Her forehead light scarcely pierced the dark of the night and the dark of the storm, so she groped in her coat pocket for her big flashlight, clicked it on and waved the beam around.
The left wall of the lean-to had been shattered by a tree branch that had ridden a gust like a battering ram. Everywhere, snowflakes twisted and spun in glittering arcs, and more snow settled against the outside of the generator.
Stupid to feel relieved, but nothing she’d done had compromised the generator. It was that bitch Mother Nature. She was out to kill them all.
Who could blame her?
A snow shovel hung on the external wall of the lodge, clamped at the top and bottom; still it clattered like a skeleton’s bones. Petie used the broad scoop to clear her path to the generator. Putting the shovel down, she knelt to release the lock on the door that opened onto the battery.
The wind caught the shovel and shoved it across the slick ground.
On her knees, she hustled after it, caught it before it escaped into the storm, brought it back to the generator and knelt on the scoop. The cold seeped through her ski pants, pants and underwear. Incentive to finish quickly. She cleaned the posts, scraping, wiping, scraping, wiping. She reattached the battery cables and pushed “Start.”
The generator coughed and chugged on. A light popped on over the door leading to the lodge. More came on inside.
She had fixed it. She had fixed it!
She had saved Hawley’s lodge. It would be safe until spring. Probably safe until spring.
Her momentary exultation flickered and died.
Now she was stuck here, alone, for another four months.
Her head bent. She closed her eyes. She felt the pain of piercing cold, of blistering wind, of loneliness and hopelessness that had no end.
Four more months of life barren and lost to exile...unless she did something to change that.
She turned off the flashlight and left it on the ground next to the shovel.
She didn’t need them anymore.
She pushed her way through the snow to the broken north wall and faced the full brunt of the storm. Even through her scarf, the wind scoured her face. Snow froze onto her eyelashes. If she walked out there, straight into the storm’s violent embrace, she would struggle and struggle, until at last she would lie down and die.
Why not? What did she have to live for?
TSTL. That was what they called women like her. Too Stupid to Live.
Truth. She was too stupid to live. She despised herself. Now she was stuck here, forever, alone every winter, without anyone who cared about her.
Why not walk out and die? Why not?
She took the first step.
A gust of wind slammed into her belly, lifted her off her feet, carried her backward and knocked her into the wall. Her neck whiplashed, and her head thumped hard enough to rattle her brains.
The wind disappeared as rapidly as it came.
Petie fell to her knees.
Night enveloped her.
If she hadn’t had the hat, the scarf, the hood on her head, she would have been dealing with a concussion. As it was, the memory that floated to the top of her brain was the moment when, at fourteen, she had faced her mother in juvenile detention.
Petie was afraid, horrified, ashamed, but she faced Ioana with her chin defiantly stuck out.
“Evie, I’m an immigrant. I have an accent. You’re making it hard for me at work and hard for your sister at school. Someone in the neighborhood sprayed paint on our windows—GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!”
“Those bastards,” Evie had said sullenly. “Tell them to stuff it.”
“You do not repent? When you can make me proud, come home.” Ioana stuck her finger in Petie’s face, and her Eastern European accent was strong and angry. “Until then, you stay away from your sister. Stay away from me. Life is hard enough without having your kind drag us down.”
“My kind? I’m just like you!”
Ioana had slapped her.
Petie’s hand flew to her cheek.
Ioana gasped. Reaching out, she pulled Petie into her arms. “Forgive me. But you’re throwing away all your opportunities with both hands. Stop. Think. Live!”
Apparently, her mother and the wind had something in common.
Petie hung her head and cried a few tears, tears that froze instantly into the scarf. She staggered to her feet. She groped her way to the generator, knelt and found the large metal flashlight right where she’d left it and turned it on. She picked up the snow shovel, stood, pointed the beam of light at the ground and stepped carefully across the icy patches and up the steps. Still carrying the shovel, she let herself inside, shut the door behind her, locked it and stood listening to the beastly roar of the storm, now muffled by the protective walls.
She had fixed the generator.
The lights were on.
The heat was running.
She was not going to die here.
She said it out loud, needing to hear the words. “I am not going to die here.”
Someday, somehow she would leave the wilderness behind, mend the rift in her family, but most of all, she was going to sometime, somehow find Donald White: conspirator, con man...killer.
She would have revenge—and he would face justice.
3
Midnight Sun Fishing Camp
This spring
IN THE LAST EIGHT YEARS, Petie had risen up the Midnight Sun chain of command to become Hawley’s camp director. She no longer had to pick up guests from the airstrip and drive them to their accommodations at the fishing camp; however, when Cardinal Electronics CEO Jeen Lee requested Petie perform that service, Petie made an exception.
Now Bradley Copeland and Jeen Lee rode in the back seat of the Land Rover, and with the painful care of someone who spoke Quemadese as a second language, Bradley Copeland said, “When we announce the chip, Cardinal Electronics stock is going to leap. Miss Lee, have you made your moves?”
Presumptuous of him. But if the discussion Petie had overheard from Miss Lee’s employees was true, that was to be expected. Bradley was not only the new technological wonder boy, but a conceited young American who effortlessly offended everyone he met.
What did Jeen Lee think of him?
No way to tell. Miss Lee was a woman of indecipherable age, with carefully tended skin, a forehead botoxed and wrinkle-free, dark eyes fringed with lash extenders and generous lips tattooed a dark, glorious red. She ate sparingly, worked out diligently and moved with choreographed grace. The online community officially admired Jeen Lee for all she had achieved in her business life, but if one dug deeper, and Petie had, elements of a darker past emerged. The woman who fronted the prominent tech company operating from Quemada had once been feared for her cruel, swift vengeance against anyone who betrayed her.