High Impact (13 page)

Next day, June 3

Emery couldn’t get back to sleep and went downstairs for coffee a little after six thirty. The few patrons who beat her to the restaurant were all men, and an older woman stood behind the bar, wearing a faded, long-sleeve T-shirt that read No More War, the
o
’s in both
no
and
more
replaced by peace symbols.

“Good morning,” Emery told the woman as she took a barstool. “Can I get some coffee, please?”

“Sure thing.” The woman poured a mug full from a carafe and set it before her. “Emery, right?”

“Yes.” Odd to have strangers recognize her so readily. Could the locals keep up with all the newcomers once the tour season really got underway and the village teemed with unfamiliar faces?

“I’m Ellie. Grizz’s wife.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Can I get you some breakfast?”

“Hmm.” She opened the menu and scanned it. “Couple of eggs, poached. And some of your sourdough toast?”

“Coming right up.”

As she sipped her coffee, Emery wondered about Pasha. What was she doing? How did she feel? And, most of all, when would they get an opportunity to talk?

Not that she wasn’t looking forward to going up again with Bryson, especially because Bryson had promised her she’d love the surprise. Anticipating the outing had certainly contributed to her restless night. But the trip would likely prevent her from satisfying the real root of her sleeplessness: what the hell happened to Pasha when they came face-to-face?

Last night had only piqued her curiosity more. Thank God, Pasha had apparently suffered no ill effects from blacking out. In fact, despite the strange episode, she seemed oddly more relaxed and at ease afterward than in any of their previous encounters.

The memory of the unmistakable voltage that ran up Emery’s arm when Pasha brushed by her had oddly disturbed her and kept her awake. Similar to the shock from static electricity, like touching a doorknob in winter after shuffling across a rug in stocking feet, only much more powerful. Not quite up to stun-gun standards, but close. For a few seconds, she couldn’t draw a breath and felt unsteady on her feet.

The situation completely mystified her. The humid air and the hallway’s wood flooring wouldn’t produce simple static electricity.

She had to know what was so unusual about Pasha.

She finished eating at ten after seven, and Pasha’s office opened at eight. Emery got a large coffee and freshly baked cranberry muffin to go and carried them up to room twenty-three.

“Pasha? It’s Emery. You up?” Despite repeated knocks, she got no answer. She tried the door, which opened. The bed had been slept in, but Pasha had evidently left even before Emery had gone downstairs. Probably back home now, wherever she lived, getting ready for work.

Surprised by her disappointment, Emery headed to her room to shower and dress. She would soon embark on what would surely be another wonderful day in the wilderness, and she might see Pasha at dinner tonight, provided her workload didn’t keep her away again.

*

Pasha unlocked the front door and turned on the office lights promptly at eight, though her day had officially started twenty minutes earlier when the first client called. She could have let that one go to voice mail, but returning the call would only add one more task to the day’s potential madness, and Dita would get stuck with the long-distance bill.

At least she’d managed a few hours’ rest, but only after she’d snuck out of the Den at one a.m., while Grizz was in the kitchen, to go home to her own bed.

She’d planned all along to leave very early to give herself time to shower and change, and most importantly to avoid running into Emery coming out of Geneva’s room—or vice versa.

She left much sooner than expected because Emery’s proximity put the power at a medium boil, and the pressure kept her awake and alert better than a quadruple dose of espresso. Only after she put some distance between them and climbed under her own quilted comforter did the sensation subside enough for her to fall asleep.

Pasha awoke five hours later feeling more refreshed than she could have hoped for. She’d set the alarm a little early to make sure she had time to eat a good breakfast and pack a lunch. Her fainting spell had definitely been connected to her gift, not the result of not eating, but she wanted some insurance against a repeat episode.

No matter how she felt, or how damn busy the office got, she planned to find a way to spend some time with Emery later.

*

After Emery finished dressing, she killed time by chronicling her amazing flight and the unsettling episode with Pasha in her journal. When she got downstairs a little before ten, she found Bryson perched on a barstool, sipping coffee and chatting with Ellie. A large paper bag, presumably containing their lunch, rested on the bar.

“I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me,” she said.

“Hey! Right on time.” Bryson downed her remaining coffee and threw a couple of bills on the bar. “Off we go.”

As they exited the roadhouse, Bryson asked, “Have you seen Pasha? Karla filled me in.”

“No. She left before I came down for breakfast.”

“Well, the office is open, so she must be all right. Saw the light on when I got back from Coldfoot.”

“Coldfoot?”

“A small village, not too far. Karla’s spending most of the day there. She rotates to a lot of the settlements, once every month or so, to treat non-emergencies and check on patients with ongoing issues.”

“What did they do before she moved here?” Emery asked.

“Went untreated, mostly. Or had to fly out to get help. Aren’t a lot of clinics in the area, and a CHA usually staffs the ones that exist.”

“What’s that?”

“Community Health Aide. Basically, people with very basic medical training. They only have ’em in Alaska.”

They headed toward the red Super Cub parked at the edge of the runway. “No hints about today?” Emery asked as they neared.

“Well, maybe one,” Bryson answered. When she pulled the door open, Emery immediately understood the reference.

Geneva sat in an extra seat in the cargo area, behind Emery’s. A larger person would never have fit, because Bryson’s survival duffel filled the rest of the tail. “Surprise!” she said mischievously.

“That it is,” Emery said as she climbed in and fastened her seat and shoulder belt. Bryson stayed outside to conduct her exterior inspection of the plane. “A very pleasant one. Will
you
tell me what Bryson’s cooked up?”

“Nope. But I’ve done it before and found it a richly rewarding experience. I hope you do, too.”

Geneva’s enigmatic answer didn’t help. She pushed her for more, then tried to put the screws to Bryson again once they were aloft, but each one just smiled and shook her head.

After an hour or so of Bryson-style flying—hugging treetops and darting through canyons and circling anything of interest—they descended toward a semi-permanent encampment near a wide creek. Emery could make out a trio of canvas tents, two smoking campfire pits, a large pile of split logs, and stacks of wooden crates. Two bearded men emerged from a tent as they neared and waved at the plane.

They kept descending, and Bryson started fiddling with the throttle and other controls, but Emery saw no hint of a runway below. The lone gravel bar looked clean but impossibly short, even compared to some of the ones they’d set down on yesterday. She gripped the seat as the plane dropped the final few feet and watched, fascinated, as Bryson artfully worked around her limitations. She precisely skimmed the Cub’s tires along the water’s surface, slowing enough that when the plane hit the leading edge of the gravel bar thirty feet beyond, she could stop before she reached the end.

“That was impressive,” she remarked when Bryson cut the engine. “Where are we?”

“Can’t tell you. That’s part of the deal,” Bryson replied with a smile. “Still haven’t figured it out?”

“Not a clue. Are you selling me into white slavery? I mean, I like an adrenaline rush, but…”

Bryson and Geneva both laughed as they piled out of the plane. Before they headed to meet the men on the bank, Bryson dug out a bottle of Jack Daniels she’d stashed under her seat.

“Hi, guys. You remember Geneva.” Bryson handed the bottle to the shorter one, a lean wiry guy, as Geneva exchanged hellos with the men. “Emery Lawson,” she said. “Emery, meet Spike and Watts.”

“I’m Spike.” The shorter man, probably in his fifties, screwed off the top of the whiskey and took a healthy pull before handing it to his friend.

The second guy, thirtyish, also took a long drink. He might be darkly brooding handsome if he cleaned up and shaved the black beard. They both looked like derelicts—filthy clothes, long uncombed hair, and, from the smell, dirty bodies.

“Watts doesn’t talk much,” Spike said.

“Good to meet you.” Emery shook hands with them both.

“The guys are going to let us pan for gold here,” Bryson said. “You get to keep what you find, unless you get lucky and score a nugget more than an ounce. That’s worth a grand or more. Anything bigger, they get half.”

“That’s very generous,” Emery said. It sounded like fun, but she doubted they’d find much of value.

“Ever done it before?” Spike asked as his buddy went into a tent.

“Nope.”

“Easy. Just takes patience. I’ll show ya how.” Spike pointed. “Rubber boots and waders in the crate. Find a pair if you don’t want to get your boots wet.”

Once they had made their selections, Emery wearing rubber boots a bit too large, Spike led them to where they were working. Watts followed, juggling a trio of pans and a shovel. Bryson and Geneva had obviously panned before. When they got to the creek’s edge they immediately started scooping soil into their pans.

Spike explained how much soil to use, where to get it, and what to look for, before demonstrating the proper technique for extracting the gold, which involved swirling the soil with water and tapping it to separate the lighter sand, heavier black soil, and gold, the heaviest of all. Patiently swirling and tapping, he carefully washed the lighter material away, layer by layer, until they could see the gold.

Emery paid respectful attention throughout the long process, though she thought she’d gained the hang of it long before Spike reached the bottom.

She was stunned when, in the end, Spike showed her the myriad of gold flakes shining amidst the remaining few teaspoons of black soil. “Probably worth a hundred dollars or so, I’d guess.” He scooped the mixture into a small jar and extended the pan in her direction. “Go on, give her a try.”

“Thanks, Spike.” Emery headed toward Bryson and Geneva, while the men returned to their campsite. “How’s it going?” She scooped up a panful of dirt from an area they’d been working and bent to add some water.

“Bryson’s doing better than I am,” Geneva said. “But we’re both finding something.”

“I was excited to try but wasn’t expecting to find any gold,” Emery said. “Spike had quite a few flakes in his pan, though.”

“It’s a great spot,” Bryson said. “You’d never know from looking at them, but they’ve gotten a couple hundred thousand dollars from this claim. Some from panning, but most from those sluices.” She pointed to a number of metal box-like structures with riffles in them that lay in the shallow water. “They really help speed the process.”

“Can you still find a lot of gold in Alaska?” Emery patiently swirled and tapped, swirled and tapped. “I thought the gold rush was something in the history books.”

“Oh, it’s far from mined out. Big business with all the high-tech methods and equipment they have now. Earth movers, dredges, all that stuff.”

“I read somewhere that a billion dollars’ worth was mined here last year,” Geneva said. “The most in a century.”

“I had no idea.”

“Gotta be more places like this,” Bryson told Emery in a low voice. “No one knows there’s gold here. No written history of it. Spike inherited the claim from his great-grandfather, who discovered it. No one in the family believed in it, until Spike.”

“What a great story,” Emery said.

“Obviously, they want to keep anyone from finding out about it, for now. One reason they haven’t brought in heavy equipment and more help.” Bryson tipped her pan carefully to capture a bit more water. “So you understand why I couldn’t tell you exactly where we are and why I need to ask you not to tell anyone.”

“Hey, no problem,” Emery said. “I appreciate the trust. Mum’s the word. And thanks again for arranging this.”

“Glad you’re having fun. Just wait.”

Intent, they worked in silence for the next few minutes. Staying hunched over the stream hurt her legs and back, so Emery had to stand and stretch more often than the others. And fairly quickly she wished she’d brought her pain meds.

But her discomfort faded when she reached the bottom of her pan. “Yee haa! I got gold!”

Pasha barely tasted the tuna-salad sandwich, eating it between phone calls when she also tried to keep up with the paperwork. She’d paid the bills and placed the vendor orders. Now she sat transferring information that clients had mailed—registration forms, mostly—into the computer database. She wanted to leave earlier for dinner tonight.