“So what do we do, Doc?”

  “Keep him warm, I guess,” said Anders, “and as pain-free as possible. People can survive an initial trauma and then die from the pain.” The kid glanced over at their mother, who was running up and down the beach, her face both twisted and ecstatic, hopeful as she called out to her husband and son, the small animals lying in the sun oblivious to the screams of this pale beast. “Where do you think the others are?”

  “Can’t be far. These dry suits weren’t made for hiking.”

  “Is that smoke?” The Baron pointed to a nearby ridge. He was still sitting in the front of his kayak, the very dead Alexei just over his shoulder.

  “I see it, but I don’t smell anything,” said Striker.

  “Me neither,” said Anders.

  “Fingers crossed it’s steam.” Just saying it made her feel hopeful. Steam meant heat, meant water, meant surviving for as long as their fat reserves might hold out.

  “Anna, why don’t you stay here with your mom?” said la Grande Dame. “Veronique and I will go have a look-see.”

  “It’s Anders,” said Striker. She figured the old lady should get at least one of their names right.

  “Sarah said she answers to Anna,” replied the Dame.

  “Whatever,” said the teen.

  Striker was saddened to see them back down so fast. She made a mental note to tell them later that you can’t give in or the world will run right over you, and being the universe’s roadkill wasn’t anyone’s idea of fun. Of all people she should know.

  What are you talking about? You were always the first to merge. That’s what you called it. Merging.

  “Here.” Anders handed Striker the binoculars.

  “Okay. Call us if you need us. Sound should travel pretty easy around here.”

  “If the wind’s in your favor,” said the Baron.

  “And you,” she said to him. “You should get out of your boat, get your circulation going.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief.”

  Too much more of this chief talk and she’d never be able to pass the conch to someone else. Someone who spoke in graphs, someone who was used to crunching numbers, someone like the Tech Titan, her little girl voice be damned. Yeah, Taylor would make an excellent leader, what with her algorithms and her weekly jaunts over to Alcatraz. Striker imagined standing in front of the group and explaining that she was resigning her post effective immediately as unelected problem solver to spend more time with family. Oh, and by the way—heeeeere’s Taylor! She could already picture herself with her feet soaking in an old, dented bucket like the one Mabel had on Clark Street. Good food, good music, rest, a little justice.

  In the Baron’s case, Striker couldn’t tell if he was mocking her with the captain-my-captain act or if the old man was more than happy to take orders. If it turned out the old guy was the kind of geezer who got off on being bossed around by strong women, so help her god she’d find a way to ram a kayak into the back of his head while he was standing right there on land. Hadn’t Percy said something or other about the number-one cause of death among stranded explorers being general mayhem? It wasn’t too hard to believe.

  By the time we return, the Baron better be a useful member of society, she thought as she walked away with the Dame, their destination the highest possible peak. Otherwise, come Christmas Day, I take zero responsibility for whatever happens to him.

  Striker glanced at her wrist. 12:14 p.m. She’d never realized she was so addicted to time. Likely two hours had passed since no more Percy though who could tell? The sun sat merrily twinkling in the exact same spot in the sky since they’d pushed off from the Yegorov. Everywhere bits of feathers drifted in the air, the day reverse snowing as the wind kicked fluff up off the ground. Striker waved a hand in front of her face, a windshield wiper.

  The top of the volcano sparkled fiercely. “Up there the world should be our oyster,” she said.

  Without looking, la Grande Dame cinched the seals around her wrists. “I find oysters to be too much work,” she replied, one eyebrow coyly arched.

  Chick’s like a movie villain popping a new clip in a Glock, Striker thought.

  You starting to dig this lady?

  No, she wouldn’t go that far, just the Dame’s cool-as-a-cucumber routine was infectious. The old girl had glided through the past few hours with the air of a woman in a plush white bathrobe wandering around a spa in search of the steam room. Yeah, nobody was keeping Striker from growing hysterical more than la Grande Dame and her chemically ironed face. Remind me never to play poker with this ho, she thought. In a game of pickup basketball, in descending order, she’d pick the Dame, Anders, the Baron, then Bobbi Sue but only if she had to. She just hoped her favorite villain kept in mind they were all on the same team.

  “I bet we’ll be able to see a hundred miles out,” she said. “The Yegorov’s gotta be out there.”

  “One would think.” For a moment the sunlight caught in the Dame’s teeth, a silvery ray sparking in her mouth.

  Striker could hear the doubt in her traveling companion’s voice. The thought had also crossed her mind. If katabatic winds could lift a kayak and send it crashing through the back of a man’s skull easy as breaking an egg, then what kind of damage might they inflict on a sixty something-year-old Russian icebreaker that had seen better days?

  Right now she had bigger fish to fry than thinking about the wind. Hiking in a dry suit was proving ridiculous—it’s like mountaineering in footie pajamas—but the thought of spotting the Yegorov propelled her on. That plus la Grande Dame was an excellent goad. Even swaddled in a dry suit, the Dame had the body of a dancer, one of those people who’d jumped on the yoga train back in the ’70s and had kept it up ever since.

  Be honest now. Lady’s got a helluva rack on her.

  Too true. At dinner the night before, Striker had noticed several men in the dining room checking her out. The old girl’s obvious surgical enhancements made for a strange but compelling contrast. White hair, D cup. Damn! Milk might do a body good but not as good as unlimited resources. The rich were becoming ageless.

  Beyond the beach the land flattened out as it stretched to the foot of the volcano. It was fast becoming apparent that unlike Paulet, this island was big enough to house secrets. The baldness of the ground made you feel like you should be able to see everything at once, but in reality there were innumerable ridges and hills texturing the area, places where a person could tuck herself into the landscape in order to get out of the path of the wind and cold.

  Even beyond the beach they encountered the occasional penguin, sometimes clusters of them, the birds plodding along in both directions. It was amazing the way they navigated the terrain. Nothing stopped them. What business could they have so far from the sea? The penguins remained unflustered and steadfast no matter how rocky the landscape, little black-and-white commuters. Now and then one of them would stop and study the two women, then toddle on.

  Overhead the sun was still slightly off-center when she and the Dame arrived at the foot of the volcano. It wasn’t big but they were both surprised by its steepness, the cone with enough buttes and escarpments to prevent them from seeing the summit. Who knew what was up there? Unlike the flat terrain, the cone was covered in a layer of unbroken white. It wasn’t deep but as they climbed, they encountered icy slicks where the snow had melted and then refrozen. It made for tough going. Striker felt lucky for the stony patches where the ground was exposed. The rocky terrain gave her purchase on what was proving to be a beautiful yet treacherous location.

  They were almost to the rim when they stumbled on it. “Well well well,” said la Grande Dame. It was the understatement of the year.

  Striker had eaten breakfast hours ago but she could still feel the vomit rising. “Goddam. Can’t we go five minutes without an emergency?”

  “I think at this point, five minutes won’t make a difference,” said the Dame, calm as ever.

  “What are you talking about?” snapped Striker. “Somebody needs help.”

  The blood spatter glistened on the snow like an abstract painting.

  “Needed,” said la Grande Dame. She pointed at something with her foot.

  The rock was the perfect size and shape to do damage, jagged on one side yet small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of an angry hand. Striker bent down for a closer look.

  Something was stuck to it. Something pink and wet and gooey like raw chicken. Just the littlest slab of flesh. Strands of hair were crusted along the rock’s ragged edge, the strands auburn and shiny. And underneath the hair was a substance she had never seen before. The gunk gray yet fatty like pâté.

  Admittedly it was slick where they were standing. It wouldn’t take much to slip and fall. Between the cold and the fear since the accident, hunger starting to arise, the body uncontrollably shaking to stay warm. Especially bodies with little to no extra meat on the bones. These poor ass-less white women. Their legs going rubbery on the way up the volcano, blood sugar dropping. Wanting to stop but pushing forward out of fear, every minute precious in the race to be seen. The legs giving out, the dizziness overwhelming, slipping on a patch of ice where you didn’t expect there to be ice because this is supposed to be summer, goddammit, the season of barbeques and fireworks and white-people sunburns. Everyone knows once the head starts bleeding, good luck getting it to stop. The heart like an oil rig pumping pumping no matter what. Sometimes the littlest nick on the scalp and it’s on. Striker had never seen so much of the red stuff (or had she?) and yet it was only the beginning.

  On the far edge of the spatter, a rut lay gouged in the snow. The furrow running off into the distance. The rut the width of a person. And in the middle of the rut right where a head should be was a bright red smear.

  Somebody was dragging a body up the volcano.

  “Goddammit,” whispered Striker, but what else was there to do but push on? Down below on the beach the thin red line of kayaks like a warning.

  It took them a second to realize they’d reached the top. The moment was anticlimactic. No matter where you went, the earth stopped going up. No more ground to climb. Simple as that.

  “Guess we’re here,” said Striker.

  “I guess we are,” said the Dame.

  Striker turned and gazed down the slope of the volcano, past the beach and out onto the ocean, all while trying not to fixate on the trail of blood that had led them there. She wished she’d brought her Holga. They say no matter how rough shit got, Van Gogh took his brushes with him everywhere. Dude was onto something. You never knew when you might hit the jackpot. Miles and miles of beautiful emptiness, the water and the sky the same bright blue, the snow a soft periwinkle as it reflected the light, the ice and its infinite facets sparkling.

  The crater was wider than she’d expected. On the inside she could make out standing pools of water, the empty sky reflected in their perfect mirrors. A colony of small white birds had built nests along a lumpy interior shelf. Thank god for animals. The colony meant the wispy white clouds coming out of the crater were indeed steam, nothing poisonous. Striker let herself relax.

  Down on the beach the penguin rookery was still teeming with life, little black specks like fleas shuffling in and out of the ocean. Even from way up there the eye snagged on the kayaks. You couldn’t miss them. A bright red line drawn along the shore for anyone to spot.

  Striker raised the binoculars to her face. “Come on,” she muttered, as she combed through the sea of birds. She felt a panic dawning in her chest. “Not now.”

  La Grande Dame stood waiting her turn. “What is it?”

  Striker handed her the binoculars. “They’re gone,” she said. “No Anders, your husband, the crazy Texas lady. Even Vadim.” She found herself clenching and unclenching her fists. “This isn’t Disneyland,” she said. “We don’t need any more people getting hurt.”

  The Dame adjusted yet another secret focal ring. “My husband is a man of nine lives,” she said. Striker imagined a cat stretching in a patch of sunlight, the cat wearing a maroon smoking jacket and lapping milk from a martini glass. “If the others are with him, they’re fine—I guarantee it—they’re better than fine. That man has a nose for pleasure,” said the old girl. She lowered the binoculars and headed off along the bright red trail around the rim.

  Striker found herself following in the Dame’s footsteps, grumbling all the way. Once in the lower village on Christopher Street, Riley had gifted her a tarot reading. While laying out the cards, the medium had claimed nothing ever happens to us unless our higher mind acquiesces. When the darkness comes, you gotta ask yourself what you’re meant to learn from it, said the medium in a thick Brooklyn accent. The afternoon had been entertaining. In the days and weeks that followed, she and Riley had laughed and laughed about it, asking each other anytime a plan went sideways why their higher minds were letting this fuckery go down. Now schlepping along the top of a sleeping volcano while following a bloody path through the summer snow, she couldn’t help but wonder who was greenlighting this shit.

  Striker was surprised she and the Dame hadn’t noticed them before. On the far side of the crater, a forest of stones rose skyward, from a distance their forms improbably human. It made sense. If you wanted to catch some passing ship’s eye, build this, each one silent and daunting. After twelve, Striker lost count.

  Her first thoughts were of Stonehenge and the days when mankind worshipped the sun. The knot in her belly tightened. She couldn’t tell if it was due to the bloody path twisting toward this city of rocks or the rocks themselves, their auras calling to mind the era of human sacrifice.

  As she approached the first one, the skin of her neck began to tingle. An eeriness hung over the spot, a feeling of being watched. Long ago someone had stood right where she was standing. Someone who was hungry and cold and despairing as the days grew shorter until the light went out, the darkness heavy and permanent. In their desperation, some hand had stacked them high, higher still, rock upon rock, growing the cairns as big as they could so that a ship far out at sea might see these stony figures and realize there were people living here against their will.

  The cairns were scattered along the rim. How had the builders erected structures so immense, the tallest one stretching more than sixty feet, tall as an oak? She had seen cairns before in places like Mongolia, Buddhist countries where travelers would leave a rock on an area’s highest spot as a request to the sky god for safe passage. Those cairns were simply heaps of rocks, small man-made hills. But these structures were more like totems. Stones balanced one on top of the other in a giant, precarious tower. Without cement, there was no room for error. For the past hundred years, she wondered what had kept them from toppling.

  At least on a place like Easter Island, you could tell where those giant heads were staring, their eyes fixed on a faraway spot out in the ocean, the heads carved with discernible features. But cairns by definition are faceless, though here it didn’t seem to matter. Everywhere Striker turned, their stony gaze as if following her.

  In the center the tallest one stood flanked by two smaller but equally massive pilings. Already she couldn’t help but imagine a family. The biggest, Mama, was the protector of the clan. Baby was built entirely of blood-red rocks, the cairn deeply oxidized while Daddy sat a little lower on the rim, Daddy’s rocks black and pointy and gnashing.

  Striker realized she was holding her breath. It was silly. These cairns had been standing like this for more than a century. Still, it couldn’t hurt to tiptoe past. It was a paradox, each structure solid yet delicate, stony needles precariously balanced. She imagined one crashing down simply from the tremor of her feet on the earth. What had Percy said about giving nature her space? Carefully she picked her way through the forest of stone.

  The first one she noticed was carved on the boulder at the base of the mama cairn. The rock speckled with silica and glittering a perplexing blue-red.

  A sinister feeling spread through her gut. She craned her neck and gazed up the column of rocks. Even from the ground, she could see another stone gleaming at the very top, the stone a mesmerizing blue-red. She knew if she were a bird and could fly up for a look, she would find the same puzzling symbol. The emblem weirdly familiar, like a face in a grainy photo of someone she should recognize but didn’t.

  The same mark was gouged on other blue-red stones stacked in other cairns. Some of the carvings were shallow, others deep like the earth’s first scars.

  The feeling of unease ignited. In Machu Picchu she had learned about ancient symbols the Inca believed were portals to distant realities. Her guide had explained the symbols were like primitive QR codes. All you had to do was gaze at them with a clean and honest heart, and instantly you would be transported to a kingdom of peace. But if your heart was imperfect and dirty, then you looked on the symbols at your own peril. There was no telling what kind of hellhole you might end up in. You could even end up dead.

  Perhaps the most disconcerting feature of these strange marks was their perfection. Their lines preternaturally straight, angles crisp as if scored by a laser.

  “May I never meet the soul who carved these,” she whispered as she slipped past yet another perilous tower of rocks.

  She was almost out of the shadow of the cairns when she spotted a small cabin built a few hundred feet down on the side of the volcano. Striker hardly had time to register the miracle of the hut when she saw a figure in yellow working their way toward the shelter. The figure advancing and busy busy busy. Something in yellow lying still at their feet.