Chapter 2
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Archipelago West of Chichagof Island, AK
Joe Baxter had made this trip countless times.
As he rowed beyond the incessant clamor of the stamp mills at the gold mine, a quiet calm settled on the water. The waning gibbous moon sagged low in the sky, threatening to disappear behind the islands to his southwest and take his light with it.
Oar handles pressed against his palms as he pulled with increased vigor, lengthening his stroke, loosening his grip so they rotated smoothly in his gloves. The oarlocks rattled and creaked in harmony with each tug, a percussive symphony amplified by the hull of the small wooden rowboat.
The last sliver of moon dropped behind the mountains. Joe leaned harder into the oars. He cursed himself for spending too long at the mine with Sam. These waters were treacherous even in broad daylight. Rowing home in the darkness was a fool’s errand.
Alaska dark wasn’t the artificial drunken dark of the city where you could stagger home from the pub guided by the warm glow of gaslights. This was the real dark—the stone-cold sober dark—the dark where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
This was the dark where a man with a boot full of gold in a wooden rowboat could wash out to sea and never be heard from again.
Blast of air to his left. Then another. Whale spouts.
Joe’s senses sharpened as he searched for the source—humpbacks or killer whales. One whiff of the moist cloud of putrid fish told him they were close. Very close.
Just off his bow, the unmistakable silhouette of giant dorsal fins in the fading moonlight slipping through the water.
Killer whales—three at least. A fluke slapped the surface as the animals disappeared into the inky depths.
Joe didn’t fancy a tangle with them. The monsters could shred a full-grown sea lion in seconds, ripping the skin from its body and feasting on the flesh.
He found his rhythm, each stroke stirring a trail of sparkling bioluminescence off the tip of the blade, like bright green blood in the water. The air smelled of kelp and barnacles and dead things—low tide.
Killer whales were still nearby.
Radioville was close. Home. Joe could taste the whiskey waiting for him, feel the warmth of the woodstove in his cozy—
—the rowboat jerked hard to the side, one oar ripped from his grip. He made a desperate reach to recover it.
Salt water stung his eyes and filled his mouth. He spat, blinked, and reached to reclaim the handle. The oar retaliated, jabbing back at him, hitting him in the chest. He recoiled from the impact—loud crack—boards breaking.
The bow lurched upward.
Something pushed from underneath, trying to flip the boat. The stern dug into the water and the seat slipped out from under him. Stars streaked by.
Joe’s gloved hands slid along the gunwale, desperate for grip. He jammed his foot into the space beneath the seat. Losing ground, he slid backward, oars flailing wildly, clattering against the wood hull.
The boat rolled to the side and capsized.
The ocean was shocking, bitter cold stealing his breath. Pressure mounted on his chest as he sank, squeezing away all hope. Breath bubbled from his lips, accelerating his descent into silence.
The bag of gold, heavy in his boot, dragged him down to eternity.
He didn’t even know his son’s name.
Raising his arms, Joe pulled against the water, fighting the fog of unconsciousness. He broke through the surface, gasping at the night air. Cold brine surged into his windpipe, and he choked, seawater burning his nostrils. He caught a full breath, the fresh air stinging his bile-burned throat.
The weight of his soaked clothing made every movement more difficult.
Regaining his bearings in the briny blackness, he saw the silhouette of his overturned vessel to the left. Killer whales could be anywhere.
He kicked toward the wreck, his hamstrings burning against the weight of heavy boots.
Whale spout. Fin slap. Nearby.
Cripes.
He swam harder.
You ain’t catchin me that easy, you varmints!
Approaching his rowboat, Joe pictured his body torn in half by ravenous jaws. Gripping the keel, his arms scraped along the boat’s barnacle-crusted hull. He found a foothold on the gunwale beneath the water. Leaning back with all his weight, he tried to right the boat.
It wouldn’t budge.
The shore of Radioville Island slid past, the tidal rip moving him too rapidly. Releasing the boat, Joe swam again, angling sharply against the current. He couldn’t miss the island altogether. Beyond was nothing but endless sea.
He kicked into something solid. A sharp pain racked his knee.
The jolt traveled down his leg. He reached down with his hands—rock.
He clawed at the bottom, dug his fingers into a crevasse, and pulled, bringing a leg up onto the shelf.
His foot found purchase and pushed his body up, onto his knees, out of the water, onto the rocky shore, as the night blurred and drifted away.