Will’s eyes cut from the rearview mirror back to the windshield.
An enormous bull moose stood straddling the dotted white line of the Alaska Highway, thirty yards ahead.
Will slammed down on the brake pedal, lunging forward, something shooting through the space between the front seats, smashing into the dashboard.
“Devlin!”
The Land Rover skidded to a stop, the front bumper five feet from the moose, which just stood there staring dully at will through the windshield. He looked in the backseat, confirmed that Devlin was buckled in, safe but rattled, tears streaming down her face.
“No, honey, don’t cry. It’s okay. We’re all right.”
She shook her head, and Will’s stomach fell. He glanced down. Near the gearshift, in the front passenger seat, on both floorboards, and on his lap lay pieces of the computer, and the portion of the screen still attached to the shattered keyboard was black.
“Oh God,” he said.
“We can still find her, right?”
“Oh God.”
“Dad?”
He drove around the giant moose and floored the accelerator.
It was midday before Will finally spotted Jonathan’s truck, pulling away from the border station into the state of Alaska.
He and Devlin spent fifteen agonizing minutes talking with the American customs official, Will thinking the officer had probably sensed his impatience and decided to ask more questions than he otherwise would have. By the time they were on the road again and passing a sign welcoming them to the “Last Frontier State,” Will figured Jonathan had at least a twenty-mile head start.
He pushed the Land Rover to eighty-five, speeding along the Alaska Highway, passing RVs at the rate of one every couple of miles. In the nowhere town of Tok, Alaska, ninety-three miles west of the border, Will came to what he’d dreaded more than anything—a fork in the road. Stay straight on Alaska 1, head west to Fairbanks. Or make a left onto Alaska 2 and head south toward Anchorage.
“Which way, Dad?”
Will pulled onto the shoulder, shifted the car into park.
“Fairbanks is two hundred miles that way,” he said. “Kind of in the middle of the state. I don’t know much about it. Anchorage is in the south, on the coast.”
“How close do you think we are to the truck?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad—”
“Just give me a minute here, Dev!”
After thirty seconds of the most excruciating deliberation he’d ever put himself through, he finally shifted into drive and stomped the gas.
“Anchorage?” Devlin asked as the Land Rover accelerated to ninety miles per hour.
“It’s a shipping city. Lots of ports. I have a feeling they’re putting Kalyn on a boat.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, baby girl. Nowhere close to sure.”
TWENTY-NINE
When Kalyn woke, the truck was still and silent. She hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but the boredom and emotional heft of recent days had overtaken her again. She had no idea how long she’d been inside the trailer, though it felt like weeks. She sat up from the thick yellow foam, stared at the shiny metal ceiling, the two remaining jugs of water, the dwindling box of food. The metal pail in the farthest corner reeked of her piss and shit.
Strangely enough, she felt closer to her sister than she had in years, just knowing Lucy had spent time cramped in this little space.
Lucy was four years younger, and Kalyn had often lied to herself, insisted her sister was a brave, fearless person, that whatever had happened to her, she’d handled it with grace and courage. But locked in the trailer of this eighteen-wheeler, Kalyn knew that wasn’t the case. Lucy had awakened here confused, disoriented, and more terrified than she’d ever been in her life.
Kalyn heard something beyond the walls—impossible to tell what through the soundproofing.
A piece of yellow foam turned back, the door to her cage opening. She stood up, her feet bare, the rest of the trailer dark and the flickering lightbulb above her head doing nothing to illuminate whoever was out there.
A pair of handcuffs flew through the door and dropped on the yellow foam.
“Put ’em on.”
Flat voice, white male, no accent.
She picked up the handcuffs and closed them around her wrists.
“Come on out.”
Cold air swept through the trailer.
“Where am—”
Someone reached in, dragged her out, and then she was being lifted, hands gripping her arms above the elbows. She smelled day-old cologne and remnants of cigarette smoke.
They came to the end of the trailer and she was lowered into the arms of a tall man with blond hair, eyes the color of sea ice, but with less warmth.
THIRTY
In the late afternoon, Will pulled the Land Rover onto the shoulder at the junction of Alaska 1 and Alaska 4, yet another split in the highway.
Devlin read the mileage sign: “Anchorage, one eighty-seven. Valdez, one seventeen.”
Will let out a deep sigh, his head resting on the steering wheel. “We’ve lost her,” he said.
“Maybe the truck’s up ahead.”
He couldn’t bear the hope in his daughter’s voice. “I’ve been doing ninety for the last hour and a half. If he’d come this way, we would’ve caught up to him by now.”
“Where else could the truck have gone?”
“Where? Maybe he stopped in Tok and we didn’t see him. Probably he went on to Fairbanks.” He lifted what was left of the computer out of the front passenger seat and stared at the destroyed screen.
“Is Kalyn going to die?”
“I don’t know, Devi.”
“But probably she is?” Will punched the gas, spun the car around. “What are you doing, Dad?”
“Only thing left to do.”
THIRTY-ONE
They were passing through a city big enough to boast a pathetic skyline—meager collection of ten- and twelve-story buildings—the tall blond driving, a man on either side of Kalyn in the backseat of the new Suburban. The man to her right was young, twenty at most, and he kept eyeing her, fidgeting with his hands, his hair long and black, drawn back into a greasy ponytail.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
The driver turned up the radio—NPR, “Talk of the Nation.”
