“What?”
“Hills.”
“What does that mean?”
“—ine Hills.”
“The ing hills?”
“Wolverine Hills.”
“Wolverine Hills?”
He nodded.
“Where’s that?”
The young man coughed up a mouthful of blood, moaned, “Please.”
“What’s his name? The guy who got out of the plane.”
His eyes grew more distant, like someone had pulled down the shades.
“Was this the last exchange, or was that man going to deliver me to someone else? I need to—”
He let out a long exhalation and the muscles in his neck and back relaxed. He drooped forward. Kalyn touched the side of his neck. She came to her feet, surveyed the scene—three bodies in the wilderness and darkness falling.
THIRTY-TWO
Will and Devlin walked into the rich-smelling coffee shop that doubled as an Internet café, waited impatiently for a computer, staring at the bizarre series of photographs that adorned the walls—black-and-white images of mating caribou. A college kid was setting up on the stage against the back wall, adjusting the levels on his amp and tuning an acoustic guitar. It was already dark outside, and Will was on the verge of ordering someone off a computer when one opened up.
He and Devlin shared a chair at one of the Macs. The connection was maddeningly slow, and it took five minutes for SoniyaMobile’s Web site to load. It had been three days since Kalyn had made him memorize her log-in ID and password. He remembered her ID immediately, but her password was alphanumeric, and it took him five tries to get it right.
When the Google map finally loaded, he said “Fuck” loudly enough for the patrons seated at adjacent computers and nearby tables to glance over and shoot him dirty stares.
Devlin said, “Oh no.”
The little icon representing Jonathan’s truck was already in northern British Columbia.
“He’s going home,” Will said. “Already delivered her to the buyer.”
“Is she dead?” Devlin whispered.
“Stop asking me that,” he replied, his words sharper than he intended.
The acoustic guitarist was now crowding a mic stand, strumming his guitar, and introducing what he described as experimental–hip-hop–folk.
“Trace it, Dad.”
“What?”
“You can see where all Jonathan’s truck has been. Here, I’ll do it.” She grabbed the mouse and moved the cursor up to the command menu. As she clicked on VIEW TRACKING HISTORY, Will’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, stared incredulously at the display screen.
“Who is it?” Devlin asked.
“I don’t recognize the number.”
He hit TALK. “Hello?”
“Will?”
“Shit, Kalyn, are you okay?”
“Where are you?”
“Fairbanks, Alaska.”
“Where in Fairbanks?”
“This coffee shop near the university. The Last Drop.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Stay put.”
Will closed the phone and stared at his daughter in disbelief.
“Probably an offshoot of an Anchorage syndicate. Turn up here.”
Will took the next exit onto S. Cushman, saw motel, hotel, and restaurant signs glowing in the distance.
“They were definitely delivering me to someone,” Kalyn said. “While I was dealing with them, a floatplane landed on the lake, came up to the pier. This man got out, saw that something had obviously gone wrong, and hauled ass out of there.”
“You find out where he was going?”
“I questioned one of the men before he died, but the only piece of information I got was a place called the Wolverine Hills. You heard of it?”