“You’d better hope that’s not true, because if I don’t get an answer by the end of today I’m getting out of this damn place and leaving you here.”
Oh hell. He meant it. He wouldn’t mind ditching her here to freeze to death. She couldn’t count on her grandparents coming through for her. They never had before.
She had to get out.
As soon as he was gone—and she heard the faint sound of the engine that she now was sure belonged to a boat—she worked on freeing her hands again. It took longer this time. Her hands were cold from that trip to the outhouse, and he’d tied her even tighter.
When the ties finally fell away from her hands, she sat up and scrabbled inside her bra.
Please, little lighter of mine. Please still work. The first click did nothing, and her heart plummeted. The next one created a tiny spark. Biting her lip, chanting a prayer, she tried again. A small flame flared to life. Thank God.
Following the rough plan that she’d formed in the outhouse, she dashed outside and hurried back to the little structure. Dusk was falling fast, and pretty soon it would be too dark to see anything. Her only chance was now.
She crumpled all the toilet paper into loose balls and piled it in the driest looking corner of the outhouse. The toilet seat went in next—after she cracked it into splinters under her knee.
Then, after praying the old Bic had one more spark in it, she lit it all on fire.
After waiting for the flames to catch, she backed out of the outhouse and ran back to the cabin. Her hope was that someone would spot this beacon and come investigate. All she had to do was wait inside for a fire engine, or just a random passerby who spotted the smoke.
Every few seconds, she peered out of the cabin and checked on the smoke billowing from the top of the outhouse. She could feel waves of heat from the fire, but there was enough distance so that the cabin wasn’t in any jeopardy. Neither were the surrounding trees, whose branches were laden with snow. The last thing she wanted to do was touch off a forest fire, after all.
The outhouse burned like a torch in the still air. Smoke spiraled upwards, taking with it all her hopes for a rescue. Come on, come on, she muttered out loud.
The roof of the outhouse caved in and the little structure collapsed in on itself. The smoke grew blacker and thicker—more visible? Or less visible, because it was almost night now? Come on, come on.
It drove Tristan crazy to be patrolling the roads instead of the sea. His natural habitat was the ocean; that was where he felt the most confident. But someone had to be available onshore to investigate possible sightings.
Lucas had offered up his truck, which had a short-band radio that could be tuned to the fleet’s storm channel. If someone spotted something on the shoreline, but couldn’t tie up to check it out—which was very likely, given the bluffs and low tides and lack of easy landing—he could try to access it from the other direction.
Lucas also insisted on coming with him, and Tristan didn’t argue. The buddy system was important. Since he knew his truck best, he drove while Tristan sat in the passenger seat with his cell phone and a detailed map spread out on his lap.
In the back of the truck, they’d loaded up snowshoes, skis, a rifle, a spotting scope, lights, a backpack full of protein bars, water, and first-aid supplies. Bethany Morrison and Nate Prudhoe—a doctor and a paramedic—had helped them pack everything they might need. They were waiting back in Lost Harbor, ready to spring into action if they were needed.
This was Lost Harbor at its best, Tristan thought. Not squabbling over cruise ships and tattoo parlors and roosters running for mayor. Actually pulling together to help someone.
A few false sightings wasted most of their daylight. The darker it got, the more Tristan’s tension grew. He and Lucas didn’t talk much, choosing to keep alert to their surroundings.
So it took Tristan by surprise when Lucas said, “Been wanting to tell you, I heard a rumor through the harbormaster grapevine.”
“What rumor?”
“The president of APFA is stepping down. You should put in for it. You’d get a lot of support.” APFA was the Aurora Bay Fishermen’s Association, one of the most powerful industry groups in this part of Alaska. The president did things like attend state legislature meetings in Juneau, and lobby the federal government. Tristan had seen many clips of the president of APFA talking to the news media. The current president was a woman from Sitka who’d won high marks from just about everyone.
“Hard shoes to fill,” said Tristan.
“You’re used to that.”
“Huh?”
“Any son of Victor Gammelgaard has hard shoes to fill. And any son of Victor has the means to do it.”
Tristan’s heart warmed at the respect Lucas obviously had for his father.
“Scratch that. You have the means to do it.”
Tristan had to admit he was honored that Lucas thought that highly of him. And the job did appeal to him. He was just starting to say, “I’ll think about it,” when Ralphie Reed’s voice came over the radio.
“Spotted a fire near Spruce Bay. About a quarter mile south of it. Want me to check it out?”
Tristan aimed his head lamp at the map on his lap. “Looks like there’s an old pier in that area from coal-mining days.”
His adrenaline surged. Maybe this was it. Two things worked in its favor—a place for a boat to tie up, and an unusual fire. “We’ll go, Ralphie. You stay close.”
“Ten-four.”
Lucas located a turnoff that hadn’t been plowed in days. Good thing the truck had plenty of clearance. After rattling toward the shore a ways, they too spotted the smoke. A thin trail of it drifted toward the sky—the tail end of a fire soon to expire. It was nearly invisible against the darkening sky.
“Probably nothing,” Lucas murmured. “Burn barrel.”
Tristan said nothing. His nerves felt stretched to the limit. Night was here, and if they didn’t find something soon, they’d have to wait until tomorrow. What if Lulu was out in the wilderness somewhere? What if he was wrong and the kidnapper had taken her into Lost Souls? Or driven her up the coast to the damn airport?
But he didn’t believe so, simply because the further away he took her, the more chance she’d have to make a fuss and escape. And Mr. Bad Guy knew, more than anyone, how resourceful Lulu was. He wouldn’t take a chance like that.
They made their way down a bumpy two-track drive that hadn’t seen a plow in weeks. When they reached a turnoff where a massive spruce tree had fallen across the other fork, they continued on, forging through the half foot of snow. The shadowy forest closed in around them. It seemed to take forever.
What if it was just another false lead? They’d be stuck here at the end of a two-track road in the middle of the forest with no idea where Lulu might be. What if he’d made one wrong decision after another? What if harm came to Lulu because of him?
Got to trust yourself.
He drew in a long breath, shoved his doubts aside, and focused on helping Lucas navigate the icy road.
Thirty-Five
Shit. No one was coming. Despair made Lulu slump against the wall. Maybe there was no one around to see the smoke. Maybe seeing smoke in the winter wasn’t unusual. People had burn barrels, after all. Smokehouses. Why would anyone go out of their way to investigate a fire this small? A fire that had burned hot and bright, but was already going out.