They’d loaded two calves4 into the truck - not down in the bottom, like Trixie had figured, but nearly on top of her in the narrow space where she was curled. This way, she supposed, they wouldn’t stand up during the trip. Once they’d started under way, Trixie had poked5 her head out from the straw and looked at one calf6. It had eyes as large as planets, and when she held out her finger, the calf sucked hard on it.
At the next stop, another farm not ten minutes down the road, an enormous Holstein limped up the ramp7 into the back of the truck. It ^tared right at Trixie and mooed. “Damn shame,” the trucker said, as the farmer shoved the cow from behind.
“Ayuh, she went down on some ice,” he said. “In you go, now.” Then the door swung shut and everything went black.
She didn’t know where they were headed and didn’t particularly care. Prior to this, the farthest Trixie had ever been by herself was the Mall of Maine. She wondered if her father was looking for her yet. She wished she could phone him and tell him she was all right but under the circumstances, she couldn’t call. She might never.
She lay down on one calf’s smooth side. It smelled of grass and grain and daylight, and with every breath, she felt herself rising and falling. She wondered why the cows were in transit9. Maybe they were going to a new farm for Christmas. Or to be part of a Nativity play. She pictured the doors swinging open and farmhands in crisp overalls10 coming to lift down the calves. They would find Trixie and would give her fresh milk and homemade ice cream and they wouldn’t even think to ask her how she’d wound up in the back of a livestock11 truck.
In a way, it was a mystery to Trixie, too. She had seen the detective at Jason’s funeral, although he thought he’d been hiding. And then, when everyone thought she was asleep, she’d stood on the balcony and heard what he’d said to her father.
Enough to know that she had to get out of there.
She was, in a way, a little proud of herself. Who knew that she’d be able to run away without a car, with only two hundred bucks12 in her pocket? She’d never considered herself to be the kind of person who was cool in the face of crisis - and yet, you never knew what you were capable of until you arrived at that given moment. Life was just a whole string of spots where you continued to surprise yourself.
She must have fallen asleep for a while, sandwiched between the knobby knees and globe bellies14 of the two calves, but when the truck stopped again they struggled to stand - impossible in that cramped15 space. Below them, the cow began to bellow16, one low note that ricocheted. There was the sound of a seal being breached17, a mighty18 creak, and then the doors to the back of the truck swung open.
Trixie blinked into the light and saw what she hadn’t earlier: The cow had a lesion on her right foreleg, one that made it buckle19 beneath her. The Holstein calves on either side of her were males, no good for producing milk. She peered out the double doors and squinted21 so that she could read the sign at the end of the driveway: LaRue and Sons Beef, Berlin, NH.
This was not a petting zoo or Old MacDonald’s Farm, as Trixie had imagined. This was a slaughterhouse.
She scrambled22 down from her ledge23, startling the animals - not to mention the truck driver who was unhooking the tether of the cow - and took off like a shot down the long gravel24 driveway.
Trixie ran until her lungs were on fire, until she had reached what passed for a town, with a Burger King and a gas station. The Burger King made her think of the calves, which made her think that she was going to be a vegetarian25, if she ever got through the other side of this nightmare.
Suddenly, there was a siren. Trixie went still as stone, her eyes trained on the circling blue lights of the advancing police cruiser.
The car went screaming past her, on to someone else’s emergency.
Wiping her hand across her mouth, Trixie took a deep breath and started to walk.
“She’s gone,” Daniel Stone said, frantic27.
Bartholemew’s eyes narrowed. “Gone?” He followed Stone upstairs and stood in the doorway28 of Trixie’s room, which looked as if a bomb had cut a swath through its middle. “I don’t know where she is,” Stone said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know when she left.” It took Bartholemew less than a second to determine that this wasn’t a lie. In the first place, Stone had been out of his sight for less than a minute, hardly long enough to tip off his daughter that she was under suspicion. In the second place, Daniel Stone seemed just as surprised as Bartholemew was to find Trixie missing, and he was skating the knife edge of panic.
For only a heartbeat, Bartholemew let himself wonder why a teenage girl who had nothing to hide would suddenly disappear. But in the next breath, he remembered what it felt like to discover that your daughter was not where you’d thought she was, and he switched gears. “When did you last see her?” “Before she went to take a nap . . . about three-thirty?” The detective took a notepad out of his pocket. “What was she wearing?” “I’m not sure. She probably changed after the funeral.” “Have you got a recent photo?” Bartholemew followed Stone downstairs again, watching him run a finger along the vertebrae of books on a living room shelf, finally pulling down an eighth-grade yearbook from Bethel Middle School. He turned pages until they fell open to the S’s. A folio of snapshots - a 5-by-7 and some wallet-sized - spilled out. “We never got around to framing them,” Stone murmured.
In the photographs, Trixie’s smiling face repeated like an Andy Warhol print. The girl in the picture had long red hair held back with clips. Her smile was just a little too wide, and a tooth in front was crooked29. The girl in that picture had never been raped30.
Maybe she had never even been kissed.
Bartholemew had to pry32 the pictures of Trixie from her father’s hand. Both men were painfully aware that Stone was struggling not to break down. The tears you shed over a child were not the same as any others. They burned your throat and your corneas. They left you blind.
Daniel Stone stared at him. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” “Sit tight,” Bartholemew replied, aware that it was not an answer. “I’ll find her.” The last lecture Laura gave before Christmas vacation was about the half-life of transgression34. “Are there any sins Dante left out?” Laura asked. “Or any really bad modern-day behaviors that weren’t around in the year 1300?” One girl nodded. “Drug addiction35. There’s, like, no bolgia for crackheads.” “It’s the same as gluttony,” a second student said.
“Addiction’s addiction. It doesn’t matter what the substance is.” “Cannibalism?” “Nope, Dante’s got that in there,” Laura said. “Count Uggolino.
He lumps it in with bestiality.” “Driving to endanger?” “Filippo drives his horses recklessly. Early Italian road rage.” Laura glanced around the silent hall. “Maybe the question we need to ask isn’t whether there’s any fresh twenty-first-century sin ... but whether the people who define sin have changed, because of the times.” “Well, the world’s completely different,” a student pointed36 out.
“Sure, but look at how it’s still the same. Avarice37, cowardice38, depravity, a need to control other people . . . these have all been around forever. Maybe nowadays a pedophile will start a kiddie-porn site instead of flashing in the subway tunnels, or a murderer will choose to use an electric chain saw to kill, instead of his bare hands ... Technology helps us be more creative in the way we sin, but it doesn’t mean that the basic sin is different.” A boy shook his head. “Seems like there ought to be a whole different circle for someone like Jeffrey Dahmer, you know?” “Or the people who come up with reality TV shows,” someone else interjected, and the class laughed.
“It’s sort of interesting,” Laura said, “to think that Dante wouldn’t have put Jeffrey Dahmer as deep in hell as he would Macbeth. Why is that?” “Because the skiwiest thing you can do is be disloyal to someone. Macbeth killed his own king, man. That would be like Eminem taking down Dr. Dre.” The student was, at a literal level, correct. In the Inferno39, sins of passion and despair weren’t nearly as damning as sins of treachery. Sinners in the upper circles of hell were guilty of indulging their own appetites, but without malice41 toward others.
Sinners in the middle levels of hell had committed acts of violence toward them- selves or others. The deepest level of hell, though, was reserved for fraud - what Dante felt was the worst sin of all.
There was betrayal to family - those who killed kin8. There was betrayal to country - for the double agents and spies of the world. There was betrayal to benefactor42 - Judas, Brutus, Cassius, and Lucifer, all of whom had turned against their mentors43.
“Does Dante’s hierarchy44 still work?” Laura asked. “Or do you think that in our world, the order of the damned should be shaken up?” “I think it’s worse to keep someone’s head in your freezer than to sell national security secrets to the Chinese,” a girl said, “but that’s just me.” Another student shook her head. “I don’t get why being unfaithful to your king is worse than being unfaithful to your husband. If you have an affair, you wind up only in the second level of hell. That’s, like, getting off easy.” “Nice choice of words,” the kid beside her joked.
“It’s about intention,” a student added. “Like manslaughter versus45 murder. It’s almost as if you do something in the heat of the moment, Dante excuses you. But if you’ve got this whole premeditated scheme going on, you’re in deep trouble.” In that moment, although she’d been a professor for this particular course - even this particular class topic - for a decade, Laura realized that there was a sin that Dante had left out, one that belonged in the very deepest pit of hell. If the worst sin of all was betraying others, then what about people who lied to themselves? There should have been a tenth circle, a tiny spot the size of the head of a pin, with room for infinite masses. It would be overcrowded with professors who hid in ivy-covered towers instead of facing their broken families. With little girls who had grown up overnight. With husbands who didn’t speak of their past but instead poured it out onto a blank white page. With women who pretended they could be the wife of one and the lover of another and keep the two selves distinct. With anyone who told himself he was living the perfect life, despite all evidence to the contrary.
A voice swam toward her. “Professor Stone? Are you okay?” Laura focused on the girl in the front row who’d asked the question. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m not. You can all... you can all go home a little early for vacation.” As the students disbanded, delighted with this windfall, Laura gathered her briefcase46 and her coat. She walked to the parking lot, got into her car, and began to drive.
The women who wrote “Annie’s Mailbox” were wrong, Laura realized. Just because you didn’t speak the facts out loud didn’t erase47 their existence. Silence was just a quieter way to lie.
She knew where she was headed, but before she got there, her cell phone rang. “It’s Trixie,” Daniel said, and suddenly what he had to say was far more important than what she did.
Santa’s Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire, was full of lies.
There were transplanted reindeer48 languishing49 in a fake barn and phony elves hammering in a workshop and a counterfeit50 Santa sitting on a throne with a bazillion kids lined up to tell him what they wanted on the big day. There were parents pretending this was totally real, even the animatronic Rudolph. And then there was Trixie herself, trying to act like she was normal, when in fact she was the biggest liar51 of all.
Trixie watched a little girl climb onto Fake Santa’s lap and pull his beard so hard that it ripped off. You’d think that a kid, even one so young, would get suspicious, but it never worked that way.
People believed what they wanted to believe, no matter what was in front of their eyes.
That’s why she was here, wasn’t it? As a kid, of course, Trixie had believed in Santa. For years, Zephyr52 - who was half Jewish and fully33 practical - pointed out the discrepancies53 to Trixie: How could Santa be in both Filene’s and the BonTon at the same time? If he really was Santa, shouldn’t he know what she wanted without having to ask? Trixie wished she could round up the kids in this building and save them, like Holden Caulfield in the last book she’d read for English. Reality check, she would say. Santa’s a phony. Your parents lied to you.
And, she might add, they’ll do it again. Her own parents had said she was beautiful, when in fact she was all angles and bowlegs. They’d promised that she’d find her Prince Charming, but he’d dumped Trixie. They said if she came home by her curfew and picked up her room and held up her end of the bargain, they’d keep her safe - yet look at what had happened.
She stepped out from behind a fir tree that belched54 Christmas carols and glanced around to see if anyone was watching her. In a way, it would have been easier to get caught. It was hard to look over your shoulder every other second, expecting to be recognized.
She’d worried that the truck driver who’d given her a lift would radio her whereabouts to the state police. She’d been sure that the man selling tickets at Santa’s Village had glanced down to compare her face to the one on a Wanted poster.
Trixie slipped into the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face and tried to take deep, even, social-disaster-avoidance breaths, the way she’d done in science class when they were dissecting55 a frog and she was sure she would throw up on her lab partner. She pretended to have something in her eye and squinted into the mirror until she was the only person left in the restroom.
Then Trixie stuck her head under the faucet56. It was the kind you had to push down to get the water going, so she had to keep pounding the knob for a continuous stream. She took off her sweatshirt and wrapped it around her hair, then went into a stall and sat on the toilet, shivering in her T-shirt while she rummaged57 through her backpack.
She’d bought the dye at Wal-Mart when the trucker stopped for cigarettes. The color was called Night in Shining Armor, but it looked plain old black to Trixie. She opened the box and read the instructions.
With any luck no one would think it weird58 that she was sitting in the bathroom for thirty minutes. Then again, no one else should be in the bathroom for thirty minutes. Trixie slipped on the plastic gloves and mixed the dye with the peroxide, shook, and squirted the solution onto her hair. She rubbed it around a little and pulled the plastic bag over her scalp.
Was she supposed to dye her eyebrows59, too? Was that even possible? She and Zephyr used to talk about how you could be an adult way before you hit twenty-one. The age wasn’t as important as the milestones60: taking a trip sans parents, buying beer without getting carded, having sex. She wished she could tell Zeph that it was possible to grow up in an instant, that you could look down and see the line in the sand dividing your life now from what it used to be.
Trixie wondered if, like her father, she’d never go back home again. She wondered how big the world was, really, when you crossed it, instead of traced it with your finger on a map. A little rivulet61 of liquid ran down her neck; she smeared62 it with a finger before it reached the collar of her shirt. The dye came away as dark as motor oil. For just a moment she pretended she was bleeding. It would be no surprise to her if inside she’d gone as black as everyone suspected.
Daniel parked in front of the wide-eyed windows of the toy store and watched Zephyr hand some bills and small change back to an elderly woman. Zephyr’s hair was in braids, and she was wearing two longsleeved shirts, one layered over the next, as if she’d planned to be cold no matter what. Through the shadows and the stream of the glass, it was almost possible to pretend that she was Trixie.
There was no way Daniel planned to sit inside his house and wait for the police to find Trixie and bully63 an explanation out of her. To that end, the minute Bartholemew had gone - and Daniel checked to make sure he wasn’t just lurking64 at the end of the block - Daniel had begun to consider what he knew about Trixie that the cops didn’t. Where she might go, whom she might trust.
Right now, there were precious few people who fell into that category.
The customer left the store, and Zephyr noticed him waiting outside. “Hey, Mr. S,” she said, waving.
She wore purple nail polish on her fingers. It was the same color Trixie had been wearing this morning; Daniel realized that they must have put it on together the last time Zephyr was over at the house. Just seeing it on Zephyr, when he so badly wanted to see it on Trixie, made it hard to breathe.
Zephyr was looking over his shoulder. “Is Trixie with you?” Daniel tried to shake his head, but somewhere between the thought and the action the intent vanished. He stared at the girl who knew his daughter maybe better than he’d ever known her himself, as much as it hurt to admit it. “Zephyr,” he said, “have you got a minute?” For an old guy, Daniel Stone was hot. Zephyr had even said that to Trixie once or twice, although it totally freaked her out, what with him being her father and everything. But beyond that, Mr.
Stone had always fascinated Zephyr. In all the years she’d known Trixie, she had never seen him lose his temper. Not when they spilled nail polish remover on Mrs. S’s bedroom bureau, not when Trixie failed her math test, not even when they were caught sneaking65 cigarettes in Trixie’s garage. It was against human nature to be that calm, like he was some kind of Stepford dad who couldn’t be provoked. Take Zephyr’s own mother, for example. Zephyr had once found her hurling66 all of their dinner plates against the backyard fence, when she found out that this loser she was dating was two-timing her. Zephyr and her mom had screaming matches. In fact, her mother had been the one to teach her the best curse words.
On the other hand, Trixie had learned them from Zephyr. Zephyr had even tried to lure67 Trixie into objectionable behaviors simply for the purpose of trying to get a rise out of Mr. Stone, but nothing had ever worked. He was like some kind of soap opera actor whose tragic68 story line you fell madly for: beautiful to look at, but all the same, you knew what you were seeing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Today, though, something was different. Mr. Stone couldn’t concentrate; even as he grilled69 Zephyr, his eyes kept darting70 around. He was so far from the even-keeled, friendly father figure she’d envied her whole life that if Zephyr didn’t know better, she would have assumed it wasn’t Daniel Stone standing71 across from her at all.
“The last time I talked to Trixie was last night,” Zephyr said, leaning across the glass counter of the toy store. “I called her around ten o’clock to talk about the funeral.” “Did she tell you that she had somewhere to go after that?” “Trixie isn’t really into going out these days.” As if her father didn’t already know that.
“It’s really important, Zephyr, that you tell me the truth.” “Mr. Stone,” she said, “why would I lie to you?” An unspoken answer hovered73 between them: because you have before. They were both thinking about what she’d told the police after the night of the rape31. They both knew that jealousy74 could rise like a tide, erasing75 events that had been scratched into the shore of your memory.
Mr. Stone took a deep breath. “If she calls you . . . will you tell her I’m trying to find her . . . and that everything’s going to be okay?” “Is she in trouble?” Zephyr asked, but by then Trixie’s father was already walking out of the toy store.
Zephyr watched him go. She didn’t care that he thought she was a lousy friend. In fact, she was just the opposite. It was because she’d already wronged Trixie once that she’d done what she had.
Zephyr punched the key on the cash register that made the drawer open. Three hours had passed since she’d stolen all the twenty-dollar bills and had given them to Trixie. Three hours, Zephyr thought, was a damn good head start.
HAVE GONE TO LOOK FOR TRIXIE, the note said. BRB.
Laura wandered up to Trixie’s room, as if this was bound to be a big mistake, as if she might open the door and find Trixie there, silently nodding to the beat of her iPod as she wrestled76 with an algebraic equation. But she wasn’t there, of course, and the small space had been overturned. She wondered if that had been Trixie or the police.
Daniel had said on the phone that this was suddenly a homicide investigation78. That Jason’s death had not been accidental after all. And that Trixie had run away.
There was so much that had to be fixed79 that Laura didn’t know where to start. Her hands shook as she sorted through the leftovers80 of her daughter’s life - an archaeologist, looking over the artifacts and trying to piece together an understanding of the young woman who’d used them. The Koosh ball and the Lisa Frank pencil - these belonged to the Trixie she thought she had known. It was the other items that she couldn’t make sense of: the CD with lyrics81 that made Laura’s jaw82 drop, the sterling83 silver ring shaped like a skull84, the condom hidden inside a makeup85 compact.
Maybe she and Trixie still had a lot in common: Apparently86, while Laura was turning into a woman she could barely recognize, her daughter had been, too.
She sat down on Trixie’s bed and lifted the receiver of the phone. How many times had Laura cut in on the line between her and Jason, telling her that she had to say good night and go to bed? Five more minutes, Trixie would beg.
If she’d given Trixie those minutes, all those nights, would it have added up to another day for Jason? If she took five minutes now, could she right everything that had gone wrong? It took Laura three tries to dial the number of the police station, and she was holding for Detective Bartholemew when Daniel stepped into the room. “What are you doing?” “Calling the police,” she said.
He crossed in two strides and took the receiver from her hand, hung up the phone. “Don’t.” “Daniel . . .” “Laura, I know why she ran away. I was accused of murder when I was eighteen, and I took off, too.” At this confession87, Laura completely lost her train of thought.
How could you live with a man for fifteen years, feel him move inside you, have his child, and not know something as fundamental about him as this? He sat down at Trixie’s desk. “I was still living in Alaska.
The victim was my best friend, Cane88.” “Did you . . . did you do it?” Daniel hesitated. “Not the way they thought I did.” Laura stared at him. She thought of Trixie, God knows where right now, on the run for a crime she could not have committed.
“If you weren’t guilty . . . then why . . .” “Because Cane was still dead.” In Daniel’s eyes, Laura could suddenly see the most surprising things: the blood of a thousand salmon89 slit90 throat to tail, the blue- veined crack of ice so thick it made the bottoms of your feet hurt, the profile of a raven91 sitting on a roof. In Daniel’s eyes she understood something she hadn’t been willing to admit to herself before: In spite of everything, or maybe because of it, he understood their daughter better than she did.
He shifted, hitting the computer mouse with his elbow. The screen hummed to life, revealing several open windows: Google, iTunes, Sephora.com, and the heartbreaking rapesurvivor.com, full of poetry by girls like Trixie. But MapQuest? When Trixie wasn’t even old enough to drive? Laura leaned over Daniel’s shoulder to grasp the mouse. FIND IT’ the site promised. There were empty boxes to fill in: address, city, state, zip code. And at the bottom, in bright blue: We are having trouble finding a route for your location.
“Oh, Christ,” Daniel said. “I know where she is.” Trixie’s father used to take her out into the woods and teach her how to read the world so that she’d always know where she was going. He’d quiz her on the identification of trees: the fairy-tale spray of needles on a hemlock92, the narrow grooves93 of an ash, the paper-wrapped birch, the gnarled arms of a sugar maple94.
One day, when they were examining a tree with barbed wire running through the middle of its trunk - how long do you think that took? Trixie’s eye had been caught by something in the forest: sun glinting off metal.
The abandoned car sat behind an oak tree that had been split by lightning. Two of the windows had been broken; some animal had made its home in the tufted stuffing of the backseat. A vine had grown from the bottom of the forest floor through the window wrapping around the steering95 wheel.
Where do you think the driver is? Trixie had asked.
/ don’t know, her father replied. But he’s been gone for a long time He said that the person who’d left the car behind most likely didn’t want to bother with having it towed away. But that didn’t keep Trixie from making up more extravagant96 explanations: The man had suffered a head wound and started walking, only to wander up a mountain and die of exposure, and even now the bones were bleaching97 south of her backyard. The man was on the run from the Mob and had eluded98 hit men in a car chase. The man had wandered into town with amnesia99 and spent the next ten years completely unaware100 of who he used to be.
Trixie was dreaming of the abandoned car when someone slammed the door of the bathroom stall beside her. She woke up with a start and glanced down at her watch - surely if you left this stuff in your hair too long it would fall out by the roots or turn purple or something. She heard the flush of the toilet, running water, and then the busy slice of life as the door opened. When it fell quiet again, she crept out of the stall and rinsed101 her hair in the sink.
There were streaks102 on her forehead and her neck, but her hair - her red hair, the hair that had inspired her father to call her his chili103 pepper when she was only a baby - was now the color of a thicket’s thorns, of a rosebush past recovery.
As she stuffed the ruined sweatshirt into the bottom of the trash can, a mother came in with two little boys. Trixie held her breath, but the woman didn’t look twice at her. Maybe it was really that easy. She walked out of the bathroom, past a new Santa who’d come on duty, toward the parking lot. She thought of the man who’d left his car in the woods: Maybe he had staged his own death. Maybe he’d done it for the sole purpose of starting over.
If a teenager wants to disappear, chances are he or she will succeed. It was why runaways104 were so difficult to track - until they were rounded up in a drug or prostitution ring. Most teens who vanished did so for independence, or to get away from abuse.
Unlike an adult, however, who could be traced by a paper trail of ATM withdrawals105 and rental106 car agreements and airline passenger lists, a kid was more likely to pay in cash, to hitch-hike, to go unnoticed by bystanders.
For the second time in an hour, Bartholemew pulled into the neighborhood where the Stones lived. Trixie Stone was officially registered now as a missing person, not a fugitive108 from justice.
That couldn’t happen, not even if all signs pointed to the fact that the reason she’d left was because she knew she was about to be charged with murder.
In the American legal system, you could not use a suspect’s disappearance109 as probable cause. Later on, during a trial, a prosecutor110 might hold up Trixie’s flight as proof of guilt40, but there was never going to be a trial if Bartholemew couldn’t convince a judge to swear out a warrant for Trixie Stone’s arrestso that at the moment she was located, she could be taken into custody111.
The problem was, had Trixie not fled, he wouldn’t be arresting her yet. Christ, just two days ago, Bartholemew had been convinced that Daniel Stone was the perp . . . until the physical evidence started to prove otherwise. Prove, though, was a dubious112 term. He had a boot print that matched Trixie’s footwear - and that of thousands of other town residents. He had blood on the victim that belonged to a female, which ruled out only half the population. He had a hair the same general color as Trixie’s - a hair with a root on it full of uncontaminated DNA113, but no known sample of Trixie’s to compare it to and no imminent114 means of getting one.
Any defense115 attorney would be able to drive a Hummer through the holes in that investigation. Bartholemew needed to physically116 find Trixie Stone, so that he could specifically link her to Jason Underhill’s murder.
He knocked on the Stones’ front door. Again, no one answered, but this time, when Bartholemew tried the knob, it was locked. He cupped his hands around the glass window and peered into the mudroom.
Daniel Stone’s coat and boots were gone.
He walked halfway117 around the attached garage to a tiny window and peered inside. Laura Stone’s Honda, which hadn’t been here two hours ago, was parked in one bay. Daniel Stone’s pickup118 was gone.
Bartholemew smacked119 his hand against the exterior120 wall of the house and swore. He couldn’t prove that Daniel and Laura Stone had gone off to find Trixie before the cops did, but he would have bet money on it. When your child is missing, you don’t go grocery shopping. You sit tight and wait for the word that she’s being brought safely home.
Bartholemew pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think.
Maybe this was a blessing121 in disguise. After all, the Stones had a better chance of finding Trixie than he did. And it would be far easier for Bartholemew to track two adults than their fourteen-year-old daughter.
And in the meantime? Well, he could get a warrant to search the house, but it wouldn’t do him any good. No lab worth its salt would accept a toothbrush from Trixie’s bathroom as a viable122 known sample of DNA. What he needed was the girl herself and a lab-sanctioned sample of her blood.
Which, in that instant, Bartholemew realized he already had sitting in a sealed rape kit123, evidence for a trial that wasn’t going to happen.
In eighth grade, as part of health class, Trixie had had to take care of an egg. Each student was given one, with the understanding that it had to remain intact for a week, could not ever be left alone, and had to be “fed” every three hours. This was supposed to be some big contraceptive deterrent124: a way for kids to realize how having a baby was way harder than it looked.
Trixie took the assignment seriously. She named her egg Benedict and fashioned a little carrier for it that she wore around her neck. She paid her English teacher fifty cents to babysit the egg while she was in gym class; she took it to the movies with Zephyr. She held it in the palm of her hand during classes and got used to the feel of it, the shape, the weight.
Even now, she couldn’t tell you how the egg had gotten that hairline fracture. Trixie first noticed it on the way to school one morning. Her father had shrugged125 off the F she received - he said it was a stupid assignment, that a kid was nothing like an egg. Yet Trixie had wondered if his benevolence126 had something to do with the fact that in real life, he would have failed too: how else to explain the difference between what he thought Trixie was up to and what she actually was doing? Now, she inched up the wrist of her coat and looked at the loose net of scars. It was her hairline crack, she supposed, and it was only a matter of time before she completely went to pieces.
“Humpty freaking Dumpty,” she said out loud.
A toddler bouncing on his mother’s lap next to Trixie clapped his hands. “Dumpty!” he yelled. “Fall!” He lurched himself backward so fast that Trixie was sure that he’d smash his head on the floor of the bus station.
His mother grabbed him before that happened. “Trevor. Cut it out, will you?” Then she turned to Trixie. “He’s a big fan of the Egg Man.” The woman was really just a girl. Maybe she was a few years older than Trixie, but not by much. She wore a ratty blue scarf wrapped around her neck and an army surplus coat. From the number of bags around them, it looked like they were making a permanent move - but then again, for all Trixie knew, this was how people with kids had to travel. “I don’t get nursery rhymes,” the girl said. “I mean, why would all the king’s horses and all the king’s men try to put an egg back together anyway?” “What’s the egg doing on the wall in the first place?” Trixie said.
“Exactly. I think Mother Goose was on crack.” She smiled at Trixie. “Where are you headed?” “Canada.” “We’re going to Boston.” She let the boy wriggle127 off her lap.
Trixie wanted to ask the girl if the baby was hers. If she’d had him by accident. If, even after you make what everyone considers to be the biggest mistake of your life, you stop thinking it’s a mistake and maybe see it as the best thing that ever could have happened.
“Ew, Trev, is that you?” The girl grabbed the baby around the waist and hauled him toward her face, rump first. She grimaced128 at the collection of duffels littering their feet. “Would you mind watching my stuff while I do a toxic129 waste removal?” As she stood up, she banged the diaper bag against her open backpack, spilling its contents all over the floor. “Oh, shit.. .” “I’ll get it,” Trixie said as the girl headed for the restroom with Trevor. She started jamming items back into the diaper bag: plastic keys that played a Disney song, an orange, a four-pack of crayons. A tampon with the wrapper half off, a hair scrunchie.
Something that might, at one time, have been a cookie. A wallet.
Trixie hesitated. She told herself she was only going to peek130 at the girl’s name, because she didn’t want to ask and run the risk of striking up a conversation.
A Vermont driver’s license131 looked nothing like one from Maine.
In the first place, there wasn’t a photograph. The one time Zephyr had convinced Trixie to go to a bar, she’d used a Vermont license as fake ID. “Five foot six is close enough,” Zephyr said, although Trixie was four inches shorter. Brown eyes, it read, when she had blue.
Fawn132 Abernathy lived at 34 First Street in Shelburne, Vermont.
She was nineteen years old. She was the same exact height as Trixie, and Trixie took that as an omen13.
She left Fawn her ATM card and half of the cash. But she slipped the American Express card and the license into her pocket.
Then Trixie hurried out of the Vermont Transit Bus terminal and threw herself into the first cab at the side of the curb133. “Where to?” the driver asked.
Trixie looked out the window. “The airport,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t an emergency,” Bartholemew begged. He glanced around Venice Prudhomme’s office, piled high with files and computer printouts and transcripts134 from court testimony135.
She sighed, not bothering to look up from her microscope.
“Mike, for you, it’s always an emergency.” “Please. I’ve got a hair with a root on it that was found on the dead kid’s body, and I have Trixie’s blood preserved all nice and neat in her rape kit. If the DNA matches, that’s all I need to get a warrant for her arrest.” “No,” Venice said.
“I know you’ve got a backlog136 and . . .” “That’s not why,” she interrupted, glancing at Bartholemew.
“There’s no way I’m opening up a sealed rape kit.” “Why? Trixie Stone consented to having her blood drawn137 for it already.” “As a victim,” Venice pointed out. “Not to prove she committed a crime.” “You’ve got to stop watching Law and Order.” “Maybe you ought to start.” Bartholemew scowled138. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” “I’m not doing anything,” Venice said, bending over her scope again. “At least not until a judge says so.” Summer on the tundra139 was dreamlike. Since the sun stayed out until two A.M., people didn’t sleep much in Akiak. Kids would cluster around bootleg booze and weed if they could get it, or leave behind the skins of their candy bars and spilled cans of pop if they couldn’t. Younger children splashed in the foggy green water of the Kuskokwim, even though by August they would still lose feeling in their ankles after only a few moments of submersion. Every year, in one of the Yup’ik villages, someone would drown; it was too cold for anyone to stay in the water long enough to learn how to swim.
The year Daniel was eight, he spent July walking barefoot along the banks of the Kuskokwim. A wall of alders140 and willows142 lined one side of the river, on the other, sod sloughed143 into the water from a tenfoot-high embankment. Mosquitoes beaded on the planes of his face every time he stopped moving; sometimes they’d fly into his ears, loud as a bush plane. Daniel would watch the fat backs of king salmon rise like miniature sharks in the center of the river. The men in the village were off in their aluminum144 fishing boats, the ones that had been sleeping on the shore like beached whales all winter. Yup’ik fish camps dotted the bank: single-celled cities made of whitewalled tents, or knobby poles nailed together and covered with blue tarps that flapped like the aprons145 of flustered146 old women. On plywood tables, the women cut kings and reds into strips, then hung them on the racks to dry as they called out to their children: Kaigtuten-qaa? Are you hungry? Qinucetaanrilgu kinguqliin! Don’t try to provoke your little brother! He picked up a crusted twig148, a fan belt, and a binder149 clip before he saw it - a pitted peak jutting150 out of the silt151. It couldn’t be ... could it? It took a trained eye to look past the soaked driftwood to pick out an ivory tusk152 or a fossilized bone, but it had happened, Daniel knew. Other kids in school - the ones who teased him because he was kass’aq, who laughed when he didn’t know how to shoot a ptarmigan or couldn’t find his way back from the bush on a snow-go had found mastodon teeth along the banks of the river.
Crouching153, Daniel dug around the base, even as the river rushed into the hole and buried his progress. It was an honest-to-God tusk, right here, under his hands. He imagined it reaching past the water table, bigger even than the one on display in Bethel.
Two ravens154 watched him from the bank, chattering155 a play-by- play commentary as Daniel pulled and heaved. Mammoth156 tusks157 could be ten or twelve feet long; they might weigh a couple hundred pounds. Maybe it wasn’t even a mammoth but a quugaarpak.
The Yupiit told stories of the huge creature that lived under the ground and came out only at night. If it was caught above the ground when the sun was up - even the slightest part of it - its entire body would turn into bone and ivory.
Daniel spent hours trying to extricate158 the tusk, but it was stuck too firm and wedged too deep. He would have to leave it and bring back reinforcements. He marked his site, trampling159 tall reeds and leaving a hummock160 of stones piled onto the bank to flag the spot where the tusk would be waiting.
The next day, Daniel returned with a shovel161 and a block of wood. He had a vague plan of building a dam to stave off the flow of water while he dug his tusk out of the silt. He passed the same people working at fish camp, and the bend where the alder141 trees had fallen off the bank right into the water, the two ravens cackling . . . but when he came to the spot where he’d found the tusk yesterday, it was gone.
It’s said that you can’t step into the same river twice. Maybe that was the problem, or maybe the current was so strong it had swept away the pile of rocks Daniel had left as a marker. Maybe it was, as the Yup’ik kids said, that Daniel was too white to do what they could do as naturally as breathing: find history with their own two hands.
It was not until Daniel reached the village again that he realized the ravens had followed him home. Everyone knew that if one bird landed on your roof, it meant company. A tiding of ravens, though, meant something else entirely162: that loneliness would be your lot, that there was no hope of changing your course.
Marita Soorenstad looked up the minute Bartholemew entered her office. “Do you remember a guy named David Fleming?” she asked. He sank down into the chair across from her. “Should I?” “In 1991, he raped and attempted to kill a fifteen-year-old girl who was riding her bike home from school. Then he went and killed someone in another county, and there was a Supreme163 Court case about whether or not the DNA sample taken for the first case could be used as evidence in the next case.” “So?” “So in Maine, if you take a blood sample from a suspect for one case, you can indeed use it for subsequent tests in a different case,” Marita said. “The problem is that when you took blood from Trixie Stone, she consented because she was a victim, and that’s very different from consenting because she’s a suspect.” “Isn’t there some kind of loophole?” “Depends,” Marita said. “There are three situations when you’re talking about an individual sample that was given based on consent, as opposed to based on a warrant. In the first, the police tell the individual the sample will be used for any investigation. In the second, the police tell the individual the sample will be used only for a certain investigation. In the third, the police obtain consent after saying that the sample will be used to investigate one particular crime, but they don’t make any mention of other uses. You with me so far?” Bartholemew nodded.
“What exactly did you tell Trixie Stone about her rape kit?” He thought back to the night he’d met the girl and her parents in the hospital. Bartholemew could not be entirely sure, but he imagined that he said what he usually did with a sexual assault victim: that this was going to be used for the purposes of the rape case, that it was often the DNA evidence that a jury would hang their hat on.
“You didn’t mention using it for any other potential case, did you?” Marita asked.
“No,” he scowled. “Most rape victims have enough trouble with the current one.” “Well, that means the scope of consent was ambiguous. Most people assume that when the police ask for a sample to help solve a crime, they aren’t going to use the sample indefinitely for other purposes. And a pretty strong argument could be made that in the absence of explicit164 consent, retaining the sample and reusing it is constitutionally unreasonable165.” She pulled off her glasses.
“It seems to me you have two choices. You can either go back to Trixie Stone and ask for her permission to use the blood sample you’ve got in the rape kit for a new investigation, or you can go to a judge and get a warrant for a new sample of her blood.” “Neither one’s going to work,” Bartholemew said. “She’s missing.” Marita glanced up. “Are you kidding?” “I wish.” “Then get more creative. Where else would there be a sample of her DNA? Does she lick envelopes for the drama club or Teen Democrats166?” “She was too busy carving167 up her arms for any other extracurriculars,” Bartholemew said.
“Who treated her? The school nurse?” No, this had been Trixie’s big secret; she would have gone to great pains to hide it, especially if she was cutting herself during school hours. But it did beg the question: What did she use to stanch168 the flow of blood? Band-Aids, gauze, tissue? And was any of that in her locker169? The bush pilot from Arctic Circle Air had been hired to fly in a veterinarian headed to Bethel for the K300 sled dog race. “You going there too?” the vet170 asked, and although Trixie had no idea where it was, she nodded. “First time?” “Um, yeah.” The vet looked at her backpack. “You must be a JV.” She was; she’d played junior varsity soccer this fall. “I was a striker,” Trixie said.
“The rest of the JVs headed up to the checkpoints yesterday,” the pilot said. “You miss the flight?” He might as well have been speaking Greek. “I was sick,” Trixie said. “I had the flu.” The pilot hauled the last box of supplies into the belly171 of the plane. “Well, if you don’t mind riding with the cargo172, I don’t mind giving a pretty girl a lift.” The Shorts Skyvan hardly looked airworthy - it resembled a Winnebago with wings. The inside was crammed173 with duffels and pallets.
“You can wait for the commuter174 flight out tomorrow,” the pilot said, “but there’s a storm coming. You’ll probably sit out the whole race in the airport.” “I’d rather fly out now,” Trixie said, and the pilot gave her a leg up.
“Mind the body,” he said.
“Oh, I’m okay.” “Wasn’t talking about you.” The pilot reached in and rapped his knuckles175 against a pine box.
Trixie scrambled to the other side of the narrow cargo hold.
She was supposed to fly to Bethel next to a coffin176? “At least you know he won’t talk your ear off.” The pilot laughed, and then he sealed Trixie inside.
She sat on the duffels and flattened177 herself against the riveted178 metal wall. Through the mesh179 web that separated her from the pilot and the vet, she could hear talking. The plane vibrated to life.
Three days ago, if someone had told her she’d be riding in a flying bus beside a dead body, she would have flat-out denied it.
But desperation can do amazing things to a person. Trixie could remember her history teacher telling the class about the starving man in a Virginia settlement who’d killed, salted, and eaten his wife one winter before the rest of the colonists180 ever noticed she was missing. What you’d deem impossible one day might look promising181 the next.
As the plane canted off the ground, the pine box slid toward Trixie, jamming up against the soles of her shoes. It could be worse, she thought. He might not be in a coffin but in a body bag. He might not be some random182 dead guy but Jason.
They climbed into the night, a rich batter183 mixed with stars. Up here, it was even colder. Trixie pulled down the sleeves of her jacket.
Oooooh.
She leaned toward the mesh to speak into the front of the cockpit. The vet was already asleep. “Did you say something?” she called to the pilot.
“Nope!” Trixie settled back against the side of the plane and heard it again: the quiet long note of someone singing his soul.
It was coming from underneath184 the lid of the pine box.
Trixie froze. It had to be the engine. Or maybe the veterinarian snored. But even louder this time, she could trace the origin to the coffin: Ohhhhh.
What if the person wasn’t dead at all? What if he’d been stapled185 into this box and was trying to get out? What if he was scratching at the insides, splinters under his fingernails, wondering how he’d ever wound up in there? Ohhh, the body sighed. Noooo.
She came up on her knees, grabbing through the mesh at the bush pilot’s shoulder. “Stop the plane,” she cried. “You have to stop right now!” “You should have gone before we left,” the pilot yelled back.
“That body . . . it’s not dead!” By now, she’d awakened186 the vet, who turned around in the passenger seat. “What’s the matter...” Trixie couldn’t look back at the coffin; if she did there would be an arm reaching out of that box, a face she couldn’t lose in her nightmares, a voice telling her that he knew the secret she hadn’t told anyone else.
Ooooh.
“There,” Trixie said. “Can’t you hear that?” plane and it puffs187 up after liftoff? That’s all you’re hearing air going over the vocal188 cords.” He grinned at her. “Maybe you ought to lay off the caffeine.” Mortified189, Trixie turned back toward the coffin. She could hear the pilot and the vet bonding over her stupidity, and her cheeks burned. The body - dead as could be, dead as the wood it was surrounded by - continued to sing: one lonely note that filled the hold of the plane like a requiem190, like the truth no one wanted to hear.
“This really is a shock,” said Jeb Aaronsen, the principal of Bethel High. “Trixie seemed to be getting along so well in school.” Bartholemew didn’t even spare him a sideways glance. “Before or after she stopped coming altogether?” He didn’t have a lot of patience for this principal, who hadn’t noticed any change in his own daughter’s behavior, either, when she’d been a student here. Aaronsen always put on his tragedy face but couldn’t seem to keep the next one from happening.
Bartholemew was tired. He’d traced the Stones to the airport, where they’d boarded a plane to Seattle. That would connect to one that landed in Anchorage just shy of midnight. They’d paid $1,292.90 per ticket, according to the American Express agent who’d given the detective the lead.
Now he knew where Trixie was headed. He just had to convince a judge that she needed to be brought home.
Bartholemew had awakened the principal and waved the search warrant. The only other people in the school at this time of night were the janitors191, who nodded and pushed their rolling trash receptacles out of the way as the men passed. It was strangealmost eerieto be in a high school that was so patently devoid193 of commotion194.
“We knew the .. . incident was . . . difficult on her,” the principal said. “Mrs. Gray in guidance was keeping an eye on Trixie.” Bartholemew didn’t even bother to answer. The administration at Bethel High was no different from any other group of adults in America: Rather than see what was right under their noses, they pretended that everything was exactly like they wanted it to be.
What had Mrs. Gray been doing when Trixie was carving up her skin and slitting195 her wrists? Or, for that matter, when Holly196 had skipped classes and stopped eating? “Trixie knew she could have come to us if she was feeling ostracized,” the principal said, and then he stopped in front of a drab olive locker. “This is the one.” Bartholemew lifted the bolt cutters he’d brought from the fire department and snipped197 the combination lock. He opened the metal latch198, only to have dozens of condoms spring out of the locker like a nest of snakes. Bartholemew picked up one string of Trojans. “Good thing she wasn’t being ostracized,” he said.
The principal murmured something and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bartholemew alone. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a paper bag out of his coat pocket. Then he brushed the remaining condoms from the innards of the locker and stepped closer to investigate.
There was an algebra77 textbook. A dog-eared copy of Romeo and Juliet. Forty-six cents in assorted199 change. A ruler. A broken binder clip. Mounted on the swinging door underneath a sticker that said HOOBASTANK was a tiny compact mirror with a flower painted in the corner. It had been smashed hard enough to crack, and the bottom left corner was missing.
Bartholemew found himself looking at it and wondering what Trixie Stone had seen in there. Did she picture the girl she’d been at the beginning of ninth grade - a kid, really, checking out what was going on in the hall behind her and wishing she could be a part of it? Or did she see the shell she’d become - one of the dozens of faceless adolescents in Bethel High who made it through the day by praying, one step at a time, they wouldn’t attract anyone’s notice? Bartholemew peered into Trixie’s locker again. It was like a still life, without the life.
There was no gauze or box of Band-Aids. There was no shirt crumpled200 into the corner, stained with Trixie’s blood. Bartholemew was about to give up when he noticed the edge of a photo, jammed down into the joint201 between the back metal wall and the floor of the locker. Pulling a pair of tweezers202 out of his pocket.
Bartholemew managed to inch it free.
It was a picture of two vampires203, their mouths dripping with blood, Bartholemew did a double take, then looked again and realized the girls were holding a half-eaten bucket of cherries.
Zephyr Santorelli-Weinstein was on the left. Her mouth was a bright crimson204, her teeth stained, too. The other girl must have been Trixie Stone, although he would have been hard-pressed to make an identification. In the photo, she was laughing so hard her eyes had narrowed to slits205. Her hair was nearly the same color as the fruit and fell all the way down her back.
Until he saw that, he’d forgotten. When Bartholemew had first met Trixie Stone, her hair had reached down to her waist. The second time they’d met, those locks had been brutally206 shorn. He remembered Janice the rape advocate telling him that it was a positive step, a donation Trixie had made to a charity that made wigs207 for cancer patients.
A charity that would have taken, recorded, and labeled Trixie Stone’s hair.
Daniel and Laura sat in an airport bar, waiting. A snowstorm in Anchorage had delayed the connecting flight out of Seattle, and so far three hours had passed, three hours that Trixie was getting farther away from them.
Laura had tossed back three drinks already. Daniel wasn’t sure if it was because of her fear of heights and flying in general, or her worry about Trixie, or a combination of both. There was, of course, the chance that they had been wrong - that Trixie was heading south to Mexico, or sleeping in a train station in Pennsylvania.
But then again, Trixie wouldn’t be the first kid in trouble to turn to Alaska. So many folks on the run from the law wound up there - the last great frontier - that states had long ago given up spending the money to come pick them up. Instead, the Alaska state troopers hunted down fugitives208 from justice. Daniel could remember reading newspaper stories about people who were dragged out of cabins in the bush and extradited on charges of rape or kidnapping or murder. He wondered if Trixie’s picture was being e-mailed to sergeants210 around Alaska, if they’d already started to search.
There was a difference, though, between searching and hunting, one he’d learned with Cane and his grandfather. You have to clear your mind of the thoughts of the animal, the old man used to say, or he’ll see you coming. Daniel would focus, wishing he was less white and more like Cane - who, if you told him, “Don’t think of a purple elephant,” could truly not think of a purple elephant.
The difference here was that if Daniel wanted to find Trixie, he couldn’t afford to stop thinking about her. That way, she’d know that he was looking.
Daniel moved a martini glass that had been on the bar when they first sat down - someone’s leftovers. You didn’t have to clean up after yourself; there was always waitstaff to do it for you. That was one difference between Eskimo culture and white culture he’d never quite understood - people in the lower forty-eight had no responsibility to anyone else. You looked out for number one; you fended211 for yourself. If you interfered212 in someone else’s business even with the best of intentions - you might suddenly be held accountable for whatever went wrong. The good Samaritan who pulled a man from a burning car could be sued for injuries caused during the process. On the other hand, the Yupiit knew that everyone was connectedman and beast, stranger and stranger, husband and wife, father and child. Cut yourself, and someone else bled. Rescue another, and you might save yourself.
Daniel shuddered213 as more memories passed through him. There were disjointed images, like the Kilbuck Mountains in the distance flattened by an air inversion214 in the utter cold. There were unfamiliar215 sounds, like the plaintive216 aria26 of sled dogs waiting for their dinner. And there were distinctive217 smells, like the oily ribbon of drying salmon that blew in from fish camp. He felt as if he were picking up the thread of a life he had forgotten weaving and being expected to continue the pattern.
And yet, in the airport were a thousand reminders218 of how he’d been living for the past two decades. Travelers belched out of jetways, dragging wheeled carry-ons and hauling wrapped presents in oversized department store bags. The smell of strong coffee drifted from the Starbucks stand across the way. Carols played in an endless loop on the speaker system, interrupted by the occasional call for a porter with a wheelchair.
When Laura spoke72, he nearly jumped out of his seat. “What do you think will happen?” Daniel glanced at her. “I don’t know.” He grimaced, thinking of all that could go wrong from this point on for Trixie: frostbite, fever, animals she could not fight, losing her way. Losing herself. “I just wish she’d come to me instead of running off.” Laura looked down at the table. “Maybe she was afraid you’d think the worst.” Was he that transparent219? Although Daniel had told himself Trixie hadn’t killed Jason, although he’d say this till he went hoarse220, there was a seed of doubt that had started to blossom, and it was choking his optimism. The Trixie he knew could not have killed Jason; but then, it had already been proved that there was a great deal about Trixie he didn’t know.
Here, though, was the remarkable221 thing: It didn’t matter.
Trixie could have told him that she killed Jason with her bare hands, and he would have understood. Who knew better than Daniel that everyone had a beast inside, that sometimes it came out of hiding? What he wished he had been able to tell Trixie was that she wasn’t alone. Over the past two weeks, this metamorphosis had been happening to him, too. Daniel had kidnapped Jason; he’d beaten the boy. He’d lied to the police. And now he was headed to Alaska - the place he hated more than anywhere else on earth. Daniel Stone was falling away, one civilized222 scale at a time, and before long he’d be an animal again - just like the Yupiit believed.
Daniel would find Trixie, even if it meant he had to walk across every mile of Alaska to do it. He’d find her, even if he had to slip into his old skin - lying, stealing, hurting anyone who stood in his way. He’d find Trixie, and he’d convince her that nothing she could do or say would make him love her any less.
He just hoped when she saw what he’d become for her, she’d feel the same way.
The race headquarters for the K300 were already in full swing when Trixie arrived with the veterinarian shortly after six o’clock. There were lists posted on dry-erase boards: the names of the mushers, with grids223 to post their progress at a dozen race checkpoints. There were rule books and maps of the course. Behind one table a woman sat at a bank of phones, answering the same questions over and over. Yes, the race started at eight P.M. Yes, DeeDee Jonrowe was wearing bib number one. No, they didn’t have enough volunteers.
People who arrived by snow machine stripped off several layers the minute they walked into the Long House Inn. Everyone wore footwear with soles so thick they looked like moon boots, and sealskin hats with flaps that hung down over the ears. There were onepiece snowsuits and elaborately embroidered224 fur parkas. When the occasional musher came in, he was treated like a rock star - people lined up to shake his hand and wish him the best of luck.
Everyone seemed to know everyone else.
You’d think that in this environment, Trixie would have looked ridiculously out of place, but if anyone noticed her presence, they didn’t seem to care. She wasn’t stopped when she took a bowl of stew225 from the Crock Pot on the back table and then went back seconds later for another helping226. It wasn’t beef - frankly227, she was a little scared to find out what it was - but it was the first food she’d eaten in almost two days, and at that point, anything would have been delicious.
Suddenly the woman behind the table stood up and started toward Trixie. She froze, anticipating a moment of reckoning. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re Andi?” Trixie forced a smile. “How’d you know?” “The other JVs called from Tuluksak and said you were new and you’d gotten snowed in Outside.” “Outside where?” The woman grinned. “Sorry, that’s what we call all the other states. We’ll get someone to run you to the checkpoint before the mushers arrive.” “Tuluksak,” Trixie repeated. The word tasted like iron. “I was hoping to get to Akiak.” “Well, Tuluksak’s where we stick all the Jesuit Volunteers who work up here. Don’t worry . . . we haven’t lost one yet.” She nodded toward a box. “I’m Jen, by the way. And it would be really great if you could help me carry that down to the starting line.” Trixie hefted the box, which was full of camera equipment, as Jen pulled her face mask up over her nose and mouth. “You might want your coat,” she said.
“This is all I brought,” Trixie replied. “My, um, friends have my stuff with them.” She didn’t know if this lie would even make sense, since she hadn’t understood any of Jen’s comments about Jesuit Volunteers and Tuluksak in the first place. But Jen just rolled her eyes and dragged her toward a table covered with K300 merchandise for sale.
“Here,” she said, tossing her a big fleece jacket and mittens229 and a hat that Velcroed under the chin. She took a pair of boots and a heavy anorak from behind the headquarter tables. “These’ll be too big, but Harry’ll be too drunk later to notice they’re missing.” As Trixie followed Jen out of the Long House, winter smacked her with an open hand. It wasn’t just cold, the way it got in Maine in December. It was bone-deep cold, the kind that wrapped around your spine230 and turned your breath into tiny crystals, the kind that matted your eyelashes together with ice. Snow was piled on both sides of the walkway, and snow machines were parked at right angles in between a few rusted147 trucks.
Jen walked toward one of the pickups. It was white, but one of the doors was red, as if it had been amputated from a different junk heap for transplant onto this one. Tufts of stuffing and coils sprang out from the passenger side of the bench. There were no seat belts. It looked nothing like Trixie’s father’s truck, but as she slid into the passenger seat, homesickness slipped like a knife between her ribs231.
Jen coaxed232 the truck’s engine into turning over. “Since when did the Jesuit Volunteers start recruiting on playgrounds?” Trixie’s heart started to pound. “Oh, I’m twenty-one,” she said. “I just look way younger.” “Either that, or I’m getting too damn old.” She nodded toward a bottle of Jagermeister jammed into the ashtray233. “Feel free to have some, if you want.” Trixie unscrewed the cap of the bottle. She took a tentative sip234, then spit the liquor across the dashboard.
Jen laughed. “Right. Jesuit Volunteer. I forgot.” She watched Trixie furiously trying to wipe the mess up with her mitten228.
“Don’t worry, I think that it’s got enough alcohol in it to qualify as cleaning fluid.” She took a sharp right, turning the pickup over the edge of a snowbank. Trixie panicked - there was no road. The truck slid down an icy hill onto the surface of a frozen river, and then Jen began to drive to the center of it.
A makeshift start and finish line had been erected235, with two long chutes cordoned236 off and a banner overhead proclaiming the K300. Beside it was a flatbed truck, on which stood a man testing a microphone. A steady stream of dilapidated pickups and snow machines pulled onto the ice, parking in ragged209 lines. Some pulled trailers with fancy kennel237 names painted across them; others had a litter of barking dogs in the back. In the distance was a belching238 hovercraft, one that Jen explained brought the mail downriver.
Tonight it was serving free hot dogs, in honor of the race.
A pair of enormous flood lamps illuminated239 the night, and for the first time since she’d landed in Bethel, Trixie got a good look at the Alaskan tundra. The landscape was layered in pale blues240 and flat silvers; the sky was an overturned bowl of stars that fell into the hoods241 of the Yup’ik children balanced on their fathers’ shoulders. Ice stretched as far as she could see. Here, it was easy to understand how people once thought you could fall off the edge of the world.
It all looked familiar to Trixie, as impossible as that might be. And then she realized it was. This was exactly how her father drew hell.
As mushers hooked dogs to their sleds, a crowd gathered around the chute. All the people looked immense and overstuffed in their outside gear. Children held their hands out to the dogs to sniff242, getting tangled243 in the lead lines.
“Andi. Andi?” When Trixie didn’t answer - she forgot that was the name she’d been given this time - Jen tapped her on the shoulder. Standing beside her was a Yup’ik Eskimo boy not much older than Trixie. He had a wide face the color of hazelnuts, and amazingly, he wasn’t wearing a hat. “Willie’s going to take you up to Tuluksak,” Jen said.
“Thanks,” Trixie answered.
The boy wouldn’t look her in the eye. He turned away and started walking, which Trixie assumed was the cue that she was supposed to follow. He stopped at a snow machine, nodded at it, and then walked away from her.
Willie disappeared quickly into the dark ring of night outside the flood lamp. Trixie hesitated beside the snow machine, not sure what she was supposed to do. Follow him? Figure out how to turn this thing on herself? Trixie touched one of the handlebars. The snow machine smelled like exhaust, like her father’s lawn mower244.
She was about to look for an On switch when Willie returned, holding an oversized winter parka with black wolf fur sewn into the hood107. Still averting245 his glance, he held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, he mimed246 putting it on.
There was still heat trapped inside. Trixie wondered whom he’d taken this jacket from, if he or she was shivering now in the cold. Her hands were lost in the sleeves, and when she pulled up the hood, it blocked the wind from her face.
Willie climbed onto the snow machine and waited for Trixie to do the same. She glanced at him - what if he didn’t know his way to Tuluksak? Even if he did, what was she going to do when everyone realized Trixie wasn’t the person they were expecting? Most important, how was she supposed to get on the back of this thing without having to lean up against this boy? With all of their layers, it was a tight fit. Trixie pushed herself back to the very edge of the seat, holding on to the rails at the sides with her mittened247 hands. Willie pulled the rip cord to start the machine and they groaned248 forward slowly, to keep the dogs from startling. He maneuvered249 around the chute and then gunned the engine, so that they flew across the ice.
If it was cold standing around, it was fifty times colder on a snow machine blasting at full throttle250. Trixie couldn’t imagine not having the parka; as it was, she was shivering inside it and had curled her hands into fists.
The headlamp on the front of the machine cut a tiny visible triangle in front of them. There was no road whatsoever251. There were no street signs, no traffic lights, no exit ramps252. “Hey,” Trixie yelled into the wind. “Do you know where you’re going?” Willie didn’t answer.
Trixie grasped onto the handholds more firmly. It was dizzying, going at this speed without being able to see. She listed to the left as Willie drove up a bank, through a narrow copse of trees, and then back out onto a finger of the frozen river.
“My name’s Trixie,” she said, not because she expected an answer but because it kept her teeth from chattering. After she spoke, she remembered that she was supposed to be someone else.
“Well, it’s Trixie, but they call me Andi.” God, she thought.
Could I sound any more stupid if I tried? The wind blew into Trixie’s eyes, which - as they started tearing - froze shut. She found herself huddling253 forward, her forehead nearly touching254 Willie’s back. Heat rose off him in waves.
As they drove, she pretended that she was lying prone255 in the back of her father’s pickup, feeling it vibrate underneath her as he bounced into the parking lot of the drive-in. The metal flatbed pressed against her cheek was still warm from a whole day of sun.
They would eat so much popcorn256 that her mother would be able to smell it on their clothes even after she’d put them through the wash.
A frigid257 blast of air hit her full in the face. “Are we going to be there soon?” Trixie asked, and then, at Willie’s silence,
“Do you even speak English?”
To her surprise, he ground the brakes, until the snow machine came to a stop. Willie turned around, still avoiding her gaze.
“It’s fifty-five miles,” he said. “Are you going to yap the whole time?” Stung, Trixie turned away and noticed the eerie192 light that had spilled onto the surface of the river up ahead. She traced it to its overhead origin - a wash of pink and white and green that reminded her of the smoke trails left behind by fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Who knew that when you cut a slit in the belly of the night sky it bled color? “That’s beautiful,” Trixie whispered.
Willie followed her gaze. “Qiuryaq.” She didn’t know if that meant Shut up or Hold on or maybe even I’m sorry. But this time when he started the sled, she tilted258 her face to the Northern Lights. Looking up here was hypnotic and less harrowing than trying to squint20 at the imaginary road. Looking up here, it was almost easy to imagine they were nearly home.
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1
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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3
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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4
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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livestock
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| n.家畜，牲畜 | |
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12
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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13
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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breached
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| 攻破( breach的现在分词 )； 破坏，违反 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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20
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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21
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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22
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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23
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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24
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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25
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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26
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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27
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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30
raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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31
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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32
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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35
addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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37
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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39
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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40
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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41
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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42
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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43
mentors
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| n.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的名词复数 )v.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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45
versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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46
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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47
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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48
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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49
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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50
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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51
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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52
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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53
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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54
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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55
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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56
faucet
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| n.水龙头 | |
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57
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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58
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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59
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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60
milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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61
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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62
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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63
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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64
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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65
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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66
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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68
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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69
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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70
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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71
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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72
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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73
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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74
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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75
erasing
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| v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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76
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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77
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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78
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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79
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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80
leftovers
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| n.剩余物，残留物，剩菜 | |
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81
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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82
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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83
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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84
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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85
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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86
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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87
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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88
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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89
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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90
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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91
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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92
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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93
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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94
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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95
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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96
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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98
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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99
amnesia
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| n.健忘症，健忘 | |
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100
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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101
rinsed
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| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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102
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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103
chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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104
runaways
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| （轻而易举的）胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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105
withdrawals
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| n.收回，取回，撤回( withdrawal的名词复数 )；撤退，撤走；收回[取回，撤回，撤退，撤走]的实例；推出（组织），提走（存款），戒除毒瘾，对说过的话收回，孤僻 | |
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106
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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107
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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108
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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109
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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110
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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111
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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112
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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113
DNA
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| (缩)deoxyribonucleic acid 脱氧核糖核酸 | |
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114
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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115
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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116
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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117
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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118
pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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119
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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121
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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122
viable
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| adj.可行的，切实可行的，能活下去的 | |
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123
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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124
deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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125
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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126
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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127
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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128
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
toxic
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| adj.有毒的，因中毒引起的 | |
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130
peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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131
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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132
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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133
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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134
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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135
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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136
backlog
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| n.积压未办之事 | |
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137
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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138
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
tundra
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| n.苔原，冻土地带 | |
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140
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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141
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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142
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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143
sloughed
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| v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的过去式和过去分词 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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144
aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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145
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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146
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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147
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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149
binder
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| n.包扎物，包扎工具；[法]临时契约；粘合剂；装订工 | |
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150
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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151
silt
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| n.淤泥，淤沙，粉砂层，泥沙层；vt.使淤塞；vi.被淤塞 | |
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152
tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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153
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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154
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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155
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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156
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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157
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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158
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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159
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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160
hummock
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| n.小丘 | |
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161
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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162
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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163
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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164
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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165
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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166
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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167
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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168
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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169
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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170
vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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171
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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172
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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173
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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174
commuter
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| n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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175
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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176
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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177
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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178
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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179
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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180
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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181
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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182
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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183
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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184
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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185
stapled
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| v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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187
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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188
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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189
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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190
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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191
janitors
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| n.看门人( janitor的名词复数 )；看管房屋的人；锅炉工 | |
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192
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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193
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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194
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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195
slitting
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| n.纵裂（缝）v.切开，撕开( slit的现在分词 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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196
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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197
snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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199
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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200
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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201
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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202
tweezers
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| n.镊子 | |
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203
vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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204
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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205
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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206
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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207
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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208
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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209
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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210
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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211
fended
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的过去式和过去分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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212
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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213
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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214
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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215
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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216
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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217
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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218
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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219
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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220
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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221
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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222
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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223
grids
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| n.格子( grid的名词复数 )；地图上的坐标方格；（输电线路、天然气管道等的）系统网络；（汽车比赛）赛车起跑线 | |
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224
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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225
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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226
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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227
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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228
mitten
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| n.连指手套，露指手套 | |
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229
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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230
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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231
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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232
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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233
ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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234
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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235
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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236
cordoned
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| v.封锁，用警戒线围住( cordon的过去式 ) | |
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237
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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238
belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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239
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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240
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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241
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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242
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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243
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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244
mower
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| n.割草机 | |
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245
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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246
mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
mittened
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| v.（使）变得潮湿，变得湿润( moisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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248
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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249
maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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250
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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251
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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252
ramps
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| resources allocation and multiproject scheduling 资源分配和多项目的行程安排 | |
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253
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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254
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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255
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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256
popcorn
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| n.爆米花 | |
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257
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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258
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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