By Sue Henry
Along with her cabin a pile of ashes and her lite in items, champion Alaskan "musher" Jessie Arnold has gratefully approved a friend's notion that she force his motor domestic up from Idaho, alongside the Alaska road -- a panoramic, thousand-mile-long direction winding previous scorching springs, glaciers, and ice-blue lakes. however the idyllic journey takes a dismal flip whilst a teenage hitchhiker brings terror aboard. worried and by myself, Patrick Cutler disappears ahead of the police tell Jessie that the younger runaway is needed in reference to stunning murders. without notice she is forged right into a raging maelstrom of darkish secrets and techniques and lethal outcomes. And the chilly and empty street she's touring will be prime her to not her home...but to a grave within the trackless wilderness.
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Additional resources for Dead North: An Alaska Mystery
You know what he said he’d do. You know . ” “I know you were really dumb to let him catch up with you. ” “He was really mean. My arm still hurts where he grabbed me. ” His worried tone came close to a whine. ” “So? I’d rather not graduate than get arrested. My dad will have less of a snit-ﬁt. Besides, we’ve either gotta tell McMurdock something or go and try to ﬁnd Pat. ” But Kim sounded anything but persuaded and certain. He glanced out the window and bit his lip, a mixture of fear and confusion deepening his frown.
But it hadn’t been too difﬁcult to slip into the back of the truck between the empty ﬁvegallon cans, crawl under the heavy folded tarp, and lie ﬂat enough not to be seen—to disappear into an all but empty truck bed that wouldn’t be checked because it obviously carried nothing suspicious. For that moment, Patrick had been glad he wasn’t fat or any bigger—though he’d always longed to be at least six feet tall instead of ﬁve foot ten. Another couple of inches and he might have made the basketball team.
First, though, it couldn’t hurt to try wandering past the picnic tables. He was practically starving anyway, so looking hungry would be no problem— no problem at all. An hour from the border, Jessie had stopped to ﬁll the gas tank in Cranbrook, British Columbia, where she exchanged some American dollars for DEAD NORTH 47 Canadian, and ﬁfteen short minutes farther up the road slowed to pull off the highway for a stop at Fort Steele, ready for her ﬁrst real break of the day. Tank, who had abandoned his nap in Cranbrook, looked out the window with great interest as they passed an antique train engine, which with bell clanging, whistle screaming, and steam hissing from its boiler pulled several passenger cars away from a refurbished station near the wide sweep of the access road.