by Rachel Grant
“That’s easy. Chiksook is the board.”
“Is Dylan a pawn or a king?”
“I think he’s a knight,” Dean said. “He can jump over other pieces and move in asymmetrical patterns but isn’t powerful like a queen or nearly as limited as the king.”
“He can be taken without it being game over.”
“Isn’t that exactly what happened? Hasn’t the game really just begun?”
She was a little surprised Dean could talk about it so analytically, but then, it was a testament to his sharp mind. She guessed he was compartmentalizing. It must be the only way he’d managed to cope these last weeks.
She really did know that pain and didn’t wish it on anyone. She certainly couldn’t share her experience now, when he was in the thick of it.
“So . . . what we need to do is cross the board without being killed and bring back Dylan.”
“Yes,” he said with a firm nod.
“What you’re saying is we’re pawns.”
“Unfortunately, also yes.”
“Sylvia is the queen?”
“I’m starting to think so. She’s the only person who we’re certain lied.” He glanced sideways at her. “I will never, ever believe my brother would assault her. Not unless it was self-defense.”
Fiona agreed. She believed in believing women, but in this instance, she knew the woman and knew the man. And nothing about the allegation rang true. What they needed was Sylvia’s motive for lying.
Unfortunately, the most obvious motive was that Dylan was dead, and it was Sylvia’s fault. She’d covered it up with her claims so she could pretend to send him home. As his immediate supervisor, she’d have no problem accessing his work email and sending the one Dean received to friends and colleagues.
But there was no way in hell she’d share that theory with Dean. He still had hope. And he needed to hold on to it as long as he could.
She grabbed a chunk of wood that had the overall shape of a two-foot-long two-by-four and set it on the fire, then bent down to blow on the coals to encourage it to catch quickly. She’d donned her long underwear, and it was warm enough inside the plane that she wasn’t shivering, but it wasn’t exactly hot either. Not shivering was a relatively low bar when it came to thermal comfort, but she’d take it.
She cleared her throat and asked, “So who is king? How do we end this game?” After all, finding Dylan’s body would only answer the question of where he was. It likely wouldn’t explain why.
“I have no clue.”
Was Victor still on the island? How could they find out if he was here? Aside from tripping over him, of course.
Dean picked up Dylan’s phone and flipped through the apps. “Browsing history can’t load, and if it did, it would be overridden with null data, given the weeks that have passed.” He tapped the screen several more times. “Same with messages. They won’t load without internet.”
They’d gleaned all the information they could from the phone.
She’d found her artifact, but they weren’t really closer to finding Dylan.
She closed her eyes as the memory of a spring afternoon in Eastern Washington came to mind. Five years and four months ago. The moment when the last vestige of hope had died. She’d lost two siblings that day. But then, maybe Aidan had already been gone. After all, their mom’s illness had taught her that a person could be alive and gone at the same time.
She wished she could save Dean a pain she knew all too well.
She didn’t want Dylan to be dead. But really, what other option was there? This was Chiksook, and it had been nearly six weeks since Dylan was last seen.
She set the phone down and reached for the stack of field notes, flipping through them until she found a hand-drawn map. “This is Dylan’s handwriting?” She was fairly certain, but she hadn’t seen enough of it to speak with authority.
“Yes.”
She stared at the contours and symbols. “I think this is a schematic of the lava tubes and caves on the coastal side of the mountain. He said it was an elaborate network.”
“What does ‘Kanuux̂’ mean?” he asked, pointing to a label on the map. He’d done a decent job with the Unangam Tunuu—the Unangas’ name for their language—pronunciation.
“Kanuux̂ means heart, I think. Kanuux̂ is the native name for Mount Katin. Katin was some Russian guy’s surname, but the locals have called the mountain Kanuux̂ for centuries, even millennia. Long before the Russians came and renamed their mountain after a foreigner.” It was true for many of the Aleutian Islands and their volcanoes. Russian names might mark the map, but the locals still used the names they’d given. Much as Denali was now Denali again and no longer named for an American president who’d never even visited the state.
“So the volcano is the heart of the island.”
“It is.”
“I bet Dylan loved that,” Dean said.
“He did. He said it made sense, since the lava tubes were the veins and arteries. Dylan really loved his work.”
“Loves,” Dean corrected.
She covered his hand with hers. “Loves,” she repeated, taking a deep breath to hold back tears that would reveal far too much.
EIGHTEEN
They hiked back to the side-by-side in silence, each loaded down with heavy packs and bundles of wood tied to the frames. Dean kept an eye on Fiona, making sure she wasn’t favoring her leg. He wasn’t sure she’d admit if she wasn’t up to the hike, and she’d refused to allow him to carry more than his two packs, as that would mean they’d have to leave the bundles of firewood behind.
He was tempted to return to the plane once their gear was dropped off and she was safely tucked inside so he could retrieve more wood, but his gut said separating would be unwise.
Their plan for the morning was to go to the village. The locals might have information, and they would have a phone. Fiona would get in touch with her boss, and the cavalry would be called in, and then they could head to the volcano.
They had Dylan’s map of the lava tubes plus another map with the locations of the sensors he’d set up on the surface. The volcano was Dylan’s last-known location, so that was their starting point.
Hopefully.
It all depended on the side-by-side still being parked by the side of the road. And operational.
They descended a steep slope, the last hurdle before they reached the side-by-side. Dean’s heart pounded as the vehicle came into view.
It looked fine. He circled it, checking the tires and studying the ground to see if anyone else had found it and potentially tampered with it. Not that footprints would be visible after the heavy, icy rain.
The tires were fine, the spare fuel can strapped to the back remained full, and the door was locked.
Relief filtered through him. Without the side-by-side, they would be in trouble. He doubted Fiona was up to the long hike to the village with the heavy pack, plus she needed to save her energy for the volcano.
He was eager to head to the volcano, but going straight there without going to the village first could be reckless, and possibly deadly.
His heart had thundered this morning when he’d looked at the map drawn by his brother. He was going to find Dylan today. He knew it in his gut.
But first, to the village . . .
He unlocked the back, and they piled the firewood and heavy packs inside. As before, field packs went into the back seat because the storage compartment was too small to hold everything, especially now that they had wood to burn.
The drive to the village was slow going over pathetic roads. “I’m going to assume they don’t use this road very often,” Dean said as they hit a particularly egregious gap in the road.
“They don’t. There’s another road to the north—we’ll take that to the volcano—that’s slightly better for them to come and go, but mostly they use boats. The village is situated on a sheltered deepwater bay that’s easy for larger vessels to moor. Of course, it would be perfect for the submarine ba
se. There was even some admiral, who didn’t understand the sovereignty of Alaska Natives, who proposed seizing the village through eminent domain and making it the study area.”
Dean let out a low whistle. “Just when you want to think our colonizer days didn’t extend into the new millennium.”
“Right? He apparently didn’t get the updated history lesson that manifest destiny was a horrific excuse for genocide then, and would be deemed a crime against humanity now.”
“Why did the Unangas agree to let the navy use this island in the first place?”
“The navy has promised them a whole lot of new infrastructure for the island. The village could be expanded, and there’s going to be a new school that will make it possible for families to relocate here—and some will be able to get jobs on the base. Plus, they’ll have stable electricity, internet, and cellular service. There were two years of public meetings before the navy settled on Chiksook for the base location, and there’s another team looking at an alternate location in case the environmental analysis or engineering specs find a fatal flaw.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t also working on the alternate location.”
“I was supposed to, but delays and difficulties with the Chiksook evaluation meant I didn’t have time for the other project too—which is suffering from similar weather and infrastructure problems. Some of the fieldwork has happened concurrently, and I have difficulty being in two places at once.”
“Aww. C’mon. Slacker.”
She laughed. “David, the archaeologist who’s working the other project, was super jealous when I told him I’d found an intact house. He grumbled that he doesn’t even have cool World War II debris to record, let alone a full base like on Chiksook.”
“He’d have loved our plane.”
“Totally.” She gave him a knowing look. “By the way, I saw you slip a whiskey bottle into your pack.”
“Busted.” He gripped the wheel tight as they rounded a slippery curve. “Are you seriously going to get in trouble for burning the boxes and opening the whiskey?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. Nor do I care. We didn’t desecrate remains, and believe me, I gave plenty of thanks for the refuge and supplies the plane provided. I am eternally grateful to the men who were on that plane, and when this is all over, I’ll redouble my efforts to find out who was on that supply flight and reach out to their descendants to thank them, if they have any.”
Dean had photographed the plane exterior before they left. The morning sun had glinted off the metal in a few places, but mostly it was buried under dirt and vines in a way that made it look like a living thing. “If you find them, I’ll give them framed and mounted pictures of the plane.”
“Oooh. They might like that. I think I would, if I were in their place.” She glanced sideways at him. “In fact, can I have one?”
“Of course. I owe you the owl pictures you took too.”
“Good Lord. Was that only three nights ago?”
“I’m pretty sure it was a decade.”
“Back when you were Bill, and I was Dylan’s lying girlfriend.”
In his mind, she was still Dylan’s . . . and it was making his growing attraction very uncomfortable.
“Are you still going to give me photography lessons?”
“Well, probably not today.”
She snorted. “I didn’t mean today. I just . . . I’m trying to set goals. Give me a reason to believe we’re going to survive this.”
“Put that way, yes. Absolutely. Hell, I’ll take you on an expedition if you want.”
“Can you do that? I mean, wouldn’t National Geographic balk?”
He shrugged. “I finance my own expeditions when I want to.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is.”
“Okay, where are we going? On our expedition, I mean. Give me something to fantasize about.”
All at once, a thousand fantasies filled his mind. Every single one of them in some kind of exotic setting with Fiona naked beneath him. Or on top of him. Or he was behind her, thrusting deep into her wet heat. Under a waterfall. In an ice cave. In the middle of the desert. She would be his oasis. His paradise.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts and answer the question that had triggered them. “Depends on where you want to go. You mentioned Egypt.”
“I’d love to go to Egypt, but if I’m going on a wildlife expedition, that wouldn’t be it. What’s your favorite place you’ve been to?”
“That’s an impossible question.”
“Go with your gut. First impulse.”
“The Galapagos Islands.” The destination came out almost of its own accord. But yeah. Galapagos was a wildlife biologist’s dream.
“Ohhh. Yes please. Thank you. But . . . aren’t the Galapagos ridiculously impossible to get access to?”
He looked at her askance. “Fiona Carver, do you even know who I am?”
She laughed. Full, warm, rich. “My bad. It’s just that . . . the Galapagos are on my bucket list. You’ve really been there?”
“More than once.”
“Oh my. Those might be the sexiest words I’ve ever heard.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Good to know.” He forced himself to think of Dylan, even as he wanted to flirt and tease. “I’ve been wanting to get Dylan to join me on an expedition forever, so this is perfect.”
“He’s never joined you?”
“No. He was in grad school when I first started, and after that . . . work and then his ex-wife got in the way.”
“And after the divorce?”
“I tried. But he took the job at Pollux and couldn’t get the time off. He said he was content to visit his volcanoes, and we’d go next year.” He cleared his throat, as if that would dispel the emotion from his voice. “I’m afraid after this, I’m going to insist on now, instead of next year.”
“Good plan,” she said softly. “And, well, the Galapagos are volcanic, so no excuses there either.”
“It will be the perfect expedition for all three of us.” How much would it ache to watch Fiona and Dylan hold hands as they explored the birthplace of the Origin of Species?
She leaned toward him to peek at the dashboard. “We should probably refill the tank soon. Maybe we can buy more gas in the village.”
He nodded, glad for the change in subject. “We should be getting close.”
“We are. Another half mile or so.”
They drove the remainder in silence. But then, Dean didn’t know what else he could say.
At last, a series of small structures came into view, and at the center of it all was a Russian Orthodox church, identifiable thanks to a single small onion dome. Russian churches were central to every Unangax̂ village, and Fiona had mentioned this one was recorded as an historic structure.
He parked the side-by-side just outside the unofficial boundary of the village and turned off the engine. Fiona placed a hand on his knee and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way but . . . let me do the talking, okay? I’ve consulted with the Chiksook chair several times. They know me, and they can be prickly with outsiders. For good reason.”
He shrugged. It didn’t matter to him one way or the other who did the talking, as long as she asked about Dylan. “Have at it.”
They climbed from the vehicle and entered the village, walking down the center of the main . . . road, for lack of a better word.
A few people stepped outside and stood on their porches, watching without greeting. Fiona waved and said, “Hi. I’m Fiona Carver. I’m hoping to talk to Marion Flanders about what’s going on with the navy base. Is Marion on the island today?”
A middle-aged man said nothing; he simply pointed, and Dean assumed Fiona knew where she was going, as she made a beeline for a small house in the center of a cluster of homes that were placed without regard to the roads or grid patterns that most Americans would be familiar with. But Dean had visited small villages all over the world and didn’t find
the layout disconcerting as he knew some white people would.
“Thank you,” he and Fiona said in unison, giving the man friendly nods.
A woman stepped outside the house Fiona was aiming for before they reached the porch. She gave them both a polite nod. “My nephew said there was an explosion on the other end of the island yesterday. We were promised the navy would use care every step of the way and already they have polluted the air and poisoned the water.”
“The explosion wasn’t . . . I mean, I don’t think it was the navy.” Fiona waved in the general direction of the camp on the other end of the large island. “Well, certainly someone . . . but it could be a contractor . . . You see, we’re not . . .” She huffed out a breath. “We were there. Saw it. It was horrific, but it didn’t contaminate the water.”
The village council chair simply cocked her head and waited.
“Well, except the runoff during the storm, I suppose, but we were gone by then. I didn’t think . . .”
Dean marveled at the fact that calm, take-charge Fiona Carver was deeply flustered. She’d been caught off guard by the accusation and didn’t know how to respond.
Dean stepped forward and offered his hand. “Hi. I’m Dean Slater. I believe you met my brother, Dylan, six weeks or so ago, if not before then. He’s missing, we’re trying to find him, and we think the explosion might have something to do with his disappearance.”
The moment he said Dylan’s name, the woman’s face lit up. “You’re Dylan’s brother? Dean Slater? The photographer?”
The light in her eyes was a surprise. “Yes. I’m Dean. The photographer.”
She waved to her door. “Come in! Come in! I must show you.”
To the gathered villagers who now stood behind them, she spoke in a combination of Unangam Tunuu and English. The English part was basic: “This is Dean Slater! The photographer!”
He turned to see the faces of the others, and they transformed from concern and possible hostility to . . . joy.
“This is weird,” he whispered to Fiona.
“I’ve changed my mind. You can do the talking,” she whispered back. She nudged him forward, urging him to follow the chair into her home.
