Page 15 of Smoky Lake

Some forces of nature were simply impossible for humans to do much about. When glacial flooding occurred, all you could do was get out of the way. Whatever had been built in its path was very likely to be destroyed. That was why the train trestles for the railroad that used to transport copper from the mine had to be rebuilt every spring, after the melt off.

And that was why no one had ever bothered to rebuild this dock. Gil couldn’t blame the developer for trying, but he was personally glad it hadn’t worked out. He liked Smoky Lake just the way it was—wreathed in fog in the summer, solid ice in the winter, and dancing with whimsical floating cottonwood seeds in the spring.

The Smoky Lake Research Institute owned one of the two houses that remained out here. It had been built on a rise a hundred yards off the shoreline, and that was just far enough away to keep it safe during the jökulhlaup. The Institute allowed scientists with relevant research projects to stay there at no cost.

Lachlan had spent his first summer in Firelight Ridge at the Institute, before he fell in love with the area and bought his own place. Victor had been staying out here since early summer.

He’d been working on…well, Gil wasn’t exactly sure of the details. It involved a group of Ahtna elders—the Native Alaskan community in this area. Gil knew he was recording their stories, and he thought that Victor was focusing on indigenous medicinal uses for local plants. But that was a very general topic; it had to be more specific than that.

Whatever it was, Victor had been very cautious about sharing details.

A lot of people would be interested in this research, that was what he’d said.

Now Gil was wishing he’d pushed a little harder. Apparently state troopers, military personnel, and one beautiful woman were among the people interested.

He throttled down to an idle as he reached the Institute’s floating dock. The dock was one step from disposable; generally a new one was flown in every couple of years. But it was necessary, because the best way to access the Institute was by water. The terrain in this section of the lake was forbidding, the only trail too steep for supply deliveries. The Institute maintained this ChrisC-raft and several canoes and kayaks for visiting researchers to use.

At the dock, Gil tied up the boat and tilted the outboard engine out of the water. When he jumped onto the float, it dipped under his weight and a bit of icy water sloshed into his boots, but he ignored it, knowing his body heat would take care of it at these temperatures. He strapped on his backpack, then tackled the stairs, which were rust-proof aluminum steps set into the slope—what felt like a hundred of them.

If Victor had been sick, how had he managed all these stairs?

After that heart-pumping climb, he reached the facility, a simple one-level building made mostly of steel and glass. It had the feel of an observatory, as if its only purpose was to gaze out into the wilderness and figure things out.

Gil admired scientists, starting with his own twin brother. He and Lachlan were so different—study versus action, research versus adventure. But they shared a kind of intense curiosity about the world. Lachlan wanted to study it, Gil wanted to experience it.

He pushed open the door, wondering if Victor had left the interior in chaos. Standard protocol was to thoroughly clean before leaving, and make sure the cupboards and propane were fully stocked.

At first glance, all looked normal.

A long central work table filled most of the space, a propane heater sat in one corner, a small kitchenette in another. The only private spaces were two small bedrooms, one set up like a dorm room with bunk beds, the other with a double bed. No bathroom, just an outhouse in the woods out back, and a tiny shower stall with an electric pump and a showerhead. Water had to be hauled from a nearby stream that fed pure glacier water into the lake. The lake water itself contained too much sediment to make for comfortable drinking water.

Gil set his bag down in the bedroom, turned on the heat, and did a quick survey of the cupboards. Victor had done his duty and restocked all the dry goods and cans of beans and tomatoes and soup. He’d left the Berkey filtration system filled with water, and hauled several more jugs as backup. Even the propane had been refilled, which was no easy process. It required a boat ride, a trip to Firelight Ridge, then using a hoist to haul it up the hill.

There was no way a sick man could have managed all that.

Victor had also left a note on the work table.

To whoever reads this: The propane was changed out on July 13. There should be enough for the rest of the summer. I refilled the generator. Depending on your electricity usage, it might need more fuel before the summer ends. I planted some greens out back, here’s hoping someone’s around to enjoy them. Thank you for another wonderful stint at Smoky Lake.

Victor Canseco, PhD candidate in ethnobotany at the University of Fairbanks

Gil stared at the note. Did that sound like a message from someone struggling to breathe between coughs, rambling and feverish, the way Ani had described him? Not at all. It sounded like a run-of-the-mill transfer of information from someone in full possession of his faculties.

Not that he didn’t believe Ani. What reason would she have to lie? Had something happened to Victor somewhere between Smoky Lake and the Blackbear airport?

Ani’s dark eyes flashed through his mind. He wished she’d come with him. She would love this place; even though he barely knew her, he felt confident in saying that. The space was so airy and quiet, the view of cottonwoods and lake so serene. Right now the water was a deep charcoal gray, but sometimes it was sparkled green as an emerald. Other times the cloud cover turned it a muted shade of pistachio.

Whenever he came out here to hike or kayak, Gil liked to lose himself in the shifts of color and light while his mind mulled over whatever problem he was working on.

Right now, the only problem he wanted to work on was that of Victor’s research. He rummaged through all the filing cabinets under the work table, then went into the bunkroom to search the drawers.

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

A chill swept through him. Had someone searched the place before him?

With that thought, he scanned it with new eyes.

Yes, he realized. Someone had been here. There was a handprint on the glass pane. Victor would never have left that there; part of the departure protocol was to spritz the windows. The stools had been tucked under the edge of the table, which was correct. But they weren’t in an even line. Had they been pulled out, then pushed back in?

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