Chapter 2 #2
"The official report called it an accident." I keep my eyes on the road. "What makes you think otherwise?"
"The timeline. The fact that he died four months before Stormwatch went sideways.
" Her words come measured, careful. "Tom was methodical.
Careful. The kind of agent who triple-checked his routes and maintained his vehicle.
But somehow his brakes failed on a mountain road he'd driven dozens of times? "
I've thought the same thing myself. Tom struck me as competent, the kind of operator who didn't make careless mistakes. "Convenient timing."
"Very." The steel returns to her voice. "Tom was murdered because he figured out how they're moving product through Alaska. And I'm here to finish what he started."
I process that while navigating around a fallen branch partially blocking the road. Cara's actively hunting the people who destroyed her career and killed a fellow agent.
"What makes you think Glacier Hollow is involved?" I ask.
"Tom's official reports mentioned this area. Supply routes. Military logistics. Federal protection at the local level." She watches me carefully. "He suspected someone was using remote communities as transit points."
"Using us." Anger sparks in my chest. "Using people who trust each other, who depend on those supply lines, as cover for trafficking."
"Yes."
Single word again, but it carries weight. Confirmation that someone has weaponized the same community bonds that keep people alive up here. That whoever's behind this understands how isolation and interdependence create blind spots in law enforcement coverage.
"So what's your plan?" I keep my expression neutral. "Assuming I don't turn you in right now."
"Find evidence that connects specific individuals to the trafficking network." Clinical precision returns to her delivery. "Build a case that's so airtight they can't ignore it or bury it. Expose whoever framed me in the process."
"And if the evidence points to someone in Glacier Hollow? Someone Sadie trusts? Someone I know?"
"Then I prove it anyway." No hesitation, no apology. "I didn't come this far to protect guilty people."
Fair enough. Cold, but fair. I can respect that even if I don't like the implications.
We drive another twenty minutes before Raymond and Judith's homestead appears around the next bend.
Smoke rises from the chimney of a well-maintained cabin surrounded by outbuildings showing forty years of careful upkeep.
Firewood stands stacked under tarps. A garden plot lies dormant under mulch, waiting for spring.
I pull up near the porch, and Raymond emerges before I've killed the engine. He's in his seventies, moving stiffly but purposefully, wearing layers against the cold that probably aggravates his arthritis. His face breaks into a genuine smile when he sees the truck.
"Finn! Right on schedule." His words carry the roughness of decades spent in cold air. "Judith said you'd make it before the weather turned."
"Brought everything on your list." I climb out, feel my left arm protest slightly in the cold. Nerve damage hates temperature extremes. "Plus some extras Sadie thought you might need."
Cara exits the passenger side, and Raymond's attention focuses on her with natural curiosity. "Got yourself some company today?"
"This is Cara. She's researching an article about supply logistics in remote Alaska." I introduce her smoothly, keeping the cover story intact. "Wanted to see what these runs actually involve."
"Well, you picked a good one." Raymond extends his hand, and Cara shakes it with exactly the right amount of pressure. Firm but not aggressive. Respectful. "Come on inside. Judith's got coffee going."
I pull out my phone and send Sadie a quick text: Made it to the Kowalskis.
All good. Then I pocket the phone and help Raymond start unloading supplies onto the porch before we follow him into the warmth that smells like baking bread and home cooking.
Judith stands at the stove, smaller than her husband, white hair pulled back in a neat bun.
She turns when we enter, and confusion flickers across her face before clearing.
"Raymond, we have guests." Her words carry slight uncertainty, like she's not quite sure who we are but knows she should be welcoming.
"It's Finn, dear," Raymond says gently. "Making his delivery. And he brought a new friend."
Recognition lights in Judith's eyes. "Finn! Of course. Did you bring my medicine?"
"Right here." I set the pharmacy bag on the counter. "Everything Doc Sage prescribed, plus refills for next month."
"You're such a good boy." Judith pats my arm with genuine affection. "Always taking care of us old folks."
Raymond catches my eye with thanks he doesn't voice. The dementia has gotten worse since my last visit. Little moments of confusion that probably terrify both of them even as they try to manage it with grace.
Cara steps forward naturally, no awkwardness or pity in her expression. "Mrs. Kowalski, I’m Cara. That coffee smells wonderful. Could I help you pour some for everyone?"
"Oh, that would be lovely." Judith beams at her. "Cups are in that cabinet. Cream and sugar on the table."
I watch Cara move into the kitchen space like she belongs there.
She pours coffee with steady hands, asks Judith about her recipe for the bread cooling on the counter, listens to the answer with genuine interest even though Judith loses the thread twice and has to start over.
There's no impatience in Cara's manner, no forced tolerance.
Just authentic kindness toward an elderly woman who's losing herself in increments.
Raymond and I carry the rest of the supplies inside, organizing them the way Judith prefers even though she might not remember where we put things an hour from now.
He tells me about problems with the generator, lists the parts he'll need, and I make a note to bring them next trip.
We talk about weather predictions, community news, nothing important but everything essential to maintaining human connection in a place where isolation could kill you.
An hour passes before we load back into the truck. Judith hugs us both goodbye, calls me "such a good boy" again. Raymond walks us to the vehicle, and his expression turns serious once Judith's inside.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing Cara. Judith does better when there are other women around. Helps her remember who she is."
I nod, throat tight in a way I wasn't expecting. "Cara's good with people."
"You're good with people too, Finn." Raymond grips my shoulder briefly. "Even if you pretend you're not."
Cara and I settle back into the truck cab, and she stares out the window at the landscape that's probably overwhelming in its vastness if you're not used to it. Mountains stretch endlessly, the forest covers everything between the peaks, and the sky feels close enough to touch.
"They're lovely people," she says eventually.
"They are."
"How long do you think they can stay out here?"
"As long as Raymond can manage the homestead and Judith's dementia doesn't progress too far." I navigate around a pothole that's been there for years. "Eventually they'll need more help than monthly deliveries can provide."
"What happens then?"
"Their daughter will have to make some hard choices." The reality isn't kind. "Moving them to Anchorage means taking them from the life they built. Keeping them here means watching Judith fade faster in isolation."
"There's no good answer."
"No," I agree. "Just different kinds of loss."
Cara processes that, maybe thinking about losses of her own.
Three years on the run means three years of giving up everything familiar.
Career, friends, any sense of stability or safety.
She's chosen a kind of isolation that rivals what Raymond and Judith face, except hers is self-imposed and tactical rather than geographic and inevitable.
I'm watching the road ahead when I spot them: fresh tire tracks cutting across an old logging road that branches off the main route.
The road's been abandoned for at least five years, closed when the lumber company pulled out.
Nothing up there except deteriorating equipment and forest reclaiming cleared land.
Nothing that should generate traffic, especially not recently.
I file the observation away with all the others I've been collecting for months now. Patterns building in the back of my mind, connections forming between seemingly unrelated details.
Someone's using these mountains for something they don't want noticed. Someone with enough resources to maintain access to abandoned infrastructure. Someone comfortable operating in territory most people would rather avoid.
The question is whether Cara's investigation and mine are about to intersect in ways neither of us can control.
We reach Glacier Hollow as afternoon fades toward evening.
Main Street looks exactly as it did when we left: weathered storefronts, pickup trucks, amber streetlights starting to glow against approaching dusk.
Normal, peaceful, completely unaware that a fugitive FBI agent just spent six hours in my truck asking questions that might expose ugly truths.
I pull up outside The Hollow Hearth where Cara's rental SUV still sits parked. Kill the engine and face her directly for the first time since we left the Kowalskis' homestead.
"So," I say. "What happens now?"
"I keep investigating." Determination runs through every word. "Look for connections. Build evidence. Figure out who's moving product through these communities and who's protecting them."
"And if you find proof?"
"Then I bring them down." Simple statement, no bravado. Just certainty that she'll finish what she started three years ago. "However long it takes. Whatever it costs."
"That's a lonely way to operate."
"It's the only way I have left." She reaches for the door handle, and for a moment her carefully maintained composure cracks.
Exhaustion shows through the professional mask.
Fear, determination, grief for the life she lost, all of it visible in unguarded eyes.
"Thank you for not turning me in. And for giving me a chance to explain. "
"I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet," I remind her.
"I know." She opens the door, cold air rushing into the warm cab. "But you gave me today. That's more than I expected."
Cara climbs out, shoulders her bag, walks to her rental SUV without looking back. I watch her drive away, disappearing toward the Northern Lights Lodge where she's probably running through security protocols and contingency plans in case I change my mind about calling the authorities.
I sit in my truck as darkness settles over Glacier Hollow. Tire tracks on abandoned roads. An elderly woman losing her memory while someone uses her community as cover. Cara's eyes when her mask slipped, showing exactly how much ground she's lost chasing ghosts through three years of winter.
My phone sits in the cupholder. One call ends this. One call sends her back to face charges that might be legitimate or might be as manufactured as the evidence that destroyed her career.
I pick up the phone. Set it back down.
Tomorrow I'll make my decision. Tonight I just need to understand what I saw in those tire tracks and why they make my instincts scream the same way Cara's investigation does.