THE ALARM CLOCK’S BEEPING PULLED KANE OUT OF HIS dream. He lay for a moment getting his courage up, then threw off the blankets, rolled out of bed, and hopped around for a minute on the frigid floor. He scraped a clear patch in the frost covering the room’s small window and looked out. Too dark to see anything. He took a fast shower—you could never tell how long the hot water would last in a place like this—and dried himself on a towel as big and soft as a sheet of sandpaper. He repacked his duffel and walked along silent hallways to the café.

Tracy the waitress was standing behind the counter of the restaurant. She was wearing the same clothes. Kane wondered if she’d found some other customer ready to part with $100.

“This is some shift they’ve got you on,” Kane said.

“Work’s work,” she replied. “Menu?”

“Just coffee,” Kane said. “What’s the weather like?”

“Cold,” Tracy said, pouring coffee into a thick, chipped mug. “Thirty or thirty-five.”

She didn’t bother to say “below zero.” She didn’t have to.

Tracy put the coffee down in front of him, bending low from force of habit. Up close, she had lines of weariness beside her mouth and a bright red hickey on her left breast. Guess she found her man, Kane thought.

The coffee was hot and surprisingly good. As he drank it, Kane thought about his day. The mine first, then Rejoice, he decided.

He got another cup of coffee to go, put his coat on, picked up his duffel, and walked out to the warm storage shed. His breath escaped in white puffs. The cold deadened the skin of his face and froze the hairs in his nose. The only noises were the hum of the electrical line and the squeaking of his boots on the snow. Not a bird flew or a creature stirred.

Kane pulled the door open and went into the shed. He threw his duffel into the back of the pickup, backed out of the shed, got out, and closed the door, then drove off toward the bright lights that marked the Pitchfork mine.

He cruised along the highway for a few miles, the only thing moving. The community of Devil’s Toe, not much more than a dozen buildings spread out along both sides of the road, was shut tight.

As he drove, he tried to ready himself for seeing Charlie Simms again. Simms had led the investigation of the shooting, and the last time Kane had talked to him was in an interrogation room at the station.

“We can’t find a gun, Nik,” Simms said that day. “I’m telling you this because you’re family. The other kid at the scene came into the station the next day. Lionel Simmons. Aka ‘Train.’ Seventeen. A pretty long juvie rap sheet. He said him and the retard, Jessup, were watching TV when they heard the shots. Jessup ran out to see what was what. Lionel followed, he says, to keep Jessup out of trouble. They were looking at the scene when you pulled up and started barking orders. He said he figured Jessup got confused, but it looked to him like the retard was starting to raise his hands when you shot him. Then you fell and hit your head on the ice. He went over to check on Jessup. No pulse. You groaned and he ran away.”

Kane’s thoughts took him right past a side road that seemed wide enough to accommodate heavy equipment. He stopped and backed down the highway, turned, and drove up the road. He followed it for a few more miles, twisting and turning and climbing steadily, until he reached a gate in a tall Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire.

“Pitchfork Gold Mine,” a sign on the gate read, with “Alcan Mining Consortium” written below it. Then, in the biggest letters of all, “No Trespassing.”

The place was lit up like a Hollywood premiere. From where he sat, Kane could see a big building that must have been the mill house, but not much else. There was a small guardhouse next to the gate, but its window was tinted and he couldn’t tell if anyone was in there. He leaned on his horn.

The window flew open and a shotgun was thrust out. Behind it, Kane could make out a pale face dominated by a droopy mustache. He rolled down his window.

“You got business here?” a man’s voice asked. Kane heard sleep in the voice and, beneath it, hundreds of hard whiskey nights.

“Shouldn’t be sleeping on the job, Lester,” Kane said. “Somebody might sneak up and steal your shack.”

A smile appeared beneath the mustache. It was several teeth short of a full set.

“Anybody who tried would get a bellyful of double-ought,” the man said. “Howdy, Nik. I heard you was out.”

“Two months, eight days,” Kane said. “I’m here to see Charlie Simms.”

The man in the guardhouse gave Kane a look, then started shaking his head.

“I don’t know about that, Nik,” he said. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, but it weren’t Charlie’s fault.”

Lester’s seriousness made Kane smile. Much of life is a mystery to Lester, Kane thought, but not so baffling that he can’t jump to the wrong conclusion.

“I’m not here to get even,” Kane said. “Jeffords sent me.”

“I’ll check,” the man said, and slid the window shut again. After a few minutes, he came out, wearing a big beige parka and bulbous-toed white bunny boots. He threw a bolt and swung the gates wide.

“Just past the mill house on the left,” he told Kane.

Simms’s office was in a one-story prefab, next to the office belonging to the mine manager. A secretary dressed in a sweater and ski pants showed him in, asked him if he wanted coffee, and left him alone. Even though there were fifty yards between the trailer and the mill house, Kane could feel the steady shaking of the mills breaking rock.

Pictures of old mining operations dotted the walls: men in dark, bulky clothes standing next to long sluice boxes, men aiming water from high-pressure nozzles at seams of gravel, men jockeying bulldozers through creeks.

“The chief told me you’d be stopping by, Nik,” a voice said. “You’re looking pretty good.”

Kane turned to face Charlie Simms. He was a big, balding fellow with a weightlifter’s body and a drinker’s complexion. Like Kane, he’d followed Jeffords through the ranks of the Anchorage Police Department. After Kane had gone to prison, Simms had finally made lieutenant and stalled behind a desk. He’d retired and gone to work for a private security outfit that, according to rumor, belonged to Jeffords.

Kane had worked with Simms from time to time, and had come to the conclusion he was dedicated but plodding. He was also a big-time skirt chaser, but then a lot of cops were. They’d socialized some, too, often sitting across from each other at poker games Jeffords put together. He’d called it team building, but Kane knew the chief had organized the games as a way of assessing his subordinates.

Simms had been at the Blue Fox that night, celebrating even though he’d been a sergeant in the running for the promotion, too. When Kane was on his way out, Simms had weaved over to shake his hand, then navigated his way back to a booth and put the hand up the skirt of a cop groupie.

“You okay, Nik?” Simms asked, drawing him back to the present. “You look a little peaked.”

Kane gave Simms a twisted smile.

“Sorry, Charlie,” he said. “Memories.”

“Yeah, I had some, too, when the chief told me you were coming,” Simms said. “Sorry about what happened.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Kane said. “You just did your job.”

Simms closed the door, waved him to a chair, and went through the motions of hospitality. When those were out of the way, he said, “I’m surprised to see you, Nik.”

“Why’s that, Charlie?” Kane said. “I thought you said Jeffords told you I was coming.”

Simms sat quietly for what seemed like a long time. I suppose he’s thinking, Kane thought.

“I guess it’s because the chief is involved,” Simms said. “I know you never thought he did right by you.”

“How do you know that?” Kane said.

Simms gave him a grin.

“Your wife told my wife, Nik,” he said. “You know how that is.”

Kane thought about telling Simms that he and Laurie were split up, but decided against it. Marriage trouble wasn’t something men talked about. And he didn’t really want to explain his attitude about Jeffords, either. On balance, he figured, the chief had helped him more than he’d not helped him. On a more practical level, Jeffords could still do him a lot of good or a lot of harm. And he found an odd kind of comfort in taking a case Jeffords gave him. It was an echo of his life before the fall.

Besides, he thought, how much reason do I need when my only alternative is sitting in a ratty apartment thinking about all the ways I’ve fucked up?

What he told Simms was, “That’s all water under the bridge, Charlie. I’m trying to make a new start.”

That seemed to satisfy Simms.

“I’m glad to see you, Nik,” he said. “I’m glad you’re doing okay. I’m glad that little bastard finally told the truth and that you’re out with a clean record. And I can use the help. There’s something bad coming. I can feel it.”

“I’m not really here for you, Charlie,” Kane said. “The people over in Rejoice asked me to find a young woman for them.”

“I know, Nik,” Simms said. “I’d just really appreciate it if you keep your eyes open while you’re going around. We produced three hundred fifty thousand ounces of gold last year, and that’s a mighty big temptation. That, and the payroll. We bring in about a quarter-million in cash every two weeks, more when the mine’s running full blast.”

Kane whistled.

“I can see why that might be attractive to certain parties,” he said, “but you’ve been operating for, what, eighteen months? Two years? Why so concerned now?”

“You ever done any remote site work?” Simms said.

Kane shook his head.

“Well, here’s how it is,” Simms said. “Most of the workers here, maybe eighty percent, are pretty solid citizens. Married, sending their money home, doing their jobs and happy to have them. Hell, some of them even moved their families out to Devil’s Toe so they can go home to mama when their shift’s over.

“The twenty percent, though, are a different proposition. They’re just blue-collar bums, moving from job to job whenever somebody needs a truck driver or a mechanic. They’ve been drawing a good paycheck long enough to forget what it’s like to be out of work. And they’re getting tired of the job. Can’t blame them, really. It’s tough work, especially in winter. Plus they just don’t like being in one spot too long. They get twitchy.

“So they’re acting up more. Drinking, fighting. It’s only a matter of time before one of them maims somebody or decides if he can just get away with the payroll he’ll never have to work again.”

“You’re worried about your own employees robbing you?” Kane asked.

“I don’t think any of them would try anything,” Simms said, “except for those people over in Devil’s Toe. That’s just a bad lot over there, and when they get tired of taking the mine’s money one paycheck at a time, they’ll try something. That Big John, he looks like a fellow who would do anything, and he’s smart enough to plan something that could work. Give him the right inside man, and there could be real trouble.”

Real trouble could cost Simms his job, Kane thought, so he might be overreacting to the situation. But probably not. Simms wasn’t the best man the department had ever produced, but he was usually steady. So if he was this antsy something was probably up. And, judging by his gate guard, he didn’t have first-rate help.

“That was Lester Logan out at the gate, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Simms said, “but what can I do? The good cops want to keep being cops.” He noticed Kane’s look and said, “No offense, Nik.”

“None taken,” Kane said. “So, to sum up, you’re nervous but not about anything specific, and I’m here on other business. So why am I talking to you?”

Simms stood and walked to the door.

“For one thing, you’re here to meet the mine manager,” he said. “Why don’t you follow me?”

They walked down a short hallway and entered a conference room. A fellow in his mid-forties, with dark, curly hair and wearing a suit and tie, stood at one end of the table. Clumped together along one of its sides were a half dozen or so Asian men in dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. Some were grayer than others. Several wore glasses. But on the whole they seemed much more alike than different to Kane.

“Ah, Simms, you’re just in time,” the curly-haired man said. “I was just about to fill our visitors in on the Pitchfork mine. Why don’t you and your guest sit down?”

“Well, ah, Mr. Richardson,” Simms said, “Kane here isn’t really a guest in that sense.”

“Nonsense,” the curly-haired man said. “The more the merrier. I can always use a bigger audience. Sit. Sit.”

With a shrug, Simms sat. Kane followed suit. For the next half-hour, the mine manager explained in great detail, aided by a PowerPoint presentation, the workings of the Pitchfork mine. One of the younger Asian men murmured a translation as he talked.

“Not many people know,” Richardson began, flashing a photograph of five men, each holding a gold pan full of nuggets, “that most of Alaska’s mines are not hard-rock but placer operations. Placer means they use water. There used to be placer mines here, but the Pitchfork is what’s called a hard-rock mine, an open-pit mine. Essentially we dig a big pit in the ground and mine the ore out that way.”

He flashed a photo of the mine taken from the air, a big gouge in the ground with the mine buildings down in the left corner. Then he was off on what was obviously a well-traveled trail:

“Most modern gold mines are mom-and-pop operations that use low-power explosives, bulldozers, and water.” Photo. “But the big mines, like the Pitchfork, are much more sophisticated.” Photo. “Explosives are used to loosen up the dirt and rock.” Photo. “Huge loaders that can lift more than twenty cubic yards of rock and earth load it into one-hundred-fifty-ton dump trucks.” Photo. “The trucks haul it to the crusher, where the dirt is separated and the ore crushed small enough to send along.” Photo. “From there it goes by conveyor belt to the sag mill.” Photo. “Which breaks it into smaller pieces.” Photo. “Then to the ball mills that make it smaller still.” Photo. “The ore in the mills wears out the ball bearings, so it costs us about fifteen thousand dollars a month to replace them.” Photo. “The ore is dumped into a big pond, where a whirlpool spins the ore to separate it by size.” Photo. “The ore goes through a series of processes.” Photo. Photo. Photo. Chart. “To draw out the gold and purify it.” Photo. “The final result is a gold bar worth between two hundred thousand and four hundred thousand dollars, depending on the price of gold.”

From there, Richardson expounded on the overall economics of mining, stressing the profits when the price of gold was high, the difficulties of keeping equipment operating in such a harsh climate, and the logistics of feeding and housing about 150 workers at peak production. It was all very professional and, as nearly as Kane could tell, had absolutely no value to him.

Richardson gave a big smile when he’d finished.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

The youngest-looking of the men launched into a detailed series of questions about the mine’s finances. Richardson spoke in response, but none of his words added up to an answer. When this completely uninformative exchange was finished, Richardson said, “Now, let’s see the mine firsthand.”

Kane and Simms exchanged looks and began to fade out.

“No, no,” Richardson said, “you two, too. In fact, Charlie, if you wouldn’t mind, you can drive one of the vehicles.”

The two of them went back to Simms’s office to get their coats.

“What the hell is this all about?” Kane asked.

“How should I know?” Simms said. “Maybe he just wants some white men with him. But what’s it hurt? You’re not in a big hurry.”

The Asian men all came filing out of the building in identical cocoa-colored parkas and white hard hats. Half of them climbed into the new Ford Explorer that Simms drove, the other half into an identical vehicle driven by the manager. Then the group proceeded to visit for themselves everything they’d seen on the PowerPoint.

The visitors seemed to enjoy the tour. There was a lot of whispering, and a couple were taking notes. Kane reckoned they’d have the place mapped down to the last square foot before they left.

Richardson took their picture standing in the bucket of a front-end loader, another dwarfed by one of the dump trucks, still another next to the stockpile near the mill house. The visitors insisted that Simms and Kane pose in every photo with them. Kane could feel the cold working on his legs. I should have worn the padded overalls, he thought.

Fortunately, the tour turned indoors. The whole group put on big ear protectors, like the ones worn by the people who service jet airplanes, and went into the mill house. The thrumming of the sag and ball mills rose through Kane’s boots and shook him to the top of his head.

The mill house was warmer than the outdoors, and a lot noisier. As the group walked around, the mine manager made gestures, and the visitors gestured back. Kane had no idea what they might have been trying to convey. When the party stepped out of the mill house again, it was a great relief.

“I think my liver is somewhere up around my eyeballs,” Kane said to Simms.

From there, they walked through a big building harboring the gold-removal processes. At the end, the Asian men, Simms, and Kane had their picture taken, clustered around a shiny gold bar.

“That’s all the time we have for the tour,” the mine manager said. “Now, if you’ll just follow me back to the office, we’ve got a few mementos to give you, and then I’ve been told you have to get back to your airplane for the flight back to Anchorage.”

Simms nudged Kane.

“We can go finish our talk,” he said.

Back at the office the two men sat on opposite sides of the desk.

“Who were those guys?” Kane asked.

“I’m not sure,” Simms said, grimacing. “Maybe potential investors. An operation like this one burns through money like a sailor on shore leave.”

Kane remembered the grimace from the poker table. It was a tell; whenever Simms was bluffing, he’d grimaced like that.

“Okay,” Kane said. “Now I’ve met the manager. Now what?”

“Now nothing,” Simms said. “All I want is for you to keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you hear anything I might be interested in. I can’t add you to the payroll, but the company would be sure to give you a consulting fee if you turn up anything.”

“You could start by paying me for all the time I wasted here today,” Kane said. Then he sighed. “Never mind, Charlie. Jeffords asked me to check in, so I’ll see what I can do for you. Give me your telephone numbers.”

Simms handed him a card, and Kane tucked it into his wallet.

“Now, you can tell me what you know about a girl named Faith Wright,” Kane said.

Simms grimaced as he shook his head.

“Never heard of her,” Simms said. “Why do you think I’d know anything?”

“Pretty young girl,” Kane said. “A crew of young men with money, and you the security chief. I figured you might know something.”

Simms shook his head again.

“I don’t get off the mine property much,” he said, “but I’ll ask around.”

“Now, Charlie, you’d tell me if you knew something, wouldn’t you?” Kane asked, trying to keep his voice light.

The door to Simms’s office popped open, and the mine manager stuck his head in.

“Ah, good, you’re still here,” he said to Kane. “Our guests have a little ceremony for us. The Asians are very big on ceremony, you know.”

The three men walked out to the front of the office, where the group was waiting. With a bow, the youngest of them handed Richardson, Simms, and Kane large manila envelopes.

“Just small tokens,” he said, “for your hospitality.”

Kane started to undo the clasp on his envelope, but the man put his hand over Kane’s.

“Please,” he said, “it is considered bad luck to open a gift in the presence of the giver.”

There was a flurry of mutual bows and handshakes, and the tour group left.

“Thanks for taking the tour,” the mine manager said to Kane. “Charlie here tells me that you might be in a position to give us some help on the security front. We’d be grateful for anything you can do.” He finished like someone who’d come to the end of his memorized material, shook Kane’s hand, and walked quickly back toward his office.

Simms walked Kane to the door.

“Remember, Nik, pass along anything you hear,” he said. “And I’ll do the same.”

Kane walked to his pickup, thinking about Simms’s reaction to his questions. He tossed his envelope on the front seat, unplugged the head-bolt heater, drove back to the gate, and waited for Lester to open it.

“We going to be seeing you around, Nik?” the gate man asked.

“Damned if I know,” Kane said, and rolled out onto the road.

Even though it was almost eleven a.m., the sun was just a rumor on the eastern horizon. Several of the businesses strung out along the highway were still closed. Kane wasn’t surprised. Some probably closed for the winter. And the others? Well, the mine was one of the few places for hundreds of miles that kept to a set schedule. In his years in Alaska Kane had heard the phenomenon called things like “bush time” and “village time” and “Native time.” It just meant that when you got out of town, people did things whenever they damn well pleased.

Kane slowed when he passed the state trooper station, but the small building was dark and there was no vehicle next to it. So he drove on. There was still hardly any traffic on the highway. When he got a few miles past Devil’s Toe, he began looking for a turnoff to the left. He took a couple that quickly petered out into driveways. Finally, he struck the right one. It ran through the black spruce for about a mile, slid down a long bank to the river, crossed it on the ice, and climbed back out. Nothing moved anywhere along the way.

Once he had mounted the far bank, Kane pulled the truck to a stop, shut it off, and climbed out. Except for the ticking of the cooling engine, all he could hear was silence. From where he stood, Kane could see nothing but nature, which seemed to go on forever. The openness of the vista made him a little weak in the knees. He turned slowly in a circle. In the low light, everything he could see—mountains, trees, snow cover—was white, black, or gray. Some people saw God’s majesty in this big, brutal country. If so, Kane thought, it wasn’t a God he wanted to meet.

“Remember, son,” his father had told him the first time the two of them had gone camping, “all of this”—he swept his arm around to encompass the trees, the mountains, the stream by which they’d pitched their tent—“all of this doesn’t care about you at all. If you do something stupid, this will kill you if it can.”

He felt the cold creeping into his bones. I hope this girl I’ve come to find isn’t out here somewhere, he thought. I hope she hasn’t done something stupid and been killed by the land. That would be bad for me, and very bad for her.

He climbed back into the pickup, started it, and drove on. The road brought him out on the side of the runway. Kane drove across it, then took the road he’d traveled a couple of days before. He pulled in to the community building, shut off his lights, and killed the engine. He was about to get out when he noticed the manila envelope the Asians had given him.

He opened the envelope and spilled its contents onto the seat. It held three bundles of used $100 bills and a prepaid cell phone with an Anchorage number programmed into it. The phone showed a text message, so Kane punched it up.

“call when U R dun,” the message said.

Kane dialed the Anchorage number. After a couple of rings, it answered. But in place of a voice or a recording, there was only silence. Kane was silent on his end, too. Finally, someone or something on the other end broke the connection. Kane shut the cell phone off and zipped it into an inside pocket of his coat.

The envelope also contained three eight-by-ten photographs: two of men, the third of a young, pretty woman with long, straight, blond hair.

Kane fanned one of the bundles of bills. Probably $5,000 a bundle, he thought. Then he sat thinking for a long time before the cold drove him out of the pickup and into the building.