“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” the man behind her asked, poking his head between the seats.
“There are no people,” Laura mumbled.
“That’s the point.”
It wasn’t until she stood up that she realized how tired she was. The flight from New York had consisted of three separate legs. Stopovers in both Chicago and Seattle, all that deplaning and replaning ... In total, she’d been in transit close to a full twelve hours. The joints in her legs weren’t about to let her forget it. While over the intercom the pilot cheerfully informed them that the time was four hours earlier than on the East Coast, Laura’s body insisted it wasn’t dinnertime, but bedtime.
Zombielike, she moved through the airport, her tote bag slung over her shoulder as she retrieved her luggage. “There’s no place like home,” she muttered over and over, not quite able to believe any of this was really happening. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to keep from clicking her heels together.
She lugged her two heavy suitcases to the exit, speculating that all this could turn out to be nothing more than a cruel joke. Perhaps there would be no one to meet her. Maybe she was destined to spend the rest of her days here at the Anchorage airport, waiting....
And then she caught sight of her contact. He was leaning against a column, holding up a piece of brown cardboard with BRIGGS scrawled across the front in black crayon.
“Oh, boy.” She swallowed hard.
If she hadn’t known he was authentic, she would have concluded he’d been sent over from central casting. Grizzly Adams, right here in Anchorage Airport, waiting to pick up the greenhorn from the lower forty-eight.
It wasn’t even the way he was dressed. The plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots were pretty much the local uniform, she surmised. What gave him the look of the missing link on the evolutionary scale was the impressive amount of hair above his shoulders. A full dark beard, bushy eyebrows shading intense brown eyes, and a wild growth on his head, as thick and coarse as fur. If this man wasn’t Yukon Jack, he was certainly doing a darned good imitation.
Laura experienced a repeat of the dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach she’d had at the airport in New York. Struggling to keep from panicking, she reminded herself that she was no longer a little girl being forced to fend for herself in a world of plastic lanyards and “Kum-Ba-Ya.” She was a full-fledged adult, with traveler’s checks, a Visa card . . . and a plane ticket home.
Besides, she told herself, maybe he’s just some guy from the local taxi company. There’s no reason to assume this man is Dr. Woodward. Surely this . . . this being couldn’t be my host, my guide, my only link to survival out here in a place so undeveloped they probably don’t even have Coke.
“Laura Briggs?” he asked as she approached.
“That’s me.” She smiled bravely.
Her smile wasn’t returned. “I’m Cameron Woodward.”
“Hello. I’m pleased to—”
“Is all this luggage yours?”
Laura raised her chin in the air, one of her favorite defensive gestures. “I am going to be here a full two weeks.”
“What have you got in here?”
“Enough clothes for the entire trip, including an extra pair of hiking shoes,” she answered, the impatience in her voice only thinly masked. “Also six paperbacks, a hair dryer, and a jar of peanut butter in case it turns out moose burgers don’t agree with me.”
Dr. Woodward shrugged. “I carry all my personal gear in this backpack.”
Laura couldn’t tell if she was only imagining the disapproval she heard in his voice.
She decided to reserve judgment, at least until she reached the parking lot. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to finally be on solid ground. That flight from New York took forever.” Laura nearly had to run to keep up with Dr. Woodward as he strode out of the airport. Not even the bulging knapsack on his back and her two heavy suitcases slowed him down.
His response was a noncommittal grunt. Laura, however, struggled to keep up her cheerful chatter.
“I’m exhausted. Oh, sure, I tried to sleep on the plane, but it turned out I was flying with the Vienna Boys Choir. Well, not really; what I mean is, there was a bunch of overly energetic pubescent boys on the flight out of Seattle. They talked nonstop, as if they couldn’t quite believe their voices were finally changing. Anyway, I didn’t get much of a rest. What I’m really looking forward to is a nice hot shower and a good night’s sleep—”
“Sleep? Shower?” Dr. Woodward stopped in his tracks. He turned to face her, his eyes burning into hers so piercingly that for a moment Laura wondered if the devil himself had taken to leading World Watch projects.
“Don’t people in Alaska sleep or shower?” Although she was only joking, as she said the words the feeling that she could well be speaking the truth descended over Laura like a chill.
“Not if they were sent here by World Watch. At least, not yet.”
“Explain.”
“I guess no one told you.”
“No one told me what?”
“We’re driving straight through tonight.”
“Wait a minute.” To punctuate her words, Laura stopped, put down her tote bag, and folded her arms across her chest. “Who’s we—and where are we driving tonight?”
“We is you and me. And we’re driving straight to the Kenai Peninsula.”
“Which is ... where?”
“About eight hours away.”
“Eight hours?”
“It’s only seven o’clock,” Dr. Woodward informed her with annoying calmness.
“Hold on. It’s seven o’clock to people here, people who were still wrapped up in caribou fur, dreaming about kayaking, while I was hovering over Chicago with two rubber eggs and a quart of nitric acid disguised as coffee in my stomach. To me, it’s eleven P.M.!”
“You’ll be better off getting used to our time right away. If you have to, you can sleep in the truck.”
‘Truck,” Laura repeated. “You’re telling me I’m about to spend eight hours in a truck.”
“You probably won’t want to, though. Sleep, I mean. Around here, the sun only sets for two hours in June. Between midnight and two, it’s dark. Otherwise,” he said, gesturing toward the sun, “this is Alaska’s version of nighttime.
“Besides,” Dr. Woodward went on, “we’ve got to get down to the Kenai as soon as we can. We’ve got a long day in the canoes ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Canoes?”
“That’s right. Wolf Lake is three miles long, and it’s going to take the full two weeks to set traps all along the shore. I’m anxious to get a good start, so I figure we’ll be out most of the day.”
Laura opened her mouth to protest. But before she had a chance, Dr. Woodward flashed her a smile.
“Welcome to World Watch,” he said pleasantly. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”
* * * *
“Rise and shine! We’re there.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Laura dragged herself out of a deep sleep and tried to remember where she was. Even before she opened her eyes, a complicated mixture of emotions—including anxiety, dread, self-doubt, and more than a little fear—descended upon her.
When she did open her eyes, she let out a shriek.
Two large, brown, soulful eyes were staring directly into hers. Between them was a long, furry snout, with a moist nose at the end. At the moment that nose was covering the window that separated her from it with clouds of moisture. As two rabbit-sized ears flicked at her it let out a bellow.
Before she had a chance to follow up her initial reaction with an appropriate comment like “Get that thing away from me,” a hand she recognized as human grabbed the moose gently around the neck.
“Come on now, Mabel. Get away from that car,” a female voice scolded softly. “You gave the lady a real start.”
I must be dreaming, thought Laura. I’m still asleep. It’s the only possible explanation.
; But as the panic growing inside catapulted her into full consciousness, she realized she wasn’t dreaming at all. She was curled up in the front seat of a Jeep that probably dated back to the Middle Ages, its shredded vinyl covers ineffectually held together by silver bands of duct tape. Her right cheek smarted where it had been dented by the metal pull tab of the zipper on the nylon sleeping bag she’d been clinging to as tenaciously as Christopher Robin hung on to Pooh.
Through the window, she watched Dr. Woodward take fishnets, buckets, and an assortment of metal contraptions that looked like instruments of torture down off the car roof. She blinked, trying to digest the fact that all around her was nature untamed, manifested largely in the form of a veil of mosquitoes that surrounded the Jeep. They’d stopped at the end of a dirt road. Beyond, as far as the half-closed eye could see, was nothing but forest. And of course, there was the moose standing outside the Jeep, peering at Laura as if she were the oddity.
“Dr. Woodward?” Laura croaked.
“Ummm?”
“Why is there a moose outside the car?”
“Actually, Mabel’s just a calf.”
“I think we’re splitting hairs here.” Laura struggled to remain calm. “Why is she—uh, Mabel—standing so close?”
“Relax. We’re at Wolf Lake, where I collect samples. It happens to be in the middle of a moose preserve, about an hour and a half from the nearest town. Chances are you’ll be seeing a lot of Mabel and her buddies over the next couple of weeks. Unless,” he added with a chuckle, “Elsie here manages to teach them a few commands like stay and lie down.”
Laura sat very, very still as she watched Mabel being led away by a crusty-looking dark-haired woman dressed entirely in denim. Elsie obviously used the same image consultant as Dr. Woodward.
“Why don’t you get out and stretch your legs?” Dr. Woodward suggested, poking his head in through the driver’s side.
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
“Three A.M.? It’s still daylight!”
Dr. Woodward chuckled. “I told you the sun only sets a couple of hours a night. Tell you what. Before you grab a few hours of shut-eye, we’ll have a little breakfast up at the cabin.”
“Cabin? Oh, good.” Laura let out a nervous laugh. “Believe it or not, I was actually afraid we’d be staying in tents.”
“It’s up a ways. Follow me.” Dr. Woodward hoisted his knapsack onto his back, picked up his odd collection of fishing paraphernalia and one of her suitcases, and headed toward the woods.
As she trudged after him through the thickly wooded area, dragging her other suitcase along with her tote bag, Laura’s spirits were lifted for the first time since she’d landed on Alaskan soil. She was picturing a homey little hideaway: stone fireplace, tasteful knotty-pine paneling, lots of the plaid Claire was so fond of, big beds made of rough-hewn wood and covered with puffy quilts. All that was required to turn her back into a fully functioning human being, she decided, all she needed to banish the cobwebs from her mind and the charley horses from her aching shoulders and back, were a cup of hot coffee, a hearty breakfast, and that steaming shower she’d been craving since somewhere over Idaho.
The building that appeared at the other end of the rocky path put an end to her momentary spurt of optimism. The cabin looked like the one the Billy Goats Gruff had lived in before urban renewal came along. It was small and boxy, made of oversized Lincoln Logs. Hanging over the front door was a pair of antlers. A makeshift porch had been constructed from splintery wood. On it were two different items that told Laura everything she needed to know: a large plastic jug of water and a gas lantern.
“There’s no electricity, is there?” she asked dully, even though the answer was clear. “No running water, either.”
“We manage quite nicely,” Dr. Woodward insisted cheerfully. “Besides, you’ll be amazed at how quickly you get used to it.”
He was smiling, Laura noted. Smiling. As if being stranded a thousand miles from nowhere in the middle of the night were something to be pleased about.
“Of course,” he went on, “the outhouse is a little tricky, mainly because it’s a good distance away.” He chuckled, responding to some inside joke. “Besides, if the smell doesn’t get you, the mosquitoes will.
“Come on inside. I’ll give you the grand tour. Then I’ll see if I can hustle up some breakfast.”
Laura lugged her suitcase and tote bag up the stairs, onto the porch. As her right shoulder muscle went into spasm she wondered glumly how much extra weight her hair dryer accounted for.
The inside of the cabin, her brand-new home away from home, was consistent with the outside. The same rough-hewn look—walls capable of scraping off human skin—was repeated there. At least the bare wooden floors had been given the once-over with a sander. There was plaid, all right, in the form of a sagging sofa that looked as if it predated the antique Jeep. As far as amenities were concerned, that was about as far as they went.
“You’ll be sleeping up there, with Sandy,” Dr. Woodward told her in a near whisper. After dropping his knapsack onto the couch, he gestured toward a ladder mat led up to a loft.
“Up there? Sandy?” Laura repeated the words as if she’d never heard them before.
“There’s an inflatable mattress up there. A sleeping bag, too, so you’ll really be in the lap of luxury. Just be careful you don’t hit your head when you sit up. And watch out for the boxes of supplies. The loft’s the only place to store them. That is, unless we want the bears to get them.”
“Bears? You’re kidding, right?”
Dr. Woodward cast her a strange smile. “If I were you, I’d worry more about Sandy’s snoring than the bears.”
“Wait a second. Sandy is female, isn’t she?”
“As far as any of us can tell.”
At least something’s going right, thought Laura.
“Now, about that grub.” He opened the cooler that was pushed into the corner, underneath a shelf. On it were half a dozen mismatched mugs, most of them with spidery cracks running up the side. “We’re in luck! Sausage!”
“Oh, good.” She’d just realized she was famished.
“Great. A little reindeer sausage, a cup of instant coffee . . .” Dr. Woodward looked over at her and smiled, a gleam in his dark eyes. “If this isn’t heaven, I don’t know what is.”
Laura forced a smile, though she was wondering who she’d be eating for breakfast: Cupid, Donner, or Blitzen.
* * * *
All her life, Laura had tried to be a good sport. In high school she participated in the school cheer during pep rallies. At beer parties in college, she’d managed to look as if she were having a good time as her date lost his Rolling Rock on the rug beside her. When her wedding ring had become united as one with Lake Ontario, she’d pretended not to care.
Desperately she reminded herself of her masterful past performances as she sat in the middle of a huge lake. There was sunblock on her face and lips, mosquito repellent on every other bit of exposed skin, and hiking boots laced up so tightly over a pair of damp socks that she had no doubt jungle rot was in her future. She’d had so little sleep she was having trouble focusing—both her eyes and her mind. Yet she had no choice but to try her hardest to follow Dr. Woodward’s lead in rhythmically paddling a silver canoe, the only thing between the two of them and a lakeful of creatures she was trying hard not to picture.
“Think we’ll catch much today?” she called, anxious to hear the sound of a human voice.
“I expect so. We’ll set these traps and leave them until tomorrow before checking to see what we’ve got.” He gestured toward the metal contraptions he’d tossed into the rear of the boat.
“Then what?” Perhaps if she had a better understanding of what she was really doing out here, she reasoned, she’d feel better about all this.
“Ship ‘em home, back to my lab at the university. They keep fine in gallon jugs, those plastic ones water comes in. I can fit eighteen in a giant
cooler.
“If things go smoothly,” Dr. Woodward went on, “we should be finished by four this afternoon.”
Four o’clock, she thought ruefully. Back in New York, it’ll be eight. The time for winding down after a long, leisurely Sunday. Eating bagels and cream cheese left over from brunch. Leafing through those second-string sections of the Times...
She missed home terribly. Not only home; all the amenities that civilization had to offer. She’d been in Alaska less than fifteen hours, and already she craved so many of the things that up until now she’d taken for granted. Bath-rubs. Flush toilets. Dry feet.
Still, she had to admit her surroundings were spectacular. The surface of Wolf Lake was as smooth as a sheet of ice. Long strands of willowy grass stuck out in the shallowest parts, near the shore. There were lily pads as well, with yellow flowers on top that reminded her of icing rosettes on birthday cakes. All around the lake the rich greens and golds of bushes and trees encircled the water like the gilt frame on a Victorian mirror.
The sun felt pleasantly warm on her back. She smiled at the sound of a loon’s cry, cutting through the mist rising off the lake. Looking down into the water, Laura could see clumps of underwater plants, undulating gently as the motion of her paddle disturbed what was otherwise complete calm. Down at the bottom she saw something move. Something brown, mottled with tan ...
“I see one!” Laura cried. “I see a sculpin!”
She never meant to stand up. Yet somehow, in her excitement, she’d forgotten the single most important rule of canoeing. Jumping to her feet, she suddenly felt the earth move. If not the earth, at least the slippery metallic bottom surface of her own personal version of the Titanic.
“Aw-ooh-eee!” Laura was vaguely aware that she let out a sound more piercing than a loon ever made as the canoe rolled over. Out spilled the fish traps, the canteen, the plastic bag containing lunch, the notebook, and Dr. Woodward. The next thing she knew she was sitting in a foot of cold water, her knees sticking out as if she were engaged in some childish game. For a few seconds she remained frozen, aware that water was creeping into every available space between fabric and skin but too stunned to do anything about it.
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