Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

his tires. An aluminum skiff and a Honda SUV took up most of the gravel driveway. Bobby Tarrant’s friend, Tom Horning, was supposed to be a good guy, but Cutter parked at an angle anyway out of habit, giving both he and Maycomb door posts for concealment and minimal cover as they exited the vehicle. Rhythmic, metallic pinging came from behind the house, wafting through the trees. A small wire-haired dog, the color of toasted toffee and just as sweet, bounded out from around the porch. She sniffed Cutter’s and then Maycomb’s hands in turn, then decided she liked Maycomb better and stayed glued to her heels.

Cutter followed the pinging sound around the corner of the house, to find a red-bearded bear of a man under the roof of a detached shed hammering away at an anvil. He looked to be in his early thirties, hiking-fit, accustomed to carrying a pack – a physique that came from work, not a couple of hours a day at the gym. He wore a long-sleeve shirt and a thick leather apron that was scarred and burned as if he’d been working hot iron for most of his life. A propane forge hissed in the corner of a heavy-duty work table to the man’s right, the horizontal opening that ran along the front forming a molten orange mouth. Hammer in one hand, blacksmith tongs in the other, the man was in the process of transforming a red-hot railroad spike into a knife blade. Two more spikes in varying flattening and twisting stages of becoming knives lay on the metal workbench alongside the anvil.

“Thomas Horning?” Cutter asked.

The man plunged the tongs into a bucket of water, sending up a hiss of steam, and then turned off the forge.

He shook Cutter’s hand with the calloused grip of a man who was accustomed to swinging a three-pound hammer.

“Call me Tom.”

Cutter displayed his credentials, to ease any concerns, but Horning waved it away. If he was worried about Lori Maycomb being a journalist, he didn’t show it.

“Bobby told me you guys would be coming by. I love talking about the wild places around Juneau.”

“This is beautiful work,” Maycomb said. She reached to touch one of the unfinished knives on the table, grabbing it before Horning could warn her. She let go immediately, recoiling to put her index finger in her mouth.

“A little hot for you?” Horning said.

“Nope.” Maycomb grinned, still sucking on the finger. “Just doesn’t take me long to look at a railroad spike.”

Horning chuckled. “Should have a sign, I guess. Metal glows cherry red around fifteen hundred degrees – but a three-hundred-degree spike looks pretty much the same as it does at ambient. I can get you some salve. I make my own from balsam poplar.”

“I’m okay,” Maycomb said. “Really.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Horning said, hobbling around the anvil. Cutter noticed for the first time that the man’s left leg was in a plaster cast to the knee.

“You’re probably thinking, why didn’t Bobby mention the guy had a broken leg.”

“Crossed my mind,” Cutter said.

“He didn’t know,” Horning said. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.”

“Misstep hiking?” Maycomb asked.

“Fell out of a helicopter,” Horning said, as if that sort of thing happened to him every day. “I found an old ninety-pound anvil up behind Mount Juneau. Chopper cost me eight hundred bucks for the eleven-minute round-trip flight to go get it. I was so worried about bashing a hole in the helicopter’s floor that I fell out the door when I was strapping the damned thing in. Only about fifteen feet, but it was enough to fracture my fibula. Otherwise, I’d be guiding you guys instead of drawing you maps.” Horning opened his back door and waved them inside.

“We appreciate any help you can give us,” Cutter said.

Typical of Alaska homes, including Mim’s, there was a dead-air space called an arctic entry inside with a second door, trapping warm air inside during the winter. Cutter and Lori kicked off their Xtratufs.

Cutter had been in hundreds of houses over the course of his career. Potential witnesses, fugitives, and sources came from every culture and socioeconomic strata. It was more common for deputies to be disgusted than impressed – but Tom Horning’s house was like some sort of intrepid adventurer’s museum.

A Marlin .45-70 Guide Gun hung on wooden pegs inside the door on the stairwell leading to the second story. Stainless steel to withstand the weather, big-loop lever to fit a gloved hand. Perfect, Cutter thought. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held tents, backpacks, and sleeping bags of assorted size and temperature rating. Cross-country skis stood against the far wall of a small living room. It was cluttered but clean, and looked as if it was rarely used. Two shelves to Cutter’s right were devoted entirely to mountaineering boots, crampons, ice axes, and coils of climbing rope.

Horning made a little smooching sound. “Come on, Kat.”

The dog scampered up the stairs ahead of him.

“Your dog’s named Kat?” Maycomb said, smiling.

“Yeah,” Horning said. “My wife said she’d never get another dog after our last one died. So, she brought home little Kat.” He showed them upstairs. “Sorry about the mess,” Horning said, swinging his broken leg up to thump against each step as he followed the dog. “My maps and computer are up here. Keeps me in shape.”

Large photographic prints of Horning’s expeditions covered the walls of the stairway. Pack-rafting under cobalt-blue glaciers, his beard covered with frost while climbing frozen waterfalls, wearing a hard hat while rappelling into hopelessly black mineshafts. The prints catalogued virtually every kind of Alaska adventure, but by a count of three to one, the photos showed Horning and his friends deep underground. It was clear by the time Cutter reached the top of the stairs that hiking, climbing, and rope work were a means to an end.

Tom Horning’s passion was exploring mines.

Cutter counted at least five rock-climbing helmets of assorted brands and colors when they reached the single large room on the