second door down the hall was slightly ajar. A chilling draft emanated from the room, as though it were softly exhaling while she held her breath. She moved forward, giving the door a little shove and then stepping back.
Lace curtains billowed like a broken cobweb, waving farewell in the breeze. Next to the open window: an antique desk, one drawer slightly ajar. Jo padded over and drew back the curtain.
The blanched limbs of a skeletal tree clawed the window, making a handy escape ladder from May’s office. Jo leaned forward for a better look, searching at the base of the trunk for new footprints in the snow. She had a good view of the ailing wooden fence and the fringe of wild growth beyond that disappeared into the woods. It would be the perfect escape route.
Jo realized her mistake just a moment too late. The only footprints were those leading toward the house: hers and a set of larger ones, both disappearing at the back door. She heard some kind of movement behind her and was just turning her head and raising one hand when the world went black.
10
It was the icy air that brought Jo to her senses. She felt stiff, her body twisted awkwardly as she came to, shivering on the floor. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the soft light of a Yukon afternoon after a snowfall. Her head throbbed and her neck ached. Her first instinct was to touch the side of her head, near the back, where she’d been hit. With that realization came a wave of panic that she might not be alone. Painfully, she moved her eyes and sat up, causing a brief ripple of nausea and a distant tinkling sound, like falling glass. The room appeared to be empty, the window still open.
Jo removed her glove and touched a bare finger to her scalp, resulting in a cool, damp sensation. For one horrible moment, she thought that the contents of her skull had been spilled, but when she brought her hand away, it was covered in gold glitter. Jo released a slow breath and moved her head painfully to look around. The floor was covered in shards of glass and a sparkling dust, as though she’d just been hit over the head by a combative fairy. A circle of wood lay at the epicentre of the destruction. She picked it up. A gold plaque along the edge read, “Dawson City, City of Gold.” Nearby on the floor, the shiny figure of a miner kneeled thoughtfully over a pan of gold, lost in time and space.
Shakily, Jo got to her feet and crunched across fragments of glass to the window. This time when she leaned out, there were a second set of large footprints below, beginning at the back door and disappearing into the woods. Jo donned her gloves and closed the window.
She picked up the receiver from a rotary phone on the desk and dialled Dawson’s emergency number, already dreading another interview with Cariboo. The receptionist spoke maddeningly slowly. Once she’d made the call, Jo took another look at her surroundings.
The soft, new snow seemed to deaden all sound, muffling the distant hum of a chainsaw and the rough laughter of ravens. Jo wondered how much time she had. The only thing that appeared to be amiss was a desk drawer, which wasn’t quite closed. It slid open easily, revealing a set of letter-sized files. She flipped quickly through the labels on the file folders. All but one were related to May’s shop, The Gold Digger. The last was labelled “Claim 53.” Jo withdrew the file, rifling through the documents. Gold production … Staffing … Various articles about the increasing strength of gold on the market. Then a legal document naming May Wong as the owner of Claim 53 at Sourdough Creek, and someone named Jack Grikowsky as the manager. The name rang a bell. Tires crunched on snow in the driveway. A car door slammed.
Jo shoved the folder back into the desk drawer, which she returned to its original position. She tugged on the handles of the other two drawers. One contained innocuous office supplies. The other was locked. Jo knelt down, removed one
Lace curtains billowed like a broken cobweb, waving farewell in the breeze. Next to the open window: an antique desk, one drawer slightly ajar. Jo padded over and drew back the curtain.
The blanched limbs of a skeletal tree clawed the window, making a handy escape ladder from May’s office. Jo leaned forward for a better look, searching at the base of the trunk for new footprints in the snow. She had a good view of the ailing wooden fence and the fringe of wild growth beyond that disappeared into the woods. It would be the perfect escape route.
Jo realized her mistake just a moment too late. The only footprints were those leading toward the house: hers and a set of larger ones, both disappearing at the back door. She heard some kind of movement behind her and was just turning her head and raising one hand when the world went black.
10
It was the icy air that brought Jo to her senses. She felt stiff, her body twisted awkwardly as she came to, shivering on the floor. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the soft light of a Yukon afternoon after a snowfall. Her head throbbed and her neck ached. Her first instinct was to touch the side of her head, near the back, where she’d been hit. With that realization came a wave of panic that she might not be alone. Painfully, she moved her eyes and sat up, causing a brief ripple of nausea and a distant tinkling sound, like falling glass. The room appeared to be empty, the window still open.
Jo removed her glove and touched a bare finger to her scalp, resulting in a cool, damp sensation. For one horrible moment, she thought that the contents of her skull had been spilled, but when she brought her hand away, it was covered in gold glitter. Jo released a slow breath and moved her head painfully to look around. The floor was covered in shards of glass and a sparkling dust, as though she’d just been hit over the head by a combative fairy. A circle of wood lay at the epicentre of the destruction. She picked it up. A gold plaque along the edge read, “Dawson City, City of Gold.” Nearby on the floor, the shiny figure of a miner kneeled thoughtfully over a pan of gold, lost in time and space.
Shakily, Jo got to her feet and crunched across fragments of glass to the window. This time when she leaned out, there were a second set of large footprints below, beginning at the back door and disappearing into the woods. Jo donned her gloves and closed the window.
She picked up the receiver from a rotary phone on the desk and dialled Dawson’s emergency number, already dreading another interview with Cariboo. The receptionist spoke maddeningly slowly. Once she’d made the call, Jo took another look at her surroundings.
The soft, new snow seemed to deaden all sound, muffling the distant hum of a chainsaw and the rough laughter of ravens. Jo wondered how much time she had. The only thing that appeared to be amiss was a desk drawer, which wasn’t quite closed. It slid open easily, revealing a set of letter-sized files. She flipped quickly through the labels on the file folders. All but one were related to May’s shop, The Gold Digger. The last was labelled “Claim 53.” Jo withdrew the file, rifling through the documents. Gold production … Staffing … Various articles about the increasing strength of gold on the market. Then a legal document naming May Wong as the owner of Claim 53 at Sourdough Creek, and someone named Jack Grikowsky as the manager. The name rang a bell. Tires crunched on snow in the driveway. A car door slammed.
Jo shoved the folder back into the desk drawer, which she returned to its original position. She tugged on the handles of the other two drawers. One contained innocuous office supplies. The other was locked. Jo knelt down, removed one
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