N E, mine.

Well, well, I see you made it through the second grade. You know how to spell.

You’re going to tell me in the end.

Go to hell. Bennett knew he shouldn’t antagonize the man but he held his ground, setting his jaw in defiance. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The miner was tall, lean, and well-muscled from a long, tough Spartan life. Yet, he knew his body couldn’t take much more punishment.

Yates, emphasize the point.

You got it, Del. The thug’s cohort, equally large and menacing, circled the table, two-by-four in hand, looking at Red’s two partners, trying to decide which one he would continue punishing. He wore black workman’s trousers and a brown flannel shirt just as blood-spattered.

Eny, meeny, miny, moe. Batter up. Yates hit Red’s partner in the back, slamming Cassidy Williams’ face into the table. Again—whack—thud. Blood flowed from William’s broken nose.

Where’s the damn Dutchman? Tell us or I kill your friend.

Asshole, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Red growled.

Where’d all this gold come from?

Don’t tell him, Williams said. He was small, compact and wiry and looked ten years younger than his seventy years. They’re going to kill us anyway.

Ah, there is a mine, Del chortled.

Yes, why should I tell you? Bennett was missing several teeth from the beating he’d received over the last half hour. As Del came close, Bennett spat blood in his face.

Bastard. Del slammed the side of the magnum across the miner’s cheek, laying it open, letting blood gush freely.

You aren’t going to leave witnesses. Butch Emerson tried to push himself up from the table but failed. Crimson ran from a cut over his eye. He was a young 50, dressed in a worn gray shirt and coveralls, now wet with blood.

Maybe yes, maybe no, the first man said.

Kill us and you’re dead men. Bennett clutched his hands into fists.

Yeah. You and whose army?

Not an army. One man—Robert Sable.

Ooh, I’m scared. Del laughed, pretending to shake.

Never heard of him, Yates said. Who in the fuck is this Sable?

Sable’s a trooper who always gets his man, Emerson sputtered through a gaping grill of teeth. He’ll run you to the ground.

Del picked up a twenty-pound bucket of gold nuggets and slammed it on the table. The table shook. Now tell me—where’d you get this?

In the creek in front of the cabin, Bennett said. Suddenly, his one-room cabin seemed small.

Liar. Where is the sluicing equipment?

Bennett shrugged. Fuck off.

Del slammed his fist into Bennett’s face and the miner fell from his chair. Show him we mean business, Yates.

Yates stepped behind Williams, placed his 9mm behind his ear. Last chance, mother fucker.

Go to hell, Williams said.

You first. Yates pulled the trigger. The shot echoed in the cabin as Williams’ head exploded in a shower of blood and brain matter. He slumped forward on the table with a thud. The blood spread out in a jagged pool over the table.

Yates moved around the table and stood behind Emerson. He placed the pistol behind the man’s ear. I’m ready, Del.

Bennett heard a faint familiar grunting and scratching outside his door. He tried not to smile as a spark of hope brightened the dismal situation.

If you don’t tell me the location of the mine, your other friend is dead. Now tell me where the goddamn mine is, Del said.

Brownie, help, Bennett yelled.

Who’s Brownie? Your dog? Del sneered. I killed all your huskies. One bit me.

No. Your worst nightmare. Bennett ran toward the door.

The door exploded with an ear shattering crack as a large snarling grizzly bear crashed into the room. Brownie took an instant to assess the situation. He roared and charged Del and Yates, jaws snapping, claws slashing.

What the hell? Del screamed as flesh disappeared from his arms and face. The men fired their pistols at the snarling locomotive. It didn’t faze him.

Die, bastard, Del yelled.

As Bennett leaped through the door, he heard the shot and felt a deep searing pain in his back. He felt himself weaken, yet he kept running. As he dove into the forest, tree branches clawed at his face. He doubled his pace. He heard rustling branches and snaps of twigs behind him. Apparently, Brownie hadn’t killed both men. He felt sorrow sending Brownie to his death. Over the years, he’d made friends with the bear, feeding him fish and meat when he could afford it. The bear had even let him take a hunter’s bullet from his shoulder.

As the sounds of pursuit began to fade, Bennett began covering his tracks. With each step, he felt his life force ebbing. When he stepped out on the bank of the Tanana River, he saw his canoe hidden in a stand of trees nearby. He was going to shove it off when he saw the claim-jumper’s jet boat fifty feet upriver. He went to the stern of the boat and removed the cowling from the 300 horsepower Evinrude outboard, ripped out the spark plug wires, and tossed them into the river.

Bennett dragged his left leg as he headed back to his canoe. He pushed off and headed to his truck and Fairbanks. With each stroke of the paddle, the pain burned deep into his back. He bit his lip at the excruciating pain.

Chapter 1

Sue’s cell phone buzzed and stopped. It buzzed again.

Don’t answer it. Robert Sable rolled over in bed and looked at his wife. Remember we’re finally on our honeymoon. It took me months to arrange this trip after we were pulled off our first one.

The door of their motel room shook with a series of thuds. Open up, pard. Sable recognized the voice of his partner of four years, Aaron McCabe.

Damn, Owen found us again. Sable swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He ran his hands through his white hair and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Tossing on his clothes, he headed for the door.

Open the damn door. McCabe’s voice sounded urgent.

Hold your damn horses. I’m coming, Sable said.

You should answer your phone.

Sue slipped on a bathrobe, opened the cell and answered it.

Okay, what is it this time? Sable yanked open the door to find his six-four white-haired partner. From the look on McCabe’s face, he could tell it wasn’t good. Owen?

McCabe shook his head.

We’re on our guaranteed honeymoon, Sable said. Owen said he wouldn’t bother us.

It’s not…

Oh, my god, Sue said.

Sable turned to see Sue slumped on the bed. He rushed to her side.

Are you sure? she said into the phone, tears streaming down her face.

Are you okay? Sable put his arm around her.

It’s my godfather, Red. He’s been murdered, she said, and paused. Yes, Dad, that was Robert.

Sable put his ear to her phone while Sue listened. What happened?

Hi, Bob, Douglas Lake said. An undercurrent of disdain was etched in his voice.

Hi, Doug. Sable cringed at the reference. He preferred Robert or Sable. And he knew Lake had used the nickname to get his goat.

Some hunters found Red’s body a few feet from some abandoned railroad tracks south of Fairbanks. He had a bullet near his heart.

Do they know who shot him? Sue asked.

No. The case is ongoing. I hoped Bob would take over the case.

Sue looked at Sable pleadingly. He will, Dad.

I’ll do everything possible to put the killer behind bars.

Thank you. I know you will. Put your Tlingit nose to the grindstone and get after the bastard.

Yes, sir. Sable stood. Deep down Sable knew Sue’s father harbored latent racist views of his half Indian heritage, but was trying to overcome it.

Now, I need to talk to my daughter.

McCabe waved Sable over. He towered over Sable by several inches.

Owen wants us for a case? Sable was almost seething. Captain Carl Owen had pulled Sable off his first attempted honeymoon for a murder case. This time Owen had promised Sable not to call him.

No. He wants us to find who killed Red Bennett.

Sable lifted an eyebrow. As a favor for us?

Doug Lake has extensive pull with our governor, Ron Landen, and Landen called Owen.

See you out at the car in a few. Sable went back to Sue and put his arms around her. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and her eyes were red rimmed. He hugged her and kissed her on the neck. Don’t worry, we’ll get his killer.

I know you will, she sobbed as she squeezed his hand.

Can you get back home?

She nodded weakly and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Sable went to the nightstand, picked up his belt and holster and put it on. He looked at Sue, wanting to stay and comfort her. Yet, he had a bad guy to catch. Where’s your godfather’s cabin? I want to check it out.

Sue drew a map on the motel stationery and handed it to him. I’d tell you to kill the bastard who killed Red, but I know you can’t.

Sable folded Sue into his arms and kissed her deeply. He ran his hand over her belly and whispered, Take care of Robert Junior.

I will, she said.

Hey, guys get a… McCabe started and realized his levity was out of place.

We have one. Sable crushed Sue to his chest and kissed her again. As he turned to leave, his hand ran down her arm. He took her hand and squeezed it. Don’t eat too many pickles.

When Sable stepped out into the cold crisp morning air, he took a deep breath, enjoying the clean, pure wilderness air. As he exhaled, he saw a slight wisp of breath, hinting the advent of fall. The pale blue sky began to turn almost white as the sun rose above the mountain peaks. Further toward the North Slope, high stratus clouds lay as a thin blanket over the sky. McCabe had parked across the lot next to a solid wall of alder, birch and spruce.

Sable looked back at the Aurora Lights Motel with a pang of regret. It looked much smaller now that he was leaving and saying goodbye to Circle Hot Springs. Maybe next time, he’d get the chance to enjoy the town’s healing waters.

Sable slid into the shotgun seat of the cruiser. How in the hell did you find me? I unhooked the LoJack.

When you weren’t looking, I hooked it back up in case of an emergency. Besides, Doug Lake told me where you were.

Is Owen having you keep track of me?

You know me better than that.

You know by hooking the LoJack back up, you let Owen know where I was.

Oops. I didn’t think of that, McCabe said. Face it. The gods are against you having a honeymoon.

Has Randolph told you anything about the murder? Sable asked. Sable knew Sergeant Madison Randolph from his academy days, and Randolph had helped him on several cases.

You know as much as I do.

A couple hours later, McCabe pulled the cruiser in front of the Fairbanks detachment. After entering the headquarters, they wound their way to the back of the building. As they entered Randolph’s office, he stood and smiled. He was the same height as Sable, had a ruddy complexion and jet black hair.

Been expecting you, Randolph said, shaking Sable’s hand first and then McCabe’s. "Uásse-i-tú-eti?"

Not good.

He nodded and leveled his gaze at McCabe. And you’re the reason you guys are late.

Damn straight.

Sable and McCabe sat across from Randolph’s desk.

I see you’ve been relegated to the back of the building, Sable said. What’d you do?

I’m still paying for what my wife did. Randolph kicked his feet up on the desk.

If you come down to Anchorage, Owen will take care of you.

That’s what I’m afraid of, he said and laughed. He gestured to the coffee pot. Here you serve yourself.

McCabe stood and walked to the pot and poured a couple cups. Yesterday’s coffee?

From last week, I think. I’ve kept adding grounds, and haven’t cleaned the pot or changed the sludge or oil.

McCabe took a sip and grumbled, And it tastes like it.

Randolph smiled broadly. Thanks—Navy coffee.

Tell me about the case, Sable said. McCabe handed him a cup.

Not much, Randolph said. A couple of duck hunters found Martin James Bennett twenty miles southeast of Fairbanks along some abandoned railroad tracks.

I thought the tracks only ran from Seward to Fairbanks. Sable took a slug and grimaced.

They were used during WWII to bring supplies to the Army posts.

Did they find anything on Bennett?

No. Not even a wallet. We had to identify him from his fingerprints.

Damn. You figure out why he was there?

Nope. Randolph pushed a folder across to Sable. The file’s a copy. Keep it.

Thanks. I owe you one. The folder contained several sheets of paper.

No. I still owe you for what my wife did, Randolph said and coughed.

Paid back a long time ago. Sable bit his lip. Randolph’s wife had leaked Sue’s location to a local chieftain who kidnapped her. Sable followed the chief back to his village to get her back. The chief was now serving a life sentence.

Not as far as I’m concerned. You rooted out a viper in my house. For that I’m eternally grateful.

Sable shrugged.

I understand Bennett’s a relative. That’s a conflict of interest.

Not really. He’s my wife’s godfather. Sable took another sip of the coffee. It was bitter going down, the caustic taste remaining in his mouth. He realized it likely hadn’t been made a week ago. It might have been made four weeks ago.

Bennett’s with the ME in Anchorage, Randolf said. The bullet didn’t kill him. The loss of blood did.

The file contained witness statements, which were of little help, and a series of crime scene photos. The first set showed Red Bennett sprawled face down. One of his hands was outstretched toward a nearby boulder as if he was pointing it out. Other photographs showed Bennett’s body after he’d been turned over. His face and arms were a mass of cuts and bruises.

Whoever killed him, worked him over, Randolph said. He was missing several teeth.

Did you try to find out where he came from? A map slipped out of the folder and fell onto the desk. Sable picked it up and studied it. Randolph had written the longitude and latitude of the location. The location was a mile from the Tanana. He guessed it was ten miles from Red’s cabin. Sable handed the folder to McCabe.

My men tried to back track him but couldn’t find a trail.

Did you find his vehicle? McCabe asked.

Yes, Randolph said. He died two hundred feet short of it. Stevens and his team are coming to look it over.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I want to check out the crime scene.

I thought you might. Randolph tossed Sable a set of keys.

He caught them. Thanks.

My Humvee’s outside. It’s fifteen miles through back roads and hunting trails. I even have a canoe and outboard on the rack if you need it.

We’re on our way. Sable finished his coffee and stood. The bitter taste hung in his mouth. He offered his hand, and Randolph clutched it.

Chapter 2

Minutes later they were headed down the Steese Highway toward Delta Junction. The forests grew thicker. Alder, birch, and spruce trees flew by on each side of the highway, interrupted by an occasional meadow or small lake. Sable drove while McCabe programmed the coordinates into the GPS.

I don’t understand it.

Understand what?

Why would anyone kill a prospector?

One answer, McCabe said. He found the motherlode.

You and gold again.

Are we going to check out his cabin?

You bet.

A half hour into the trip, the GPS said, Turn left in one-half mile.

Wow, McCabe said. How do I get one of these?

Cindy won’t let you buy one while you’re saving for the new house.

Turn left in one-quarter mile.

Persistent bugger, isn’t it? McCabe asked.

Turn now.

Sable stopped and checked the rearview mirror.

You missed your turn.

Sable backed up the Humvee. The road was going to be a challenge. Deep ruts, deeper than the Humvee’s axles, marred the road as it disappeared into a heavy forest. He shook his head.

How in the hell do we navigate this road? McCabe asked.

We drive on the center and one edge of the road, Sable said. Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.

Yeah, right. And if we slip off the center hump, we never get back to civilization.

We’ll have a long walk back, Sable said and laughed.

As Sable pulled onto the road, the Humvee rocked from side to side, its springs and body creaking.

Now I know what a cowboy riding a bull feels like.

Sable laughed. Maybe the trip will knock off the pounds you’ve gained since the last case.

Within a few minutes, the forest opened to a clearing. Ahead lay railroad tracks overgrown with tall grass, brush and small trees.

You are at your location. The GPS spit out the longitude and latitude.

Sable stepped down from the Humvee and scanned the area, trying to get a feeling of what Red had seen in his last moments alive—so close to his truck—yet so far.

Yellow tape cordoned off the area