Instead of answering, Anderson Jr. Seely bent down, reaching into the worn canvas survival bag tucked beneath the seat, his fingers brushing against the familiar, crinkled edges of a tourist brochure—one of those generic pamphlets handed out for free at every Tourist Information booth scattered throughout downtown Anchorage—and without a word, he pulled it free, straightened its creased folds, and handed it to Layla Smith. With a brief tilt of his chin, he gestured ahead, toward the vast landscape rolling past the windshield, where the Toyota Hilux was now making its way into the Mount Susitna region of Alaska.
Layla Smith cast a quick, disinterested glance at the paper in her hand, her irritation barely concealed beneath the flicker of her lashes. Having spent the majority of her life in Alaska, growing up in the biting cold and the endless daylight of summers that bled into twilight, she had no need any descriptions of a land she already knew better than the back of her own hand.
"Mount Susitna, also known as the Sleeping Lady, looms on the skyline to the west of Anchorage, the Susitna River rushing along the contours of its base toward the sea. From Anchorage, the best way to see the Sleeping Lady is from the air, soaring over the Matanuska-Susitna, Eklutna, Chickaloon, and Knik glaciers.
On a longer journey from Anchorage, you could even circle Denali, flying over lower but no less beautiful mountain ranges en route: the Chugach Mountain Range, the Talkeetna Mountain Range, and the Sleeping Lady herself, coming in low over the Susitna River watershed on the lookout for wildlife.
Even if you don't make it to Susitna, the views from Anchorage itself at sunset are magnificent. Locals head to the beach at Point Woronzof, which is at the end of the runway of Anchorage's airport, to watch as the setting sun turns the distant slopes a fiery orange.
Mount Susitna was created by the passing of a glacier. The passage of glacial ice over underlying bedrock often results in asymmetric erosional forms as a result of abrasion on the upstream side of the rock and plucking on the downstream side.
Previously, a white American writer published a book that told the story of the Mountain People who gathered at Susitna and a giant lady who said she would lie down by the river she loved to become Susitna Mountain.
Tourists can depart from—"
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, I asked if you found any more clues from the stone. Why are you giving me this vague advertisement?"
Layla Smith's voice cut through the words like a blade, sharp with irritation as she crumpled the flyer in one smooth motion, her fingers tightening around its flimsy paper before she rolled down the window and tossed it out, letting the wind carry it away into the vast, indifferent wilderness beyond the road.
"Miss Layla Smith," Anderson said, his voice flat but edged with something unreadable. "You should protect the natural environment."
Silence.
Layla bit the inside of her cheek as if swallowing down her irritation, but Anderson was not finished with her just yet. He pressed forward, relentless.
"The flyer may be vague," he continued, his tone cooling further, "but the blow you landed on my head at the wooden igloo restaurant was not. Tell me, did you intend to kill me? Why?"
His gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror, locking onto her reflection, studying the slight narrowing of her eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw.
Still, she said nothing.
Instead, she lifted her chin slightly, angling her face so that their eyes met in the mirror, a silent challenge in her gaze, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. William Smith is concerned about the information being leaked should you decide to leave our family."
T.B., who had remained silent up to this point, his hands steady on the wheel, finally spoke up, his voice carrying an unmistakable weight, as if stepping in to shield her.
"And why," Anderson turned his attention to him immediately, his words slow, deliberate, "did you put a Glock 17 to my head?"
"Because you overpowered Miss Layla Smith and pressed her own gold brooch against a vein in her neck," T.B. replied without hesitation, his voice firm. "Your actions threatened her life."
Anderson exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "And tell me, Mr. T.B., do you think I had enough time to actually harm her with a Glock 17 aimed at my skull?"
"No," T.B. answered simply. "You did not. You had no chance."
"Then why didn't you pull the trigger?"
T.B. was silent for a moment before replying. "Because Mr. William Smith ordered me to let you go."
Anderson's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Isn't Mr. William Smith afraid of having his information leaked?"
T.B. said nothing.
The cabin of the Toyota Hilux sank into a heavy silence, filled only with the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of tires rolling over the paved road, a quiet rustling like whispers in the dark.
Anderson let out a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, shaking his head slightly before speaking again, his voice steady, calculated, but carrying the weight of something deeper, something buried.
"Let me answer that for you both, Mr. T.B. and Miss Layla Smith," he said, his words coming in an unbroken stream, uninterrupted. "From the moment I stepped into Kivalina Resources Limited Liability Company, my life has been entirely in your family's hands. The only reason I'm alive right now—thank God—is because of the knowledge, the information, the data I hold about the gold mine that you are so desperate to find. Even when I paid the money—a fortune so large I had to mortgage my parents' house—that sum, which on paper was meant to be an investment, a purchase of shares in Kivalina Resources, was in truth nothing more than a ransom for my life, because your company is teetering on the edge of collapse, a sinking ship with no real value left. But even that was not enough. Mr. William Smith still sent you both to shadow me, to ensure I had no room to maneuver. So tell me, if you were in my position, would you so easily hand over the one thing keeping you alive?"
He fell silent then, realizing perhaps that he had said too much.
The atmosphere inside the Toyota Hilux grew thick, heavy, the air pressing in around them. Anderson turned his gaze out the window, exhaling slowly, his breath fogging against the glass for a brief moment before fading into nothing.
Ahead of them, the Sleeping Lady stretched across the horizon, a giant lying forever still beneath the sky, her form bathed in the fading light.
The tourist brochure had failed to mention what the Inupiat Eskimos rarely spoke of: the legend of Susitna, the beautiful girl who had once roamed this land, who had married a white bear hunter, who had waited for him when he left for the hunt and never returned. She had searched for him, calling his name into the wind, into the snow, but the wilderness had swallowed him whole. She returned, exhausted, and lay down by the river she loved, falling into a sleep from which she would never wake, her body turning to stone, waiting for a love that would never return. She had died searching for love.
A tiredness filled up Anderson's mind.
Here, Susitna had died searching for love.
Here he was, chasing gold to save his life.
Susitna was willing to sacrifice for love.
He was desperately pursuing gold to survive.