Four Live Rounds

“Won’t it help you move on?”

“I don’t know. Rachael’s been gone five years, but you know, I still remember the night she didn’t come home, and the following day, when everyone came to my house to hold vigil, like it just happened. I feel stuck in that moment.”

“I’m well acquainted with that feeling.”

“What do you want, Kalyn? What do you expect to gain from all this?”

“Peace. I think. And to know exactly what happened to my sister. You don’t understand. Before Lucy disappeared, my life was on this perfect trajectory. I’d made special agent. I was doing well, advancing at the Bureau. Doing exactly what I wanted to do. Making the friends and the connections I wanted to make. I loved my place in the world, but I was also thinking ten years down the road, fifteen. Had it all planned out. Stint with the FBI, then prosecutor. Maybe a run for office. But after Lucy . . .”

“You derailed.”

“Yeah.”

“You can still do anything you want. You know that, right?”

“Actually, I can’t. I was fired from the FBI. A Bureau psychologist wrote terrible things in my file that’ll always be there. ‘Emotionally unstable.’ ‘Clinical depression.’ That part of my life, those dreams . . . they’re dead.” She said it with no emotion, no resentment. For the first time, Will noticed the long blanched lines down Kalyn’s wrists.

He touched them, traced a finger along the scars.

“Last year,” she said, her voice just a whisper, “was rough. I was just so tired, you know? I couldn’t breathe. You ever think about doing something like that?” He nodded. “But you had Devlin.”

“Without her, I don’t know that I’d still be here.”

“You ever feel just . . . broken?”

Will looked up from the bedspread into Kalyn’s eyes, realized he’d never really seen her before. “You’re one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met,” he said. “That’s the truth.”

Kalyn scooted toward him.

It was a soft and effortless melding of energies, long pent-up electrical currents with someplace finally to go. They came apart breathless and a little stunned, Will’s heart going like mad, the cool smoothness of Kalyn’s leg against his arm practically unbearable and the taste of her humming in the corners of his mouth.

“I can’t do this,” he said, and he climbed off the bed and left the room.

THIRTY-FIVE

The next morning, Will was shaving in the bathroom when Devlin knocked on the door. She walked in, climbed up on the sink, stared at her father, shaving cream smeared across his chin.

“Morning,” Will said, and went back to shaving. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Too well. I could still use a few more hours.”

Devlin smeared paste on a toothbrush, started brushing her tongue. “What are we doing today?”

“Well, you get to hang out here, do whatever you want.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Kalyn and I are gonna see if we can find someone to fly us into the Wolverine Hills.” Will drew the razor carefully over the curve of his chin.

“And if you find someone to do it?”

“Then we’re gonna go.”

“Without me?”

“Yeah.”

Devlin spit into the sink and slammed her toothbrush down.

Will turned on the tap, rinsed the shaving cream and the severed bristles off the blades.

“Honey, I have no idea what, if anything, we’ll find out there. I’ve already put you in enough danger, and you are way too precious to be dragged—”

“You wouldn’t be dragging me, Dad.”

Will picked up a hand towel, dabbed his face. “It’s just gonna be for a day, Devi.”

She’d gone short of breath, her eyes welling.

“Calm down, baby girl. I want you to—”

“Stop calling me that! I’m not a kid!” Her eyes were burning.

“You’re right. You’re not a kid, but you are sixteen, and I feel rotten enough having brought you along. I’m not making that mistake—”

Devlin wrapped her arms around him, shaking, crying. “Please take me with you. I don’t wanna be left. She’s my mother, you know. I wanna find out what happened just as bad as you.”

“Look at me. No, look at me.” He held his daughter by the arms. “I’m not putting you in danger.”

“You’re all I have, Dad. You know that?”

“Of course I do.”

“So we stay together, no matter what.”

The office for Arctic Skies was tucked into a strip mall along a river that snaked through the middle of Fairbanks. Devlin, Will, and Kalyn walked in at 10:00 A.M.—when the phone book said the business opened—found a man leaning back in a swivel chair, his feet propped up on a desk, smoking a cigar, perusing the Daily News-Miner. The office was small and spare, just a desk, computer, couple of chairs, artificial tree. Framed posters hung on the walls—photos of snowy mountains, grizzly bears catching salmon, the northern lights.

“Buck Young?” Will asked.

The man glanced over the top of his newspaper, blew a puff of smoke out the side of his mouth.

“One and the same.”

He looked trail-worn—red, watery eyes, weathered skin, salt-and-pepper beard. A Yankees baseball cap that might have been twenty years old rested on a mop of shoulder-length graying hair, unwashed for God knew how long.

Will said, “We’re looking for someone to fly us out to the Wolverine Hills.”

“Wolverines? Really?”

“Yeah. You familiar with the area?”

“Sure. Flew a hunter out there couple years back. Here, ya’ll sit down.”

There were just two chairs on their side of the desk. Devlin sat on the arm of Kalyn’s.

“Anybody live out there?” Will asked.

“Oh no. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more remote piece of country in all of Alaska.”

“So it’s public land?”

“If I recall, some of it’s public-owned, but most belongs to the Athabascan Indians. Look, if you’re paying customers, I’ll fly you anywhere you wanna go. But I have to ask, why the Wolverines? Next to the Brooks Range, McKinley, the Wrangells, they ain’t much to look at. And it’s an awful long flight for such dinky mountains.”

“I’m afraid we have our hearts set on it,” Kalyn said.