Winter, 1974 - Prudhoe Bay, Northwest Alaska
They gutted an iceberg with two sticks of dynamite, forty
years ago when the shabby construction camps rose on the iconic Dalton Highway.
Oil was struck in Prudhoe Bay in 1968, setting off an irreversible string of
events: an ecological nightmare, an eight-billion-dollar pipeline transporting
crude oil 800 miles south from the North Slope to Valdez, and passage for
seventy thousand oil workers to the most menacing outpost on earth: Deadhorse.
A stolen scrap of bread. Chronic insomnia. Drug abuse. One
worker snapped, nicking dynamite from the munitions depot, flailing his arms,
all the while forgetting how fast the detonating cord burns to the quick. The
shock wave bulleted shards of ice in every direction, thrusting the assailant
twelve feet in the air in a whirl of fire and black smoke. He became the first
prize, the Number One. His victim, the second man, escaped.
It took two days for the particles to clear the air, finally
revealing an exquisite, dome-like crevasse in the ice the depth of five
residential garages — one after the other in a long, hollow train. Except this
garage had no yard outside because nothing grew in this place but resentment.
No gas grill on a redwood deck, no family huddled in the adjacent house. Only
the unrelenting cold and ice: on the floor, walls, ceiling. He loved it that
way, the Caretaker, the exclusivity of his access and the singularity of his
dark secret.
That spring, the suited men came in droves sporting fine
clothing and city shoes to explain the gravity of their problem, which later
evolved into their pitch. Well, their problem had just solved itself, hadn’t
it? No one knew about this place and nobody but him would ever find it. Some
secrets were just not for sale.
Chapter 1
Present Day December 18 - Inglewood Ranch, Cody, WY
I could feel it in my bones, this unspeakable energy of
change. Not a buzz, it was more like a low hum I could almost hear when I
closed my eyes and got real still. I’d woken with it today, of all days, this
visceral knowing that despite the regularity of my errand, it would have a
disruptive impact on my life, such as it was. My work in Jackson, a five hour
drive from our family ranch in Cody, was an odd arrangement to begin with, and
the two-bedroom condo I rented near the Teton County Sheriff’s Office was
uninhabitable without AJ. Even still, there was something else in the air
today. Cholo, our ranch hand and my lifelong friend, sensed something too,
though it wasn’t his way to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he put cinnamon
in the coffee, his quiet way of offering comfort. I could smell it the whole
way in from the barn.
I’d gone out before first light, watching the fluff of gray
dawn cover my beloved Inglewood, hoping to shake the image of a recurring dream
and to brush AJ’s quarter horse, Rain. At first, it was to console him, knowing
horses had unique and profound ways of grieving. Lately, though, the cold vigil
seemed more about me. Rogue, the word had been coming to me since AJ’s death —
a blurry dream-hand opening to a tiny piece of paper on which a single word was
written. Was it him reaching out from his watery grave? What did it mean?
Cholo passed me a cup when I reached the kitchen, shutting
out the ten-degree wind chill behind me. I unzipped my coat and sipped quietly
just inside the door, letting the hot coffee slide down my throat, waiting for
whatever his face was preparing.
“Been three weeks now.”
I nodded, three weeks since Sheriff Peter Barrett
disappeared — my boss, mentor, now another silent ache in my heart.
“I heard about the fire,” he added. “How many is that now?”
“Does it matter?” I asked him. “Seven.”
“You think they’re connected. Don’t you?”
I shrugged, pretending. But any sane person would. “I’m not
an arson investigator. Bryce at the State Fire Marshal’s Office is looking into
it.”
“Really?”
I laughed. “Come on.
Bryce has a good team working for him. I know two of those guys.”
“They haven’t been out here since Thanksgiving.” Cholo
stared back, thick brows angled over large, black eyes.
“I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not the
sheriff.” The words caught in my throat.
“You never know about people,” he said with that quiet
wisdom I’d never seen in anyone else, like he understood the longings in my
heart for answers that hadn’t yet come. Peter Barrett, Jackson’s most beloved
sheriff, vanished three weeks ago today.
Cholo was right about
Bryce, too. Interagency politics aside, I’d need to call and follow up on the
arson investigation they said they were running. Add it to the growing list.
He took a long sip, still watching me.
“Well, spit it out already,” I said.
“I can’t take you to the airport.”
“It’s alright, I’ll get an Uber.”
Cholo’s jaw was set
tight but his eyes were uncertain, like he was trying to think of an excuse but
couldn’t do it.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Woody’s gonna take you.”
“Woody!” My voice cracked like a whip. I set the cup on the
counter with a clunk and rezipped my coat. Ah…the cinnamon. Son of a bitch.
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Does he now?” I grabbed the warm mug for reinforcement and sucked
down the last three gulps. “Does he want to talk about how he stole two of our
horses, stole money from me? He robbed us, Cholo, all of us. And by doing so,
he broke something precious.” I didn’t like the sound of that word, precious.
Made it seem like Woody was important to me, and despite the intrusive logic of
that truth, there was no place for Woody here anymore.
“He says he’s sorry.”
“Not to me he didn’t. Besides, sorry’s just a word.” Already
mad at seven in the morning, great. I zipped my coat and turned my back to him,
facing the door. “A real apology is a change in behavior.” My eyes were wide as
I waited for him to take my challenge. To come to Woody’s rescue, explain how
the drugs made him do it or the excuse-of-the-day.
Still fuming, I left via Uber at 7:30 a.m. without another
word to either Cholo or my dad. Woody could kiss my ass as far as I was
concerned. I’d have to pay for my cold heart, of course. The world has a quiet
way of keeping score.
***
By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the corner of Wave and
McClellan Streets in Monterey, California. Eleven hundred miles away in
historic Cannery Row, a sliver of sea was visible between the brownstones on
Lighthouse Avenue. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms. Mid December in
California, I’ll be damned. A premonition, I couldn’t put my finger on it, made
me take notice, warning me to be careful. Something bad was coming.
Ash was right, I was loath to admit. There were holiday
decorations and tacky music everywhere, but it just didn’t feel like Christmas
in a hilltop penthouse overlooking the ocean, waves beneath me reflecting a
cloudy sky. The beauty of California’s coast was unmistakable, but in my heart,
Christmas was indelibly marked by snow.
“Is that you?” Cholo asked me later, answering his mobile on
the third ring.
“I guess. Some version of me, anyway.”
“What are you doing out there, Gree? You hate California.”
He knew, of course; we’d discussed it back and forth for
weeks. Why go now, why go at all? After being on and off the market for ten
years, my mother’s condo had finally found a buyer. I came here to sign papers,
to once again acknowledge the sting of her death and bring my feet one step
closer to the present. But that wasn’t what he was asking. Like all Cholo’s
questions, they were part real world and part spirit world. I knew what he
meant. I just wasn’t sure I was willing to answer yet.
“How’s Dad?” I deflected.
“He’s concerned about how it will look to the community, you
leaving town after Peter’s disappearance.”
“I don’t recall asking his opinion.” He was right, though.
It was too sudden, but it would be a short trip. Besides, everything was broken
right now anyway.
“No, but he’s always willing to share it, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
“He’s splitting wood right now,” Cholo said.
“Great idea for a man who just had a heart attack.”
“Come on, it was a mild one. He didn’t even know he was
having it. Besides, it’s gonna be zero tonight. We’ll be using that wood.”
I guess I shouldn’t complain. The fact that they were
staying in the same house, after such a long standoff, was nothing short of
miraculous and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe the rock of resentment got
too heavy to haul around anymore. I was dying to know who thawed first, but I’d
never ask. You didn’t do things that way out here. Not in Wyoming, not in this
family.
“Could you make sure he’s got a jacket on? For God’s sake
keep an eye on him. If left to his own devices he’d chop wood in a—”
“Gretchen.”
It was my dad’s voice now, Ash Gooding, former Sheriff of
Park County, who to this day insists on calling me by my birth name instead of
the nickname my mother gave me.
“How’s sunny California?”
It was meant as an insult. Everyone in town got lots of
mileage from the fact that I wasn’t a native of Wyoming, even though I’d lived
there since I was five.
“It’s midnight, Wyoming time. What are you doing up this
late? Do you miss me that much?” I joked to an awkward silence. I rambled on
for a while, telling him about the dark orange sunset I’d seen from the balcony
after signing a four-inch stack of papers. Hadn’t they ever heard of digital
copies? Apparently, this mortgage company insisted on paper-everything. Ash
listened. I heard the clinking of ice in his glass. Would this be his third or
fourth by now? I decided not to mention the wood chopping.
“You didn’t tell her?” he mumbled to Cholo. “Mmm.”
“Tell me what?”
A murmur of conversation in the background. Maybe his hand
was covering the phone. And maybe this was what Cholo was hiding from me this
morning.
“Dad, what is it? Tell me.”
“I can’t. Gotta show you. Guess we’ll have to wait till you
get back.”
Sonofabitch. I knew my dad, and that meant no manipulation
or psychology would wriggle out of him whatever he was keeping from me. After
signing over ownership of what had been my mother’s dream home, I left the key
with the bankers and took with me a cedar box of my mother’s mementos, which I
would undoubtedly squirrel away somewhere and forget about for the next decade.
All the better, right? Avoidance, since AJ’s death six months ago, had become a
sort of new religion. Didn’t avoidance almost always turn to cancer somewhere
down the road?
When I got back, I didn’t bother going home first before
looking for Ash. He’d planted an evil seed of dread and apprehension, and he
knew it too. Maybe punishing me for something; he’s a Gemini after all. I flew
into Cody from San Francisco instead of Jackson, where I’d worked for the past
twelve years as deputy sheriff under Peter Barrett, one of the kindest men I’d
ever met. Why did I feel like Ash’s secret had something to do with him? The
buzzing in my bones this morning...maybe that was the warning. Jesus, no. Not
that. The vague comfort of the word missing was too hard to give up.
Three in the afternoon to Ash Gooding meant five o’clock
somewhere. There's this ratty bar on the edge of town called Stagecoach, Ash’s
favorite. Drafty as hell with dusty floors, swivel stools, and random darts
scattered on the floor looking for their board, threatening tetanus. Weird part
about it was that the owner isn't a wrinkled prune of a man but someone
belonging on the cast of Below Deck, a body intended for board shorts, tanned
legs and a white polo shirt hauling up ropes with three-ply triceps. He was
trying to be unassuming in a plain brown t-shirt stretched out at the neck,
pretending he didn't care about his looks. His artificially whitened smile
betrayed the deception - laughing eyes with something sinister behind them, a
joke no one knew about but him.
“How’s it going?” the guy asked.
I exhaled. “G&T, please. Been a long day.”
“Coming up.”
When Runway Model set down the glass, I suddenly didn’t feel
like talking. The weight of air travel, of the milestone I’d crossed and
today’s sad anniversary, burned behind my eyes. They watered as I took the
first swallow. I turned on the stool to look around. Ha, I knew it.
“Ash,” I said, walking across the creaking floorboards.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Drinking here alone, that’s what.”
“What's wrong with that?”
“You can come to my house in Jackson and drink with me.
Wouldn't that be nicer?”
He laughed. “Not necessarily. Besides, too long a drive.”
“Look, you can stay here and punish yourself for Mom's death
all you like. I know what day it is.”
The slap of the men’s room door distracted us from the
tension. It was a sad old story with no ending. I smelled Cholo’s Irish Spring
soap behind me. I turned, my left arm involuntarily reaching for him, tugging
the frayed edge of his Carhartt jacket.
“Well.” I stood back a ways. “You two got real chummy in the
one day I left town.” They were looking sideways at each other in some silent
communication. Ranchers at a bar in the middle of the afternoon; it didn’t make
sense. “What’s the deal?”
Cholo nodded. “You’d better sit down.”
Lisa Towles believes stories hold the world together - and
the best ones expose what we hide even from ourselves. She builds that belief
into her main characters - Mari Ellwyn, Angus Mariner, Kurt Farin - each one
drowning in dark secrets, running from unthinkable truths. The award-winning
author of 14 mystery thrillers, her books pull readers into worlds of global
espionage, fringe technology, and shadow governments. Her titles include Terror
Bay (NYC Big Book Award), Codex (BookFest First Place), The Ridders (American
Fiction Award), and her E&A Series thrillers Hot House and Salt Island both
reached Amazon Kindle #1 Bestseller. Her next thriller, The Weight of Cold
Things - described as Yellowstone meets The X-Files - publishes in August 2026.
When she's not writing, she interviews authors on her Story Impact Podcast and
coaches writers on how to be visible and memorable to readers. Follow her to
get notified of new releases.
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