What was that sound he had heard? Perhaps nothing at all? Jim climbed to the porch again and tried the handle of the door. The latch gave.

"Hello the house. This is Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin. I'm coming inside." The door swung open, creaking.

The sound came again, definitely a whimper this time. He brought his weapon up two-handed and pointed it inside before entering. "This is state trooper Jim Chopin. Who's in here?"

There was another whimper, and then his eyes adjusted from the blazing sun of the exterior to the murky darkness of the interior of the cabin. It was tiny, ten feet to a side, with twin beds pushed against two walls, a small table and a captain's chair set against a third. A small cast-iron wood-stove stood in one corner next to a nearly empty wood box. Scrolled wooden shelves were fixed to two walls, and there were three windows, all of them iced over on the inside. To the right of the door was a counter with a two-burner propane hot plate, a tin bowl, and a plastic jug half-full of what looked like water. There was a kettle on the hot plate. A box of Lipton's tea bags, a container of dried lemon peel, and a jar of honey sat on the counter. On the wall above was a propane lamp.

One of the beds was neatly made, the other heaped with an olive drab duffel bag stenciled us army in black Marks-A-Lot, white T-shirts, a couple of plaid men's shirts, a pair of jeans, shorts, and a few pair of thick wool socks, which looked uncomfortably like the ones on the body of the woman in the cabin down the hill. Everything was neatly folded and laid out with almost geometrical precision in relation to everything else.

The stove was giving off very little heat, which was probably why the man was crouched down next to it, wedged against the wall between the stove and the table, and why Jim almost missed him. He was a little man, very thin, and Jim would have mistaken him for a heap of clothes had the man not whimpered again.

His hair was dirty blond going gray and hadn't been washed or cut in a while. His eyes peered out from behind it, feral, shifty, shy, not meeting Jim's. He whimpered again.

"Sir," Jim said, lowering his weapon. "I'm Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin, and ..."

His voice faded out as he took a step forward. The front of the man's clothing was covered in a dark substance that looked like dried blood.

So was the knife he held.

Without realizing it, Jim raised his gun. "All right, sir, could you put the knife down, please?"

Another whimper. "Sir, put the knife down. Now."

The man pushed himself into his corner, drawing up his knees and hiding behind his arms. He mumbled something.

"What? Sir, I couldn't hear you. What did you say?"

Dazed eyes blinked up at him. He mumbled something else.