A stir. “What?” he said, and his voice was no longer sorrowful.

Kate checked to see that the doorway was still clear. “Of course you were embezzling funds, Erland,” she said. “ Victoria was working in accounts payable, where she found evidence of double billing.”

“How do you know all this?” Erland’s voice was very cold and very clear, and Kate instantly remembered one of the voices she’d heard when she first came to in the cabin. “You shouldn’t have hit her at all.” Of course not, Kate thought, a fist in the face is too obvious-the ME would have had no trouble recognizing it for what it was, and it would no doubt have been inconsistent with the other injuries her corpse would have presented when it washed ashore in Turnagain Arm. A dead giveaway-pardon the expression, she thought-that foul play had been done. She was equally certain that Erland wanted it to look like an accident. Not so much like his father after all.

But who had he been talking to? “She told me,” Kate said.

“She told you?” he said. “You’ve seen her since she got out? Where is she?”

“Tell me something, Erland,” Kate said. “Did you farm me out?”

“What?” he said.

“Did you farm out my kidnapping,” she said. “I was just wondering. Sooner or later, you weren’t going to want any witnesses. I’m figuring it was sooner, and maybe that’s why you came up here alone.”

For the first time, she heard tension in his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” she said, and dived out the doorway in the same instant that he drew the gun and fired.

20

She tumbled into a forward somersault to come up on her feet running. Round one to her. She hit the trees in three strides, just as the gun cracked again. The sound of glass breaking on the truck made her laugh beneath her breath, as did the sound of Erland’s curses.

She felt rather than saw her way to the water cache. She paused, listening. There was the sound of glass breaking. He was probably kicking out the remains of his windshield. The truck’s engine started.

She would have to stick close to the road. He’d know that and stay on it, waiting for her to emerge.

So she wormed her way under the deadfall, hoping that nothing had taken up residence in the hollow beneath in her absence. Nothing had. She felt for the oversized fleece jacket, snuggled into it and curled up into a ball. She wished for Mutt’s warm bulk next to her, wished even for, god help her, Jim, and with that thought she dropped blessedly into a deep, dreamless oblivion.

Birdsong woke her in that pale hour before dawn, three pure descending notes, repeated and answered. Kate blinked, yawned, and stretched, and reached for one of the bottles of water to relieve her morning mouth. She got to her knees to peer out from beneath the underbrush.

The dew lay heavy on the bracken, a precursor of frost. She took a moment to be thankful it wasn’t. She didn’t see anyone or hear anything but animal noises, but that didn’t mean that Erland wasn’t sitting in his truck smack in the middle of the only road leading out, waiting for her to show up so he could shoot her dead and leave her to the bears to snack on. At this point he wouldn’t care if her death looked like an accident or not. He’d risk shooting her now and coming up with an explanation later, delivered no doubt by a fine battery of expensive attorneys.

She’d been lucky so far and she knew it. Well, she thought, there’s no point in not pushing your luck when it was running in your favor. She peed where she’d slept, just to underline her determination to sleep between clean sheets that night, and pushed her way through the dead branches and into the open.

The sky was light with the anticipation of sunrise. The three-note descant sounded again, sounding like an all clear, and Kate smiled. “Thanks, Emaa,” she whispered, and began to creep forward, keeping her head at the level of the poushki while avoiding their spiked leaves. The forest floor was dense with pine needles, all the better to muffle her steps, but she watched where she placed her canvas-shod feet anyway.

She passed a cow moose with a yearling calf, so close that she could have touched them. The cow’s ears went back, but she didn’t get up, and Kate faded into the trees before she could.

The forest ended at the road. Kate peered out beneath a clump of wild roses. No sign of the truck. She had a choice here. She could start down the road, chancing discovery to move faster, or stick to the trees, where it would take much longer but would be much safer.

Erland Bannister wasn’t the type to cut his losses and get on the next jet for Rio. He had too much property and too much money and too much power to leave it all behind. His only choice, as he would see it, would be to kill Kate before she had a chance to take that all away from him.

And it probably wouldn’t hurt him to take her out. Somewhere down deep inside, the practical businessman resented the hell out of these upstart Natives, these people who hadn’t done a lick of work in three hundred years’ worth of Alaskan history and who had had it all handed to them on a platter thirty years before and now were a force with which to be reckoned-a political force, a social force, a governmental force-dangerous to offend, impossible to ignore. They were even marrying into the goddamn families of the power elite, bastardizing a line of entrepreneurs and visionaries going back a hundred years.

Well. One woman’s merchant adventurer was another woman’s pirate. Kate grinned to herself.

If she were Erland, she would have driven down to where this road intersected with the next road. There was only one way into the cabin and the same way out. Kate had to stay on or near the road to get back to Anchorage, and help. Yes, that’s what she would do.

Kate stepped out into the road and stood there for a moment.

No one shot at her.

The three notes sounded from a nearby branch, and Kate looked up to catch the cocky eye of a golden-crowned sparrow. The tiny, plump brown bird launched from the bobbing branch it had been perched on and flitted down the road from tree to tree. Kate followed.

It was a long road and the sun was sliding up over the horizon when Kate rounded a corner and saw the intersection. She stepped into a thicket of alder and peered through the leaves. She didn’t see the truck, or any other vehicle. But then, she wouldn’t have parked in sight, either. She would have wanted to lure her quarry into the open.

Okay. She was lurable. She soft-footed it down the little incline. The intersecting road was two lanes wide and the gravel hadn’t been graded in awhile. She still didn’t see the truck, so she stepped out on it, and again, no one shot her. Life was good.

She put her back to the rising sun and set off down the road at a slow trot, working out the kinks of sleeping in the woods and working up some body heat while she was at it. She’d had peanut butter and crackers for breakfast, so she wasn’t hungry, strictly speaking, but she would have killed for a big plate heaped with bacon and eggs over medium, with a big pile of crisp home fries on the side. She was fantasizing over the home fries-with onions and green, red, and yellow peppers and garlic mixed in-when she rounded a corner and saw the truck, parked with its nose downhill.

Without thinking about it, she dived for the side of the road and tumbled down a small bank, fetching up hard against a tree trunk.

“Shit,” she said before she could stop herself. She got to her feet and found herself looking down the barrel of a pistol held in the shaking hand of Oliver Muravieff.

He looked, if possible, even more terrified than Kate felt. “Uncle Erland?” he called over his shoulder. “Uncle Erland, I’ve got her.”