Chapter Seventeen
Last year, after the guard insinuated something was up in the mining camp, we’d asked émilie to dig deeper, and we’d gone on spy-lite missions of our own. We confirmed that operations were underway, with several small teams working the sites.
The Yukon was the site of one of history’s biggest gold rushes.
People braved unimaginable conditions in the hope of making their fortune, lured up here by everyone who had a stake in selling them that dream.
A hundred thousand would-be miners came north to get their share of the gold that they’d been told was just lying around, waiting to be scooped up.
All they had to do was get from Alaska to Dawson City … on foot, often in the dead of winter.
The RCMP demanded that everyone crossing the border carry six months’ worth of supplies.
They thought that would discourage the miners.
It did not. About a third made it to Dawson City.
Some went home with the adventure of a lifetime stuffed in their back pocket, to bring out and polish when life grew dull.
Most, though, left brokenhearted and disillusioned.
Did anyone get rich? Sure—those who made their fortunes from the miners themselves.
It’s a story as old as time. People seduced by the promise that they, too, can be fabulously wealthy, if only they have the nerve and the willpower.
Join armies and pillage your neighbors. Venture into the wilds in search of gold.
Spend every penny you have on virtual investments that are sure—sure—to pay off.
Someone always gets rich. It’s never the Joe Average who did the work—fought the war, mined the gold, invested their meager capital and sold the dream to others.
How much of our local gold-mining operation is about the actual value of the gold and how much is about the value of a dream? Dalton and I discuss that over dinner, after I tell him what Petra said.
Earlier, I’d asked her to run an online search for what else is mined up here.
Copper, lead, zinc, and silver are the most common for actual mining industries.
Gold is the sexy one, but it’s mostly for amateurs and semipros, like the prospector who sold them the claim.
There’s also uranium. But those, as far as we know, require actual mining, not some guys with handheld equipment.
Is there something buried here that we don’t know about? Something revealed in the samples that the original prospector had provided? Something valuable that can be accessed without major machinery?
Or is someone selling a dream?
The original miner—Mark—had arrived after we started construction, and he’d struck gold, which meant he wasn’t going anywhere.
That had been hellishly inconvenient, especially when his wife turned up dead.
In the end, Mark himself died in a fall, which had seemed to be the end of it …
until the current mining company showed up, having apparently bought the claim before his death—or bought the information about the claim, since he never formally registered it.
“Imagine it,” I say, after we put Rory to bed upstairs. “We know Mark found a rich vein. It was valuable. What if you take that data and show it to people with more money than sense? Tech bros looking for the cool new thing to make money on.”
“Do I want to know what a tech bro is?”
“Probably not.”
He tilts his head. “Are they all bros? Any tech sisses?”
“Oh, I’m sure there are a few, but it’s ninety-five percent bros. Just think guys with a ridiculous amount of money looking for cool investments. Like Klondike gold.”
Dalton sips his beer. “The theory, then, would be that the money isn’t in the gold. It’s in the bros.”
“Fleecing the bros, who would love all the trappings—the paramilitary stuff and top-notch security.”
He considers. “Or it could be more old-school Klondike. The marks aren’t guys with money but guys without it.”
When I frown, he continues, “We’re presuming the miners are employees. What if they’re investors, in a sense? Shareholders or whatever you’d call it.”
“Ah. So the company offers guys the chance to work a claim and share in the profits. Except, as with the gold rush, profits are minimal and it’s pay-to-play.
They pay to come up here, likely an inflated travel and residency cost. Then, sadly, the profits aren’t what they hoped for, but they get an adventure and a story about mining for gold in the wilderness. That could work.”
“Any idea how we’d narrow down the possibilities?”
“Start by getting a closer look. Try to figure out whether it’s gold they’re really mining, and if so, does it warrant all the security precautions?”
“Then I guess we know what we’re doing tomorrow.”
We seem to be in a new routine. Get up, spend time with Rory, take her on a quick round of town, drop her off with a sitter, and then head into the forest.
I hate being separated from Rory for so long, day after day. I also hate asking someone else to do what I consider my duty, as if I’m shirking. I returned to work not long after Rory was born, so I thought I had a sense of what it was like for working mothers. I really didn’t.
Dalton and I have been splitting shifts so one of us is home with Rory most of the time. For the overlap hours when we both work, she can often come along with us. A few times a week we might need to leave her with someone.
That is nothing like what most working moms do.
I knew that, but I still had the sense that I was getting a taste of it.
Now I feel the full weight of the guilt, and I recognize that ninety percent of that guilt is societal.
No one here makes me feel bad. But even if I’d never truly planned to be a mother, those attitudes are ingrained in me from every time I heard a mother shamed, even obliquely, for working. Or, worse, for enjoying working.
Dalton doesn’t have that problem. Oh, he isn’t happy about being away from Rory.
He’s accustomed to more dad time, and he likes his dad time.
He also likes the non-dad time, when he’s with me or working, with Anders and others.
There’s no guilt over embracing time away from our daughter, just as there’d be no guilt over embracing time on his own.
My daughter is not going to suffer irreparable harm by being with April or Yolanda or Kenny or Dana. If anything, it’s good for her. I’m really glad this is temporary, but I need to set aside any shame over being eyeball-deep in an investigation.
I try to relax and enjoy the walk with Dalton.
It’s a few miles to where we know the miners are working.
That’s a solid hour’s walk on a gorgeous fall day, with my guy and my dog and my thermos of coffee.
Real coffee, too. While I gave up caffeine during my pregnancy, I do allow myself the treat of a cup when I won’t be breastfeeding.
This caffeinated milk will end up watering the local flora.
Normally, we’d be talking, but with the possibility of a killer on the loose, we’ve decided to keep quiet, and that’s not a hardship for either of us.
No one has ever accused me of being chatty.
As for Dalton, he’s so confident and direct in his speech that no one mistakes him for an introvert, but he really is.
When we’re enjoying an evening at the Roc, I can almost predict the moment when he’ll declare it’s time for him to turn in.
That has nothing to do with needing sleep, and everything to do with him having reached his limit for socializing.
Having some time where we can be quiet only adds to the pleasure of that morning’s walk.
We start on a trail wide enough for us to hold hands and walk side by side, with Storm nosing around in the lead.
We’ve been out for maybe fifteen minutes when her head jerks up and her muzzle swings to the right.
We both stop. A sound comes from up ahead, off to the right, where a trail branches north. Footsteps? They’ve stopped now, but Storm keeps looking in that direction. I hold my breath to listen. Silence.
Dalton’s grunt vibrates with frustration. I glance over. He only scowls to the right.
Someone is there, on the trail, but they’ve heard us, too, and now we’re locked in a standoff.
I motion for Dalton to bend and whisper in his ear. “You go.”
Now I’m the one getting his scowl, but I wait it out. Give him a moment to acknowledge that one of us needs to sneak up on whoever is there, and a second moment to realize that he’s the one best suited to do that silently.
Another grunt, and he motions to my gun. I sigh but take it out. I was right that he should go, and he’s right that I should be armed while I wait.
He unholsters his own gun and heads out.
Storm looks at me, and her expression is almost quizzical.
Asking whether we should follow Dalton. I shake my head and lay my hand on her head.
She chuffs in what I swear is a canine “Whatever.” Clearly she doesn’t like this plan. She even sits down in protest.
I turn to look for Dalton, but while I dealt with Storm, he disappeared into the trees. The wind picks up, whispering through the boughs and bringing the faint smell of campfire smoke from the west.
Gretchen? The mining camp?
Storm stands abruptly, her muzzle swinging north again. Then I catch the soft crunch of a footfall on earth.
Whoever’s there has started walking again. I strain to listen. Are the footfalls getting closer?
Storm whines. I frown down at her and lay my hand on her head, but she ducks it.
She’s annoyed. Anxious?
That sound could come from a person, a bear, a moose … Something with a relatively heavy footfall, as compared to a fox or rabbit.
I lift my gun, finger off the trigger. Whatever it is, it’s approaching the intersection and—
A muzzle appears. A gray canine muzzle.
A wolf.
“Oh, thank God,” a voice says, in the same second that my brain processes what I’m seeing and recognizes it as Nero and not a wild wolf.
Lilith rounds the corner with a heavy backpack over her shoulders. I lower the gun.
“I heard someone,” she says. “Nero didn’t seem concerned, so I was really hoping it was someone we knew.”
I holster my gun and whistle for Dalton. “That’s why Storm seemed annoyed that we’d stopped.” I pat her head. “Sorry, girl.” I look at that heavy pack. “Are you going somewhere?”
She draws closer, coming out of the shadows, and I see her face is drawn, eyes bleary.
“Lilith? What—?”
Dalton steps out behind her, and she whirls, sees it’s him, and exhales.
“Lilith?” I say.
“I’m taking you up on your offer of hospitality,” she says, trying for a light tone as she adjusts the pack. “Hope you’ve still got room for a guest.”
“Absolutely. But what happened?”
“I had a nighttime visitor.”
“What?”
She fusses with the straps again. “Someone spent half the night outside my cabin, which means I spent half the night sitting inside with a damn rifle.”
“Oh shit. Come on then, and tell us what happened.”