Stone Cold Read online

  He bundled up the men’s clothes and shook them through. There was nothing in the pockets, so he balled them up and pitched them into a beaten and rusted metal dumpster nearby. As he shouldered his rucksack, he looked out east, catching the setting sun behind him glinting its ebbing reflection on the snow-capped mountain ridge. He shivered. Partly because of the cold, and partly because of the message on the guy’s phone. Why would the man need a burner? And what did someone mean by no witnesses? I need it done… What could they have been referring to? All Stone knew was that it could not possibly have referred to him. Nobody knew that Stone was here, because if they did then the Secret Service, the FBI and most likely the Alaska State Police and National Guard would be turning up with weapons loaded and locked, and with enough blues and twos for the arrest to be seen from space. So, did the person who had sent the text want Stone out of the picture, or somebody else? And it struck Stone that Lame Horse was not a big enough town for many witnesses to be present in any case, no matter what somebody didn’t want to risk being witnessed. And the big guy in the new truck. Where did he fit in? He certainly had some authority over them, so he would have to be the one paying them, and the nature of their employment had meant that the man had attempted to deflect from them. Given them a jelly weak alibi that had evidently melted away by the fact they had Stone’s truck with all their things in it.

  The burner phone had locked itself and long since run out of battery. Stone would have to find a charger and even so, getting into a four-digit screen lock and working the variables to unlock it would take more time than he had. Not to mention ten thousand possible variables. But he knew that the answer would be in that phone, either in its address book, or in a thread of messages.

  The motel foyer was made from the same chipboard as the bar, but the guy who had installed it clearly had better carpentry skills than the guy who did the bar across the road. Stone figured it would be well-insulated because as his boots hit the floor and he walked to the desk, there was no echo. Or it could have been that the thirty or more deer, elk, moose, and bear heads mounted upon the walls did something to cushion the sound. There were a good many photographs, too. The sort where overweight, balding dentists and accountants pose with a hunting rifle over a slain animal. Stone figured the motel to be a lodge for tourism hunting, often called trophy hunts.

  “You’re not a hunter…” a man said as he stepped out from the back office. “I can see the look on your face.”

  “And what look is that?”

  “Well, most people who hunt tend to look at our little collection of trophies and appear envious,” the man paused. “You looked just a little incredulous…”

  “Incredulous!” a woman chided. “You’ll have to forgive my husband. He got into reading last year having never read more than the sports pages, and now you’d think he swallowed a dictionary! Always got a novel in his hands. Give it enough time and he might progress from youth-adult and read something meant for the grownups.” She bumped past her husband and stood expectantly at the desk. “What is it, honey? A room for the night, perhaps two? Don’t let our house of horrors display put you off!” she laughed. “Howard thought the hunters would like it. Most are purchases off eBay, or from trips down to Anchorage or Seattle’s antique stores.”

  “I got that one right there!” Howard protested, pointing at an elk’s head near the door.

  “When you went out hunting for the first and last time with Big Brad Taylor and you cried for a week afterwards, didn’t eat any red meat for a month!”

  “Maude…”

  “I don’t mind hunting,” said Stone. “We all got to eat and the meat’s natural and sustainable. I just don’t like vain people posing over the bodies of once beautiful animals, that’s all.”

  “Go and check on something, Howard. I don’t even care what…” The woman looked back at Stone, placing a well-thumbed register on the counter while her husband tutted and stepped back into the back office. “No computers here,” she said proudly. “Not for the guests, at least. Most folk passing through tend to prefer it that way. We do take in a lot of hunters on their way up to the organized hunts. Howard gets a picture of them on their way back down for the wall,” she explained. “Adds some theatre, I suppose. Anyway, all I need is a name and a vehicle license plate number… I won’t be checking up on it either… but how many nights you would like is important. We’re pretty much empty, so you can have our best room and stay for as long as you like. Stay for five nights and you can have a sixth night for free…”

  “For god’s sake, Maude!” Howard shouted from out back. “You’re giving our money away, woman! A man knows how many nights he needs on the road.”

  “Shut your hole, Howard!” she shouted back at him, then smiled up at Stone and said softly, “What do you say, honey?”

  “I may take you up on that,” he replied. “Can I let you know later?”

  “Sure thing,” she smiled back at him. “Well, that’s forty bucks and I do a good breakfast. Eggs, biscuits, and gravy with coffee. All in. Bacon’s extra.”

  Stone smiled as he signed in as B. McKinley. The B being for Bill, short for William, and William McKinley being the twenty-fifth US President. He could not think why he had chosen the name, but then remembered that McKinley was one of four presidents who had been assassinated, so hoped it wasn’t a bad omen. He smiled at Maude, already deciding that he would hit the road tomorrow. His beef with the two guys and their boss was done, and there was little he could do about the phone. He was not about to try ten thousand ways of opening the phone. Not every wrong needed to be righted and not every fight was his own. “Where can I eat tonight?” he asked.

  “Right here, honey. We open to non-residents, too. There’s the bar out front as well, but it’s a drinking den. Best avoid that place. They judge how busy a night has been by how many eyeballs they sweep up off the floor. OK, I’m joking, but someone will start a fight in there for certain…” She shook her head disparagingly, but she had no idea how true that had been just a few minutes before. “Or there’s the diner on the edge of town. I do all the cooking here, and it’s what I call old fashioned and value for money.”

  “Thanks, but you’ve already been highly recommended.”

  “Ah, that’s nice. Who was kind enough to do that?”

  “Katy McBride.”

  “Such a sweet girl,” Maude smiled warmly. “Done gone and taken on a bit too much to chew on with that mine of her father’s and all, but she’ll get there. She’s from tough Alaskan stock.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, a gold mine. McBride’s Folly. Her grandfather and her father all made a fortune and went on to lose it there, too. They called it McBride’s Folly when her grandfather hung on in there despite all the odds, and they’ve been calling it that ever since.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and said quietly, “Her father, Hank McBride hit it big. Core samples, that’s all. That’s when they dig a hole out with something like a big corkscrew and sample the core and the depth. But he found the mother lode. He just upped and died before he told anybody, much less young Katy, where he had found it. Now the poor girl is searching three square miles of claim and running out of money fast, the poor dear…”

  “Damn it, Maude!” Howard yelled from out back. “Too much gossiping, not enough work! Leave the residents be, woman…”

  “I’ve already said it Howard, so shut your damn hole!” She looked back at Stone and shrugged. “I just hope the poor thing can keep the mine going until she finds where to make the next cut. I don’t think she can afford any more mistakes. If she lucks out and goes bust, the next person to buy the mining rights is gonna hit the big time.”

  “That’s rough,” said Stone, but he was no more interested in gossiping with the late middle-aged woman than he had been when she first started talking. “What’s the room number?”

  “Twelve,” she replied a little curtly. “Howard!” she yelled, then looked back at Stone. “Howard will show y
ou the way.”

  “I’ve got it. Just point me in the general direction,” replied Stone.

  “Outside, turn right, that’s the evens. Odds are left. So, you’re sixth on the right.”

  “Got it. What time’s good for dinner?”

  She perked up again at the thought of some extra revenue and smiled warmly. Like most hospitality workers she could turn the charm on and off like a faucet. “Seven until nine, honey. Same for breakfast, but in the AM, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Stone smiled. “See you later…”

  Outside, the light had faded, and the snow-capped mountains looked cold and uninviting. The sun had gone down, the air was cold and just a glimmer of sunset remained out over the tree-lined coast of the Pacific. Stone looked at the truck parked a few yards away, approximately outside rooms six and eight. He doubted anybody else would be occupying rooms tonight. Besides, he did not like to advertise which room he was staying in. Old habits die hard.

  The room was standard American motel, the same as tens of thousands of motel rooms from New York to LA and from Miami to Chicago. A fifteen-by-fifteen-foot box with a queen-sized bed and a smaller double, a TV, a small fridge, kettle, microwave, and a mirror all clustered around, underneath and on top of the vanity dresser. A small but adequate bathroom completed the basic functionality, but it was all he could hope for or expect for the forty dollars. In most places it would have been closer to a hundred, but Stone suspected trade was difficult for the couple and winter would mean long, quiet periods. Better to open and get all of a little than nothing of a lot.

  He ran a shower and pulled out some clean clothes. It had been quite a day, including a marathon walk and a bar fight. He was ready for something to eat, too. Stone emptied his pockets, took off his belt and kicked off his boots. He got into the shower fully clothed and used the shower gel to wash his clothes, stripping off to do a thorough job on them, then rinsing them under the showerhead. He rung them out and tossed them into the sink, before soaping himself all over and rinsing in the hot spray. When he stepped out and wrapped a towel around himself, he wrung out his clothes more thoroughly, shook the creases out and hung them on the heated towel rail before placing another clean towel over them to hold in the heat. He had done this more times than he cared to remember in the military and on the move with the Secret Service all over the world. Old habits die hard. By morning, the clothes would be dry, and the creases steamed out.

  Once dressed in his clean clothes, Stone squared away the rest of his kit – a habit not only from his military and Secret Service days – but of being on the run. He was innocent, of course. But the FBI and Secret Service were not about to drop the charges before they interviewed him, despite him sending evidence of his innocence, and having an award-winning journalist corroborating his story. She had published the story with the Washington Post giving a full account of the dark web, conspiracy theories-turned-fact culminating in the assassination of the President’s family in a pay-per-view bidding war. Stone had sent in the USB containing many offshore bank accounts, IP addresses and router services and within the information was a list of the users and their connection with international terrorism. But Stone was not coming in until he had a pardon or at least an agreement to turn state’s evidence. He knew how the prosecutors in the Secret Service and FBI worked, and he wasn’t going down that road. The problem with Washington DC and the law enforcement agencies keeping it safe was the ability for certain people to put political pressure on those same agencies and shape their own agendas.

  Stone looked at the .45 on the dresser and decided to tuck it under the pillow. He was only going into the bar inside the motel, and it would be warm enough to remove his coat. There would be plenty of people around and he weighed up the likelihood of a local cop dining there, asking to see a conceal-carry permit he did not possess, on a gun he knew to be illegally attained. So many people were able to possess a firearm and open or conceal carry in Alaska, but he could not risk being run through the system. That went for when his truck had been stolen, and it would go for walking into a bar with a firearm. Stone would try to clear his name one day, but that day wasn’t in sight just yet. Merely staying ahead of the search was all he could hope for, for now.

  The restaurant was mom and pop style with half a dozen dishes on a specials board and the heady smell of percolating coffee in the air. Thankfully, for the sake of his appetite, the trophy animal heads had remained in the foyer. Stone took a booth and picked up the standard menu. He seldom ate from specials boards as he always suspected it was short-dated food made more appealing and priced for a quick sale. Maude bustled over with a smile and Stone suspected she was serving and cooking while Howard tended the bar and desk should the bell ring. There were no other customers, so they had it covered. Stone chose a plate of cheese nachos to go with his beer, and a ribeye steak done rare with fries and a side of coleslaw to put an end to the day’s hunger pangs. He watched Maude hurry back into the kitchen, then looked up as somebody entered. He knew before he saw her face that it was Katy McBride. The way she carried herself, the oversized jacket. She glanced over and smiled, then headed to the bar and pointed to a booth two down from Stone’s. Howard jotted down on a notepad and walked into the kitchen. He was back behind the bar and pouring a beer before Katy made it to the booth.

  She smiled and said, “Are you going to look at me all night?”

  “Depends which side of the booth you sit,” Stone replied. “And whether you get whipped cream on your nose again.”

  “Well, I’m not ordering a hot chocolate, but I could share your booth, if it would make things easier?”

  “Take a seat.”

  Howard hovered with the tray of beers and followed her to Stone’s booth. “I’ll get Maude to bring your orders out together,” he said helpfully as he placed both beers on the table, then turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  Katy smiled. “Well, now it’s awkward…” She paused and smiled. “Can’t just have a drink with you and leave.”

  Stone shrugged. “So, I hear you’re a gold miner.”

  She smiled. “You’ve been asking around about me?” she asked coyly.

  “It came up,” he replied, taking a sip of his beer. “The lady that owns this place talks so much; she barely comes up for breath.” Katy sipped her beer, leaving a frothy moustache over her top lip. Stone picked up a napkin and reached over, giving it a dab. “Must be a beverage thing,” he said, watching her blush.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said. “Whether it’s Rob, or John. Maybe I should check the register?”

  Stone thought about the name he signed in with. It was a B, but he said, “I wouldn’t do that, it’ll only confuse matters further,” he said quietly. He looked at her, saw something in her eyes that he liked, or trusted. “It’s Rob.”

  She smiled and said, “It’s OK, no need for a second name. You know there’s probably not a real name in that register, don’t you?”

  “Well, I knew Alaska was the end of the line for many people.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “Are you running from something?”

  “Are you?”

  “I guess,” she replied. “If running from using my law degree and having my own practice is reason enough.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Howard appeared with Stone’s nachos and set them down between them. Katy dug right in and normally Stone would have been irked. He did not like sharing his food, but for some reason he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I guess it helps me to process my father’s death. He wasn’t just mining that ground; he was the mine.” She paused. “My grandfather before him.”

  “McBride’s Folly.”

  “My, you are well informed!” She laughed.

  Stone ate some of the nachos and washed them down with the cold beer. “I’m curious about your gold mine.”

  “Well, you’re not alone,” she replied, sitting back in the booth, apparently don
e with his plate of nachos. “I’m under a damned microscope all the time,” she added.

  “How so?”

  She looked around, despite the bar being empty. A man walked in and pulled out a stool at the bar. He ordered a beer and got busy with a bowl of nuts while he waited. Katy turned back and leaned forwards. “My daddy did some drill testing and hit it big.” She paused, allowing the fact to sink in. “And I mean, really big. Normally you find gold as flecks and color the size of a grain of sand, or perhaps the size and thickness of an apple blossom or a small clover leaf. Sure, you get the odd nugget, but I haven’t seen anything larger than a cornflake in years. My father used to keep the best of them in a jar and show me when I made the journey up. He always said the big ones would be his retirement.” She shrugged sadly. “When I came up to sort out his affairs and take over the claim, I never found that jar. I don’t know if someone took it, or whether he cashed it in early to pay the bills. But there was something special about that jar and the giant flakes of gold in it. Not that it makes a difference how big the pieces are; gold is gold, and the price doesn’t reflect if your gold is the size of a golf ball or a grain of sugar. The weight is the weight. But my father’s most recent find when he drill-tested was like coffee house sugar cubes. There was more value in those few core samples than he mined in ten years.”