by Kathryn Hoff
Kanut smiled at the woman. That sounded like useful evidence, at last. “I guess I’d better talk to Bran and Lou, then.”
The shopkeeper directed him to a space behind the church where the hikers had pitched a two-man tent, an expensive, light-weight model that popped open easy and folded up small. It was closed tight, flaps zipped shut.
Kanut kicked at a tent peg. “Anybody in there?”
“Go away,” a man’s voice growled. “We’re sleeping.”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. State trooper. I need to ask you some questions.”
After some muttered curses, the flap unzipped enough for an unshaven face to peer out. “Shit. All right, give us a minute.” The scent of cannabis drifted out.
More hushed muttering, and movement that shook the little tent before the door unzipped and two men crawled out. One man tall, one short. Both were dark-haired, rumpled, wearing whiskers that hadn’t been shaved for several days. Tall was about thirty, six-three, one hundred eighty pounds. Short: late thirties, five-ten, one forty.
Kanut relaxed a little. Neither of these men was old enough to be the missing Dr. Henri Anjou, and for damn sure they weren’t Dr. Ginger Kim. “Sorry to wake you. I need to ask about the animal you saw.”
The men exchanged a glance.
Tall fidgeted and cleared his throat. “You mean Bigfoot? Is that a state police matter?”
“Wildlife trooper,” Kanut said. “We got a report of a dangerous animal near people’s homes. I’m told you saw it. Which of you is Lou?”
Tall shot another glance at Short. Short rubbed his stubble. “That’s me. I saw it—glimpsed it in the rain. I followed it a little while, then I got lost and had to sleep under a bush. I have to say, Officer, I didn’t see any indication it was dangerous—it ran off as soon as I approached.”
“Description?”
“Oh, big. I never got a good look at it. Could have been a bear, I suppose.”
Kanut turned to Tall. “I’m told you took a picture of a footprint.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” With a moment’s hesitation, he ducked back into the tent to get his phone. As soon as he unlocked it, Kanut took it from him and opened the photo file.
A large, round print in dug-up dirt, as wide in diameter as the man’s boot next to it.
Nothing like the typical Sasquatch hoaxer’s fake gorilla print. Nothing like a moose or a bear either.
A lot like an elephant.
“It’s not very clear,” Tall said. “Do you think the National Enquirer will pay something for it?”
Kanut handed back the phone with his card. “Forward that to me when you get into cell range, will you?” He had them write down their names and address in his notebook: a street in Wasilla. Just a couple of hikers, then.
“I’m going to be poking around a little,” Kanut said. “Maybe I’ll ask some of the locals to help search. If there is something dangerous wandering around, we want to know that pretty quick.” He paused, fingering his chin. “You’ve seen this thing and you seem like experienced hikers. Would you be willing to join the posse?”
Lou’s eyes widened. “Posse?” Again, the swift exchange of looks with his partner. “I’m sorry, we want to get back home.”
Kanut nodded slowly. They were antsy—but most people were a little nervous around a cop. Maybe the tent held more than the legal limit of pot, or maybe they were worried about prejudice against gays. Folks’ private lives didn’t bother Kanut, but some of the backwoods types were more conservative.
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said. “Thanks for your cooperation. Be careful getting home.” He took a step away before turning back. “How’d you say you were getting back to Wasilla?”
Lou smiled, showing white teeth. “We’ll hike downriver a way, hit Mankeeta.” A slightly bigger town than Cody. “We’ll hire a plane from there.”
Kanut nodded. “I see. Well, good luck to you.”
He filed the information away. Their hiking route was possible, but on the plausibility scale it ranked about a two. If they’d flown into Mankeeta—and there was no other town close where a float plane could land—they’d hiked a long way around and yet apparently not stopped in Cody before, since everyone had described them as strangers. And there was absolutely nothing in Mankeeta, Cody, or the area around that was unique, picturesque, or attractive to hikers.
Maybe he’d let the drug squad check into these two a little. But for now, he had to look for some small, hairy elephants.
CHAPTER 17
It’s always wise to have a backup plan
Brandon ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, a freaking posse?”
Luis bit a fingernail, mentally cursing Brandon for getting drunk last night and sleeping so late. “I told you coming to Cody was a mistake. If we’d gone straight to the campsite yesterday morning, we would have had the herd miles away by now.”
“A mistake?” Brandon hissed. “You would have let poor Minnie walk by herself all the way to Cody, wouldn’t you? Carrying her kid, dragging that damn duffel, and scared out of her wits.”
“Her choice. Nobody made her go. And for damn sure nobody made you spend the night drinking and smoking so much homegrown that we couldn’t get a reasonable start this morning.” Luis began stowing his sleeping bag. “We need to get the herd out of here before that cop finds them.”
Brandon bent to speak in low, fierce tones. “Listen to yourself, will you? We’ve frightened innocent homesteaders out of their homes, brought the law down on us, and all you can think about is the herd.”
“That’s our job.”
“Your job.” Brandon straightened. “I’m cutting out.”
Luis froze. “You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? Anjou did. We should do the same.”
Luis’s jaw tightened. “We have to get the herd away from the settlements.”
“Screw the herd.” Brandon shrugged. “Consider them deployed early. By tomorrow, we could be back in Fairbanks with our feet up, steaks on the grill, and a game on the tube.”
Luis stepped close enough to feel Brandon’s breath on his face. “Seven years I’ve worked with the herd. Seven years! I’m not about to stand by while some idiot homesteader bags himself some ivory tusks for a trophy.”
Brandon stayed cool as an ice cube. “And I’m not about to stand by and get bagged by a freaking game warden looking to score some points.”
Luis pulled away in confusion. “Bagged by . . . what are you talking about?”
Brandon rubbed his whiskers. “Look, you never asked much about my past . . .”
“You didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I respected that.”
“You didn’t care, you mean. The point is, there might be one or two jurisdictions back in the lower forty-eight who know me by another name and who’d be happy to get me back. I’ve stayed out of trouble since I’ve been in Alaska, but if that trooper finds us with a bunch of oversized walking overcoats and takes my prints . . . well, let’s just say I’m not going to let that happen.”
“Jesus, I had no idea.” And if Luis had known Brandon had a criminal past, the relationship would have ended a long time ago.
“All I’m saying is that hiking to Mankeeta and hitching a ride somewhere else seems like a fine idea.”
“You promised. You took the job to help me get the mammoths to the target area.” Luis didn’t relish the idea of trying to move the herd alone through another hundred miles of wilderness.
Brandon shook his head. “You said it yourself, our money’s already in the bank. And you’ve made it pretty clear that you and I are history anyway.” He began to load his kit into his backpack. “So what’ll it be? Follow me to Mankeeta or stay with the herd?”
Abandon the mammoths, his hand-raised children? Leave them in peril for a lying, criminal ex-boyfriend?
“Just leave me the tent,” Luis said.
In their rustic cabin, Anjou stared at Ginger in disbelief. “An arrest warrant? For me?”
&n
bsp; “For both of us,” Ginger corrected. “For theft of government property. Apparently Major Butterick returned to the research site to shut us down and was quite annoyed to find us and everything else gone. My contact was rather snippy about it—and she specifically asked that I not attempt to speak to her again.”
“We haven’t stolen anything,” he said. “The equipment is just . . . in storage.”
“And the mammoths,” Ginger explained patiently. “Technically, they belong to the US government.”
“Impossible. I created them!”
“You created them using a government grant. Legally, the army owns the results of the research they funded.”
Anjou drummed his fingers on the rough wood table, glaring. He’d known that, of course, but in the spotlight of fame, it wouldn’t have mattered who owned the creatures.
Outside, the cries of seagulls punctuated the crash of waves on the rocky shore. He was sick of hiding out in this primitive cabin, with its gray skies, incessant wind, and the pervasive odor of fish.
He sighed. “Find a lawyer. We’ll turn ourselves in, tell them we’re shocked anyone would think we’ve stolen anything. We just sent the equipment into storage while we looked for larger quarters—the staff will verify that. And the mammoths weren’t stolen, we simply deployed them early, all in accordance with the grant. On time and under budget, right? If the army’s determined to destroy the mammoths, we’ll tell them about the transponders and show them how to find the herd.” It would be dreadful to see his mammoths slaughtered, but better to sacrifice them than his career. “Meanwhile, one of your contacts can leak the story. Public opinion will rally to our side.”
Ginger bit her lip. “It may not be that simple.”
Anjou’s scowl deepened. “Why the hell not?”
“There may be some . . . irregularities in the contracts.” She looked up with a nervous smile. “Nothing big. But if there were to be a legal investigation . . .”
“Ginger, what did you do?” Anjou struggled to keep from shouting.
Her eyes flashed in anger. “Oh, don’t be stupid. The hotels, the private car services, traveling by corporate jet? The parties we hosted at the conferences? Did you think that money fell from heaven?”
Anjou had never thought about it at all. He’d just assumed the conference sponsors wanted him to be comfortable. “So you inflated the contracts and skimmed the excess.”
“If the project had gone as planned,” she said, “no one would have looked carefully enough to notice.”
God help him, his name was on every one of those contracts. Whatever Ginger had put in front of him, Anjou had signed. Hadn’t questioned a penny.
Arrested. Him, Henri Anjou. It was unthinkable.
“We’ll blame accounting errors,” he said. “The lawyer will think of something. We can get through this.”
Ginger’s fingers twined. “Perhaps, except . . .”
“Except what?”
“There may also be irregularities in my immigration status.”
Anjou’s teeth ground. “You came from Korea on a student visa. You’re a US citizen now.”
She was still for a moment. “The papers I used to obtain my student visa were forged. I wasn’t born in Seoul, but in North Korea.”
“North Korea! But how . . . ?”
“My mother fled with me as a child, through China and from there to Laos and Thailand to get to South Korea. But when I wanted to emigrate to the US, I was advised that if I admitted to being from North Korea, the US authorities would regard me with suspicion and perhaps deny me. So I lied. If I am arrested, even if we are proved innocent of the charges, they would deport me.”
Anjou felt like the ground beneath his feet had turned to quicksand. Ginger had been his partner, his rock, his mentor. “Wasn’t anything you told me true?” he demanded.
She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “You are the greatest geneticist of your generation: that is the truth. Your accomplishments will be honored for the next century, even if the current government is blind to your genius. If I have failed you, it is only because I could not bear to see you treated so shabbily.” She hung her head. “I will understand if you cannot forgive me. Do as you said: call your lawyer. Turn me in. I will accept all blame.”
Anjou’s anger faded. “Oh, my dear Ginger.” How could he abandon her? Without her, he would still be a nobody bench scientist, struggling for recognition. “I don’t want you to suffer, far from it. But what choice do we have? We can’t go on the run—we wouldn’t last a month.”
The silence stretched out, punctuated only by the cries of the seabirds, like so many lost children calling for their mothers.
“There is another possibility,” Ginger said. “Nikodim.”
Anjou frowned. “You mean Zhurov? That Russian from the Oslo conference?” Nikodim Zhurov had been a member of a panel that Anjou had chaired. Zhurov had toyed with mammoth genes, too. He’d made remarkable progress on the genetics—enough to worry Anjou—but Zhurov had never cracked the complexities of the epigenetics and gestation needed to actually produce a living specimen. At the cocktail party after the conference session, he’d quizzed Anjou for an hour about his techniques, and later Anjou had seen him schmoozing Ginger.
“He has remained in touch,” Ginger said. “The Russian science community is very interested in your work. Nikodim has gone so far as to suggest that he could arrange for you to carry on your work in Russia—without the sort of restrictions the US imposes.”
“Leave the US?” Anjou shook his head. “I was born here. I’m an American.”
“Of course,” she said. “But science should transcend national boundaries, shouldn’t it? We have Silver and Gold, the beginning of the new herd. What would be more natural than to raise those mammoths on the Russian steppes? And with the thawing of the permafrost in Siberia, more mammoth carcasses have been uncovered. You could have as much genetic material as you need to increase the diversity of the herd.”
“It’s impossible,” he grumbled. “Do you have any idea how much red tape is involved in moving animals across borders?”
Ginger smiled. “Certainly, it would be impossible to go through normal channels. But after all, from where we are now, Russia is only a few hundred miles away. A boat could cross the Bering Strait in a matter of hours. As you said—out there, the border is just a line on a map.”
He stared. “You’re serious?”
Ginger drew herself up. “I myself was smuggled across borders as a child. Where there is a strong enough incentive, such things are possible. Would you rather I faced prison and deportation?”
Anjou was quiet, gazing out the window at the long-winged gulls drifting on the breeze. Any one of them might have crossed from the Bering Strait on the latest storm winds, and would cross back whenever the herring schooled west instead of east.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re pretty sure about Zhurov?”
“Nikodim is highly placed in the Russian Academy of Sciences. He wants the same as we do: mammoths to protect the environment. With your skill and his resources, we can achieve what the US government is too short-sighted to allow. Let me speak to him—I’m sure he will find a way.”
Anjou narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been thinking about this for a long time?”
Ginger smiled her feline smile. “It’s always wise to have a backup plan.”
CHAPTER 18
Cold feet
Thursday in Rainbow was always a busy day for Estelle, squeezing in a few more patients before it was time to fly back to Fairbanks. She aimed for wheels-up by three, but she couldn’t remember a day when she’d actually gotten away on time.
“Are you ready to go to Fairbanks today?” Estelle asked Annie at breakfast.
The old woman picked at her toast. “It doesn’t seem right, to leave before Rufus’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry you’ll miss it, but your surgery shouldn’t wait.”
&
nbsp; Annie looked up hopefully. “Have you checked the weather? Maybe there’s another storm coming?”
Estelle grinned. “Sorry—it’s good flying weather. You don’t get out of a plane ride that easy.” The forecast was for fair skies and steady winds from the southwest. She’d medicate her passengers if she had to, but she wasn’t going to let Annie use a little wind as an excuse to wimp out of surgery.
“I’ll help you pack,” Sera offered. “I saw a suitcase in the closet. Just tell me what you need.”
When Annie dithered, Estelle said, “Pajamas or nightgown. Warm robe and slippers for the hospital, and her most comfortable walking-around clothes. They’ll have you up and walking in no time.”
The evening before, Annie’s husband’s sister’s son had treated Estelle and Sera and maybe a third of the village to the Alaska version of a fish fry: fresh-caught salmon grilled over a wood fire. When pressed to sing something, Estelle and Sera had obliged with “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” with harmonies learned from years in the gospel choir. Then the whole group had joined them in “When the Saints Go Marching In,” with Sera leading the younger generation in its own little second line, clapping and dancing down the street with the dogs prancing among them.
Sera leaned over the breakfast table and whispered to Estelle, “I’ll wash the sheets, too, so she’ll have a fresh bed when she comes home.”
“Bless you, chérie.”
A stop on the way to the clinic assured Estelle that Lonnie was breathing all right and mother and new son were well. She ordered both Joan and Lonnie to walk outdoors twice a day and warned everyone else in the crowded house that Joan was not to pick up anything heavier than a fork with her injured arm. Then it was on to the clinic with a full roster of other people’s aches and pains.
At two thirty, Estelle said goodbye to her last patient and locked the clinic door. Sera was waiting on Annie’s front porch, their luggage ready. Thank God. Much as she loved Rainbow and the people there, Estelle was city-born-and-bred and eager to get back to her apartment, her bed, and her life.
