“Very well,” Palmer said. “I’ll contact Special Agent Beaudine’s supervisor so we can de-conflict and task the Bureau folks in Anchorage.”
Quinn was glad to hear that the call to align different agencies and resources would come from Palmer’s office. Moving assets in the Bureau could be like trying to turn the Queen Mary at full steam. It could be done, but not quickly.
“And the ride out of Ambler?” Quinn pressed.
“It may not be pretty,” Palmer said. “But I’ll get you something.”
Quinn dropped the phone in his jacket pocket and pulled over beside two blond women walking up the road in front of a long beige building that had to be the school. One of the women looked like she could be the other one’s aunt. Both were white and each wore the same type of insulated XTRATUF rubber boots. Neither looked native to Ambler.
“Hello,” Quinn said, bringing the Arctic Cat to a stop and killing the engine. “Have you seen an older Russian man with a young blonde woman? They would have come into town in the last two hours or so.”
Both women shook their heads.
“We just came from the school,” the younger one said. She was pretty, round faced, and looked like many of the first-year bush teachers Quinn had met, exhausted but brimming with innocent hope.
Quinn nodded. “Is there a TPO or VPO in town?”
Some villages had Village Public Safety Officers trained by the state, others opted for a Village Police Officer or Tribal Police Officer over which they had a little more control. Good, hard working folks for the most part, TPOs and VPOs didn’t have as stringent a background requirement and might very well be an eighteen-year-old kid — armed with nothing but a Taser and their wits.
“Hon,” the older of the two women said. Quinn guessed she was in her mid forties and from somewhere in the south. “You need the health clinic, not the VPO.” The longer she looked at Beaudine, the more her face pulled back in horror.
Quinn turned to check Beaudine and realized he’d become accustomed to seeing her with a black eye and what she’d started calling his “Frankenstein Treatment.” He doubted he looked much better. They were both covered in tundra muck, oil, and blood.
“We were in a plane crash,” he said honestly. “Other side of Needle.”
“FBI.” Beaudine gave the women a wink with her good eye. “If you do run into the Russian man, don’t approach him, okay? Just find us.”
“Is he dangerous?” the older teacher said.
“He is,” Beaudine said. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s really important that we find a woman named Polina. Know her?”
“Everybody knows everybody in this town,” the younger of the two women said. “Polina’s married to our shop teacher.”
“They live in a little yellow house over by L.J.’s store,” the older teacher said. “He’s still coaching basketball, but she should be at home.” She waved at a young Native man approaching from the opposite direction on a red Honda ATV. His broad smile was framed with wispy chin whiskers, and he wore a dark gray uniform shirt that was easily three sizes to big.
“Hey, Lois,” the young man said. “What’s up?”
Lois introduced him as Clarence, one of her former students before becoming the Village Police Officer. From his youthful face, Quinn figured it hadn’t been that long ago.
“Clarence,” Lois said. “These guys are with the FBI. They need to talk to Polina.”
Clarence’s brown eyes flew wide. “FBI? No shit?” He grimaced. “Sorry about the language, Miss Lois.”
Beaudine nodded.
“We don’t get many FBI guys all the way out here,” the VPO said, passive and absent any guile. “What happened to your face?”
“Plane crash,” Quinn said again. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time they had to explain.
“How about you?” Beaudine said to the VPO. “Have you seen a older Russian man with a young woman in the last couple of hours.”
“I heard some guys at the fuel depot talking about a goofy Russian,” Clarence said. “I never seen him though. Maybe he caught a flight out. We’ve had a couple of planes come and go today.”
“How many?” Quinn asked, shooting a glance at Beaudine.
“Three,” Clarence said. “One to Anchorage, one to Fairbanks, and another that flies the downriver milk-run to Kotzebue. You want me to take you to the fuel depot? Irving Briggs is the one who was talkin’ about the Russian. You can ask him.”
Quinn mulled over the idea of Volodin already being on a flight out with the gas. “I think we’d better start with Polina.”
Beaudine nodded in agreement.
“I’ll show you her house,” Clarence said, preparing to make a U-turn on his ATV. “But I ain’t goin’ in. Polina yells too much.”
Chapter 58
Homes in the Arctic were not simply weatherworn — they were weather-beaten, weather-savaged. Polina’s sad frame house sat well back from the gravel street, tucked well back in the willows. The scrubby trees did little to protect the paint job from driving winds, and anything that had once been yellow was now bleached and sickly tan.
Quinn considered having Clarence watch the back door in case Volodin or Zolner happened to be inside and tried to duck out. In the end, he decided against it for exactly the same reason. The Village Police Officer seemed like a great kid, but he was young, inexperienced, and unarmed — no match for the likes of Zolner or anyone else who put up much of a fight. Quinn gave the VPO his cell number and asked him to go and check with the local air-service agent to see if Volodin or Zolner had caught one of the flights out. In truth, it was probably better to have the kid out of the way.
Quinn removed the bolt from the Lapua and shoved it in his jacket, not wanting to leave the rifle unattended with all the roving kids on bikes — or an enemy who happened to come up behind him. A weapon like the .338 in the hands of Zolner would prove disastrous.
There were several sets of tracks leading to and from the front door of Polina’s little yellow house, some from different adults, some from kids.
“I got blood,” Beaudine said, AR-10 in hand. She nodded to a trail of bright red droplets, stark against the white snow.
Quinn saw something else in the snow and scanned ahead looking on either side of the house, Kimber out and at his side.
“Caribou,” he said, nodding to a pile of rib bones.
Beaudine gave an audible sigh of relief. “Good,” she said. “I guess.”
A dog that looked like a cross between a Corgi and a German shepherd trotted out from under the steps on the stubby legs common to village mutts with generations of inbreeding. Quinn dropped it a piece of salmon skin he had in his pocket and moved through the willows toward the house.
Beaudine kept her distance, moving so she could see Quinn as well as behind the house. Quinn was about to knock on the front door when a woman backed out onto the slanting plywood porch, facing the door as if to lock it as she left. She had the bronze skin of an Inupiaq. The rich purple fabric of her Native kuspuk was pulled tight from her pregnancy.
“Whatcha doin’?” the woman asked when she turned around, eyeing the Kimber in Quinn’s hand. She was not so much intimidated by the gun as she was put out that he had it pointed toward her.
“Police,” Quinn said. “We need to talk to Polina.”
The woman gave a heavy sigh. “That’s me,” she said.
Beaudine moved up quickly at the appearance of the pregnant woman. “Is Kaija here?”
“Kaija?” The young woman held her belly when she laughed. “Kaija’s in Russia.”