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Barbara could see a few younger children outside the school, playing tag. Too young to understand that dark clouds were gathering. Too young to realize that life was finite. Necessarily so. At eight you wanted to live forever. At eighty you were glad that everything had its time.
After the school, the dregs of the town fell away. Buildings became sparser. A sign on their right pointed up a side road: “Garrett’s Tours—explore the beauty of Denali National Park with trusted, knowledgeable guides. Hiking, snowmobiles, wilderness camps, Colony tours.”
“Stephen’s parents live up there and run their tour company,” Nicholls said.
“What about Jacob and his father?”
“They live on the other side of town.”
Said in a terser, more dismissive tone. The other side. A curl of distaste.
They were almost out of buildings when the cross drew into view. At least seven foot tall, planted firmly in the ground at the side of the road. Behind it, a short dirt track led to a modest-looking wooden building. A sign hung from the cross.
Church of the Holy Cross.
“Nice,” Barbara murmured. “Literal, right?”
“Colleen wanted to make sure people didn’t miss the place.”
“I can see that.” Barbara peered closer. Her stomach lurched.
“Could you stop the truck a second?”
Reluctantly, Nicholls pulled to a halt. Barbara hopped out and walked over to the cross. From a distance it looked like it was constructed from two large, solid pieces of wood. Up close, Barbara could see that it was actually made up of numerous small bundles of wood bound together. Used stakes. Their sharp ends stained russet with dried blood.
A small sign at the bottom of the cross read:
This cross has been constructed with the tools of God and the weapons of His holy war. We will persevere.
“They’re old,” Nicholls said as he joined her. “Not illegal.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “A lot of things aren’t illegal. Doesn’t make them right.”
Nicholls stared at her. “Come with me. I want you to see something.”
Barbara followed him down the dirt track, past the church. A large clearing had been created here between the straggly birch trees. At the entrance, a rough wooden board hung between two posts: Deadhart Cemetery. Barbara could see a haphazard array of headstones and other markers poking up through the snow. Spirit Houses, crosses. At the far end of the clearing, a group of four men tended a roaring fire.
Barbara frowned. “What are they doing?”
“Warming the earth,” Nicholls said. “For Marcus’s grave.”
“His body still needs to be sent to Anchorage for autopsy.”
“This time of year, it can take days, even weeks, to dig deep enough. The earth is as hard as granite. Everyone in the town will help. They’ll take it in shifts, using pickaxes and drills. If they don’t, Marcus’s parents will have to wait till the spring thaw to bury him. Their only child. Murdered, and still not laid to rest.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nicholls nodded, face grim. “So, maybe you don’t get to be the judge of what’s right around here.”
He turned and strode back toward the truck. One of the men threw another log on to the fire. The flames leaped and crackled. Barbara sighed—well done keeping your only ally on your side—and walked slowly after him.
They drove off again in silence.
—
“Cabin” was something of a generous description for the heap of rotted wood that lurched lopsidedly among the dark spruces.
Nicholls shook his head. “Never understood why kids like to hang around places like this.”
