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Quinn gave him a fist bump. “I know some Tickets. Any relation to Lawrence?”

Brian coughed, still waking up. He scrunched up his nose and wrinkled his brow, the Inupiaq equivalent of shaking his head “no.” “Those are the upriver Ticketts. Upriver Ticketts have two Ts. Us downriver Tickets have one T.”

Beaudine’s face screwed into a grimace. “What’s with all the love bites, Brian Ticket with one T? Somebody try to suck your face off?”

Brian looked at the floor without answering.

“It’s a thing they do in the village,” Quinn said, grinning at Brian Ticket. “I’m betting you had an away basketball game last week, didn’t you?”

“Shungnak.” Brian nodded. “My girlfriend don’t trust them upriver girls. She wanted to let ’em know I was already taken.”

“Well, she did a good job of it.” Beaudine gave a low whistle, shaking her head at the hickey damage. “You’re lucky she didn’t decapitate you.”

Beaudine used the .308 to gesture toward a stack of small cardboard boxes that were on a small wooden table, the only other furniture in the room. Quinn counted five. They were flat, about two inches thick and each about six-by-six-inches square.

Beaudine let the rifle fall against the single point sling, parking it so it hung just in front of her handgun. She picked up one of the boxes to study it. “Why in the everlovin’ hell would anyone need a bunch of wax toilet rings out here where they don’t even have toilets?”

“To patch the boat,” Brian said. “There’s a big hole in the side. Usually works great but my genius brother-in-law hit a rock and broke the shear pin on the motor yesterday. He and my nephew loaded up our other boat with the caribou we caught and went back to Needle to get a spare sheer pin. I got stuck here guarding his old piece of junk boat.

Beaudine’s hands shook as she set the box back on the table with the other four. The after-effects of the cold-water crossing were catching up to her fast.

“Okay, Brian,” Quinn said, holstering his Kimber. “My friend and I are going to hurry and get into some dry socks, and then we’re going to need to borrow your boat.” He shrugged off his pack and dropped it on the plywood floor between his feet. Sitting on the low bed, he stripped off his soaked boots to put on his last dry pair of wool socks.

Brian leaned back against the plywood wall on his bunk. “I told you guys, the boat’s broke. We have to wait for my brother-in-law to bring back some welding rod to use for a shear pin.”

Quinn wiped as much moisture out of the boots as he could with a dry bandana from his pack. “When is your brother-in-law coming back?” he asked without looking up.

“He had to cut up three caribou last night. And, he’s been away from my sister for a few days, so I’m sure he’s sleeping in a little with her this morning…” He winked. “I joke…”

“This is serious, Brian,” Beaudine said. She leaned back with one foot stretched out in front of her, struggling to pull the dry sock over her shriveled wet foot. “This guy we’re after is a very bad man. We’re going to have to try and fix your boat.”

Quinn held up his hand, motioning for her to stop talking as he peeked out the window. The roar of a low-flying aircraft grew louder as it flew directly overhead. He watched through a gap in the tarp as it flew by slowly

“I counted three heads,” Quinn said, throwing the pack over his shoulders. “They’re following the river.”

“Who’s following the river?” Brian said.

The sound of the engine seemed to hang there for a moment, before fading slowly into the distance.

Beaudine brightened, shooting a hopeful glance at Quinn. “Do you think someone’s looking for us? Your Aunt Abbey, maybe?”

“Not likely,” Quinn said, peeking out of the grime-covered plastic to make certain no one was using the same tactics he had used to sneak up on the shack. He turned back to Beaudine. “The storm would have kept any planes trying to get out to the lodge grounded through last night. And absent a visit to the lodge, it’s too soon for anyone to even know we’re missing.”

“So it’s Worst of the Moon?” Beaudine dropped her head as if being murdered from a distance was a forgone conclusion.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Brain threw aside his sleeping bag and shot to his feet. “Did you just say Worst of the Moon? He’s coming here?”

Quinn raised both eyebrows, the silent affirmative in Inupiaq culture. “That’s exactly what she said.”

Brian rubbed his face with both hands, looking as if he might throw up. “Holy shit… sorry, FBI lady. I mean holy crap, holy, holy, holiest of all craps. If Worst of the Moon is a real person…”

“You’ve heard of him then?” Beaudine said.

Brian collapsed backward to sit on the edge of the bunk again. He drew his sleeping bag around him like a security blanket and shook his head slowly, mouth hanging open. “The Elders tell us kids these stories, you know, like Long Nails, the creepy old hag who gallops around on all fours eating kids who go into the beach grass. You can hear her toenails clicking on the earth when she comes after you. I figured the stories were just to keep us from wandering off and getting hurt.”

“Like the fairytales about the little leprechaun people.”

Enukin?” Brian looked up, deadpan. “No, enukin are real. My dad’s seen ’em lots of times. So’s my mom.”

Beaudine rolled her eyes and glanced at Quinn. “You think they saw our tracks when they flew over?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Quinn said. “Caribou hunters are leaving tracks all up and down the river.” He started for the door, nodding to the pile of boxes on the table. “Brian, grab one of those wax rings and lets go see about fixing your boat. We’ve got to get to Needle ASAP.”

* * *

Melting snow dripped from the tarp roof, splattering into a rapidly forming moat of black mud around the heated shack. Just as Brian had said, the battered aluminum boat had suffered a gash in the hull just below the waterline. Quinn estimated it to be about eight inches long and nearly an inch wide. Smears of flaking yellow wax around the damage gave evidence that it was an old wound and plumbing material had been used several times in the past. The battered shaft of a motor that had been removed from the transom now lay under the boat, semi-protected from the weather. Quinn grabbed the badly nicked prop and dragged the motor out in the slushy snow with both hands.

He spun the prop and glanced up at Brian with a narrow eye. “Your brother-in-law do all this?”

“My sister’s husband is a great hunter.” The boy gave a toothy grin. “He just ain’t such a good boat driver.”

“Thirty horse Nissan,” Beaudine said. “Tough motor.”

“I know Worst of the Moon is breathin’ down our necks,” Brian said, “but I’m telling you it’s useless until my brother in law gets back from Needle. We looked all over the place for something to use as a shear pin.”

The shear pin was a piece of soft metal rod about an inch long that was soft enough to give way when the propeller struck a fixed object, preventing damage to more expensive parts of the motor. Without it, the propeller spun freely, providing no power to push the boat forward.

Quinn looked up river toward Needle, thinking, then turned to Beaudine. “You mind helping Brian push some of that wax into the hole, and I’ll take a look at the motor.”