by Rachel Grant
Inside the tiny house, Marion Flanders led him to a framed image on the wall, and her initial reaction now made sense. “He was our most revered elder, and your photo showed him great honor and respect.”
Dean studied the framed cover of National Geographic with its iconic yellow border. Dean did not specialize in people, but, when nearing the end of a long expedition that had been permitted by the Aleutian Pribilof Islands Association, and one of their most esteemed elders—who’d offered his services as a guide for several days—asked for a portrait, Dean would never say no.
The man had donned his traditional clothing and stood in the ruins of his village—which had been destroyed during World War II. He’d been among the group that was taken to Japan for the duration of the war, while other Unangas had been relocated elsewhere in Alaska. When the war ended and he’d returned to the Aleutians, he hadn’t been allowed to return to that village—no one had—except to visit.
He’d been his only family member to survive and return to the islands, and five years ago, Dean had photographed a proud man who represented his people today and a history that included colonization by Russia and America, as well as war and imprisonment by the Japanese. Every item in the portrait was selected by the elder and had meaning to him and his people.
It was, simply put, the best portrait Dean had ever taken, and it was because the subject commanded so much respect. Dean worked best with natural light, and he could swear even the sun cooperated that day.
He’d sent the elder a mounted and framed copy of the final image, along with a request from National Geographic to publish it on the cover. The elder had agreed as long as a donation that matched the amount they’d offered to pay him was made to the schools funded by the Aleutian Pribilof Islands Association.
The magazine had complied, and Dean had made his own donation as well.
He’d had other images make the cover over the years, and his work had been the subject of two one-hour-long documentaries, but the image framed on the wall here was probably his most famous photo.
“I was on assignment last year when I heard he’d died,” he said to the council chair. “I was deeply sorry I wasn’t able to attend his memorial and pay my respects to such a great man.” By the time he’d received the invitation, it was weeks after the funeral.
Marion bowed her head and said something in her native language, then looked up and smiled. “It was an honor to meet your brother, and it is an honor to meet you. Tell me what has happened to him and how we can help.”
NINETEEN
Fiona considered carefully whom she should call and decided her best bet was her boss. Graham might have some idea of what was going on and when a boat or helicopter would be sent for them. For all she knew, there could be a boat at the dock now, and he could call and tell the captain they were on their way.
As usual with the Aleutians, the connection was spotty. Every other word cut out at first, and it took a bit for Fiona to understand that Graham didn’t know she was still on Chiksook. “Where did you think I was?” she asked.
“I was—old y—er on—ak.”
She rubbed her temples and tried to fill in the gaps like a high-stakes Mad Libs. “You were . . . told we’re on Adak?”
“Yes—ak.”
“But who told you that? How?”
“Heli—er picked you—fly to Ad—”
Then he said something about the boat, then something about the helicopter again, and she slapped her hand over her mouth as cold dread sank in. “Wait. Graham. Is it possible the group on the helicopter was told a different story from those on the boat?” Did both groups think she and Dean had been rescued already? One being told the helicopter would pick them up and the other being told the boat would wait for them?
With different destinations—Unalaska and Adak—it was possible no one would’ve realized the truth for days.
“I can—eck with—eam. But, Fiona, I—on’t think any—knows—on Chiksook.”
“No one knows we’re on Chiksook,” she repeated so Dean would hear. “No one is coming for us. Not yet anyway.” Into the phone, she said, “Is there anyone else the helicopter was supposed to pick up?”
For a brief, blessed moment, the connection was clear. “The new geologist guy. The one you emailed me about.”
“Victor Neff.”
“Yeah. Told the heli—er picked up you, the orni—and Neff.” The phone cut out.
She pulled the small, low-tech cellular phone from her ear and checked the screen: Signal Lost.
She tried to call him back, but the bars disappeared from the upper left corner, the words No Signal taking their place.
“We’ve been having trouble for the last few days,” Marion said. “It might work in a few hours.”
Fiona met Dean's gaze. “No one is coming for us, and Victor is still here. The helicopter supposedly picked up all three of us.”
“I don’t want to wait a few hours. I want to go to the volcano and look for Dylan.” He faced Marion. “Will you try calling again for us? Please? Follow up with Fiona’s boss? Let him know we went to the volcano?”
“I will.”
“Thank you,” Fiona said as she wrote down Graham Sherwood’s phone number.
“One more thing,” Dean said. “When Dylan was here, did he ask about the lava tubes? Did he show you his map?”
The chairwoman’s face shuttered, and her voice turned guarded, a first when addressing Dean. “He did.”
“Have you ever been inside the caves?”
Marion pursed her lips. “I have not. It is our preference that the caves should not be unnecessarily disturbed.”
Fiona realized the woman was uncomfortable because it was highly likely that oral tradition indicated some—maybe even many—of the caves contained burials. Across the Aleutians, several burial caves had been found over the decades, as the Unangas had been burying their ancestors in caves for millennia.
She would explain this to Dean on the drive, as clearly, the chairwoman did not wish to discuss it. “We will tread with respect when we enter the tunnels,” Fiona said. “And won’t disturb anything we might find there. Our only goal is to find Dylan.”
The woman nodded. “I know this. Dylan understood the importance of Kanuux̂ and made the same promise.”
She had no doubt Dylan had understood what it would mean if he came across a burial cave in Mount Katin, but still the words made her feel a rush of warmth for the man, followed by the unavoidable ache that he’d been missing for so many weeks.
She’d failed Dylan too, when she hadn’t questioned his abrupt departure.
“We’ll return here after we’ve found Dylan,” Dean said, pulling her back to the moment.
The woman nodded. “A boat will be here in three days. Be here by then, and we can get you back to Adak.”
“That will be Plan B,” Dean said. “Plan A is we find Dylan today, bring him back here, and a helicopter comes to pick us up.”
The woman cupped Dean’s hand in hers. “On Chiksook, it is always good to have a Plan B. C too. You need a plan for shelter and food.”
“We have food, and we will be back here for shelter, if you offer it.”
“Of course. Be careful. Find your brother. And be back here by nightfall. The volcano road is treacherous in the dark.”
At last, they were on their way to the volcano. They even had a full tank of fuel, a gift from Marion. Dean gave thanks to the Unangax̂ elder who was surely seeing to their safety this day. Dean didn’t even believe in that sort of thing, but today he did. If it meant he’d find Dylan—alive and well—he’d believe anything.
Marion hadn’t been lying about the volcano road. It was scary as hell and rivaled some of the mountain passes he’d traversed in Africa and South America. A slip off the sheer cliff would send them into the northern Pacific Ocean. Their chance of survival would be nil.
The pass had been cut by the army during the war, because they had a radio tower on a high slope of
Mount Katin, and this had been the best access route. The tower had been in service until the midseventies, and the road had been maintained by the military. After that, the Unangas had maintained the lower portion—that skirted the mountain inland—but let the cliffside road to the top fall into disrepair.
Dylan had taken this road many times during his expeditions, though, so they knew it was passable to a point, and there was a lower road that would bring them to the cave and lava tube network he’d mapped for them.
According to Marion, Dylan and Trevor had visited the village after their field trip to the archaeological site. Dylan had given her a package to mail, but she couldn’t remember if Trevor had witnessed that exchange.
That was the last time any of the Unangas on the island had seen Dylan—the day before he’d disappeared. His hope Dylan was safely ensconced in the village had been feeble at best, but now it was gone.
Fiona made a low, screeching sound as the vehicle slipped on the narrow road. This curve was protected and set back enough that there was no reason to fear, but up ahead, it narrowed, and the cliff was sheer. The icy ocean—a hundred feet below, at minimum—crashed against jagged rocks.
“I’d be happy to get out and walk,” she said with something of a whimper.
“We’ve got another mile until we get to the caves.”
“I know.”
“Your knee—”
“Is fine.”
“Dylan drove this route many times during his expeditions.”
“Yeah, and he never came back.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit terrified of dying right now.”
“I get it,” he said softly. “But you know if Dylan had died on this road, you’d have been told. Hell, it would have been easy to make it happen. It would have been the perfect cover. The fact that it’s not the excuse you heard means the road is passable.”
“Why didn’t they use that excuse?” she murmured, and he guessed her focus on that might have eased her terror a bit.
“If Dylan had disappeared on this road, there’d have been a search—helicopters, boats, the works.”
A glance showed her grip on the passenger bar was white-knuckled. She kept her gaze averted from the cliff as they approached the narrow section. He pressed his lips together as he gave navigating the road every ounce of his focus.
They rounded the long curve in silence, at last reaching a section where the road widened again and was set back from the edge.
“I think that was the longest thirty seconds of my life.”
“I’ll tell you about a road I was on in the Andes sometime.”
“No thanks.”
They reached the fork, in which one route went up to the radio tower and the other went down to the cave system. Dean took the low road, feeling a strange excitement in his belly. This was it. They were getting close. They would find answers here. He knew it.
“I think the worst part is knowing we have to drive back up.”
She had a fair point.
“I’ve driven a lot of roads like this, Fi, and this rig was made to handle it. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
She didn’t say anything. With his peripheral vision, he caught her slight nod.
If he could have left her in the village, he would have, but she’d insisted on coming. And frankly, it wasn’t a good idea to set out alone. He needed her if he was going to find Dylan.
He drove slowly down the slippery, narrow road, keeping close to the mountain and away from the cliff, glad they didn’t have to fear oncoming vehicles. This road wasn’t made for two-way traffic.
At last they reached a wide, flat cove that was only about ten feet above sea level, and he parked the side-by-side. Water splashed on the rock wall that jutted from the sea, but only the most determined droplets reached high enough to splash the road.
This must be where Dylan had parked a dozen times.
Dean climbed from the vehicle, secured the door closed against the wind that whipped along the cliff face, then stretched his legs and flexed fingers that had gripped the wheel so tightly, they’d threatened to cramp.
Fiona peeled herself from her side of the vehicle and circled to the back to stand beside him. “You’re a good driver in these conditions; sorry I was such a whiner.”
“Sweetheart, you were justifiably terrified. That’s not whining.”
She looked up the side of the mountain, along the road they’d just driven down. “Jeez, it looks even worse from this angle.”
He placed a hand under her chin and gently turned her to face him. “Don’t. It’ll only add to your anxiety over the trip back.”
His gaze held hers. The early-afternoon sun lit her braided hair, drawing out the red hues he’d noticed when they’d first met. She was achingly beautiful in the sunlight, and he wanted to press his mouth to hers.
His adrenaline was still coming down after the stressful drive, and the reaction was natural. She leaned into him, like she wanted that kiss, and he reminded himself she’d had her own fight-or-flight reaction—her body choosing flight—and was likely suffering from the same impulses that demanded they celebrate survival, even if it was just a drive down a dangerous road.
He leaned in, but at the last moment, his lips found her forehead as he pulled her close, bringing her body flush with his. Her arms wrapped around him.
He’d held her last night, but that had been necessity to fit in the sleeping bag. This was an actual embrace . . . and it felt as natural as breathing.
Just as no one who knew Dylan had offered comfort, Dean hadn’t been on the receiving end of a hug since he’d first learned Dylan was missing. His arms tightened around her of their own accord, and he buried his face in her neck as she did the same, tucking her forehead against the collar of his coat.
Wind whipped at the rocky flat and mountainside, and a spray of water dappled his coat as he held her, breathed in the chill salt air, and tried not to give in to the emotion that swamped him.
After a long moment, she lifted her head, and he straightened, still holding her tight. Their gazes locked, and even though there was nothing sexual in their embrace, there was a new heat between them. The pull of attraction had been there from the start, but now, she knew who he was and why he was here, so any attraction she exhibited was real in a way it hadn’t been before.
She wanted to kiss him. And he wanted to kiss her. He could get lost in the comfort and escape of her mouth. Her body.
A strong gust sent another spray of water up the cliffside, this one just shy of drenching them. The nonmetaphorical cold blast of water was just what he needed to stop himself from doing the unforgivable.
He released her and stepped back. He wanted to thank her for the comforting hug, but that moment at the end there had changed things, making him feel awkward. He turned and reached for the rear door of the side-by-side, lifted it, and began sorting through the items they’d need for spelunking.
“Wow, for a guy who has a reputation as a playboy, you are seriously lacking finesse right now.”
He dropped the bundles of rope and planted his hands on the rear bumper, leaning down. He let out a soft laugh, because it was that or groan. “I didn’t know I’d be getting a critique, or I’d have done things differently. I also forgot you know my reputation.”
He remembered that first night on Chiksook, when they’d found the clipboard and she’d shared what Dylan had told her about him. It was telling that Dylan had said Dean was a womanizer. After all, he’d mentioned more than once that the moment he told dates about his twin the wildlife photographer, all they did was ask questions about Dean.
Dylan hadn’t wanted Fiona to fixate on Dean as other women had, so he’d told her the truth about his semifamous brother.
“I suppose it’s worth noting,” Fiona added, “that Dylan also told me you sleep around without emotional involvement as a coping mechanism.”
He faced her, afraid to ask the obvious question but compelled t
o nonetheless. “Did he say why?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I admit, I’m curious now, but I have a feeling this isn’t the time.”
“It’s not. And I’m not sure I agree with Dylan’s assessment anyway. But know this: my reputation is earned, and it’s exactly who I’m content to be.”
Not only was that the truth, but it would also stop her from wanting to pursue this inconvenient attraction, making it clear he wasn’t the right Slater brother for her.
TWENTY
Dean Slater was a puzzle she absolutely should not be trying to solve, but she couldn’t help herself. Puzzles could be addictive, especially when they came with a rock-hard body and extreme competence. The man had saved her life last night, and today, she’d watched the Unangax̂ chairwoman deservedly fawn over him.
The portrait he’d taken of the Unangax̂ elder who’d survived internment in Japan during World War II showed that not only was he an amazingly skilled photographer, but also he knew how to interact with people from other cultures in a nonappropriative and honoring way.
She remembered reading about Anthony Bourdain after his suicide that one reason his food and travel shows worked for the people he featured was because he showed up with a desire to learn, not to teach and not to appropriate. He didn’t say, You’ve been cooking this dish for a thousand years? Let me show you how I can make it better! as several TV chefs did. No. Bourdain bought food from roadside vendors and asked questions about the culture that developed the culinary style. He was open and curious and didn’t speak to locals with condescension. He asked questions and, more importantly, listened to the answers.
She’d always loved his travel shows and never quite knew why, until reading that and recognizing the truth in it. She grieved the loss of Bourdain as if he’d been an actual friend. Now she looked at Dean and figured he likely shared many of the famous chef’s finer traits, except instead of food, he sought to learn about the local population’s relationship with wildlife. She supposed he also shared a similar ego to Bourdain, and figured it was equally justified.
