“Russell, I’m going to need you to keep watch,” he said. “Go down that trail about twenty yards, lie low, and wait there. If you see or hear anyone coming, get back here and warn us.”
“Wait a second,” Eddie complained. “I did the digging last time. Why don’t I get to be the watchman?”
“Just do what I say,” Harley said, “both of you.”
Russell plainly didn’t need to hear another word; the idea of not working was sweet, and he tossed his spade to Eddie and meandered back toward the lighted trailhead. Eddie picked up the spade in the hand that wasn’t holding the pick and looked at Harley with a sour expression that said, You’d better get it right this time.
Chapter 33
Russell couldn’t believe his luck. All the way to the graveyard, he’d been thinking how bad it would suck to have to try to dig up a frozen grave. Just chipping the ice away from some of the intake valves on his oil-company job was a bitch and a half. Waiting until he was safely through the cemetery gates and out of Harley’s sight, he reached into the pocket of his parka and pulled out one of the beers he’d been carrying. One thing you could say about Alaska—the whole damn state was a cooler.
He went down the trail, looking for a comfortable perch—which wasn’t going to be easy. Everything was covered in snow and ice, and the ground was as solid as a rock. He wished Harley and Eddie a lot of luck, especially after their last dig had turned up nothing but a bunch of crystal beads on a string. As far as he was concerned, this whole trip was going to be a bust, and he’d be lucky to get back to the Yardarm with ten bucks in his pocket.
If he wanted to score Angie Dobbs, he’d need more than that as bait. Christ, it was hilarious that Harley thought it was such a big deal he’d fucked her. Who hadn’t?
In the harsh glow of the next light pole, he spotted a glistening stump just off to one side of the trail. It was an old tree trunk, covered in moss and lichen, and though it wasn’t exactly a Barcalounger, it was the best prospect he was likely to uncover. Brushing the snow away from the matt of rotting leaves around its base, he picked up a bunch of them in his arms and made as much of a cushion as he could. Then he plopped down on top of the pile before the rising wind could blow them away, pulled the string on his hood to cinch it closer to his face, and waited.
Everybody was always talking about the pure and unstained beauty of Alaska—Russell had seen all the brochures and ads and commercials the state tourist bureau put out—but as far as he could see, it was a load of crap. The place was cold and wet and dark and the rotting leaves he was sitting on stank. He took another slug of the beer. Without alcohol, and *, there’d be no reason to go on living.
And pot. He shouldn’t forget the value of grade-A weed, which was never more plentiful than when he was behind bars at Spring Creek.
He hadn’t been sitting on the stump for very long—the can of beer still had a few drops left in it—when he thought he heard something.
Quickly, he swiped the hood back off his head, and listened hard.
Was that a voice, or just the wind sighing in the boughs?
He stood up, gulped the last of the beer, and tossed the can into the bushes.
Yes, it was. It was a voice, talking in some weird accent. Russian. For a second he thought, It’s the ghost of one of those dead settlers. The legends about the island are all true! Then he got hold of himself, and before he knew it, his feet were carrying him back onto the trail, and through the woods, past the lighting poles, between the carved gateposts of the graveyard. Harley and Eddie were wandering around like they still hadn’t picked a target yet, but he knew he couldn’t shout at them. Instead, he ran among the graves, waving his arms like a lunatic, until they saw him and grabbed up their gear and took off in all directions. Russell tripped over a hole in the ground—shit, was this the grave they’d already opened?—and by the time he got up again they were gone.