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in the gloomy wooden house, the effect was not just menacing. It was unavoidable.
    “Ironic, isn’t it? Garrett paints this canvas that shouts ‘Alaska is a siren that will kill you!’ But Alaska doesn’t kill him. He has to come back to San Francisco for that.”
    When Kiernan didn’t reply, Maureen turned the other two canvases around. “He did these after the accident. The first was painted from memory. The second he did last week, from the photo.” The elements were the same: the browns of the mud, the blue-blacks of the suck holes, the gold of the setting sun. But the paintings evoked nothing.
    “Now I’d like you to meet Garrett.”

5
    K IERNAN FOLLOWED M AUREEN THROUGH a small, bare kitchen that held none of the gadgets Tchernak was so fond of—no microwave, no Cuisinart, no coffee grinder or rice cooker; no array of tempered steel knives worthy of a circus act.
    Thirty yards behind the house stood what might once have been a barn, built in the Maybeck style. Dark wood, open beams.
    Maureen put a hand on Kiernan’s arm. “Don’t tell Garrett why you’re here.” Before Kiernan could respond, Maureen called out her husband’s name.
    In the moment before the studio door opened Kiernan tried to picture Garrett Brant. Would his artist’s eye sear beneath her skin, his smile disarm her? He’d be Maureen’s age, about forty. No—BakDat listed her as thirty-one. She just looked so much older, Kiernan realized with a shudder. Had the past three years worn Garrett down this much, too?
    The man who opened the door showed no sign of prolonged stress. He could have been any healthy thirty-year-old. There was no hint of gray in his thick blond hair, and his tanned face was barely lined. He was thin, a runner’s type of thin, with a T-shirt sporting a picture from an old movie poster so faded Kiernan couldn’t read the title, and cutoffs that showed sinewy thighs and thick calf muscles. His expression was bemused. He caught Kiernan’s eye, stepped forward and extended a hand. “Hello, I’m Garrett Brant. How nice of you to come all the way out here to see us.”
    “This is Kiernan O’Shaughnessy, Gar,” Maureen said.
    “Kiernan! What a wonderful name, all stony stream and ferns and pines.” Clasping her hand with both of his, he asked, “Now where is it we know each other from?”
    Kiernan found herself momentarily taken aback by his poised approach. “We haven’t met before.”
    His smile barely faltered. Keeping hold of her hand, he turned toward the picture window. “Come in. Let me show you my view. I have a pleasant view of the redwoods. I’ve loved these redwoods ever since I was a child visiting here. I’ve been in Alaska for two years, so it’s nice to see so much California green, even though it looks as if it is going to be a dry summer.”
    Kiernan almost said, “It’s October,” but caught herself. Instead she looked at Garrett’s view. Thick-boiled redwoods stood on either side of a fern-filled clearing. Their branches filtered the sunlight, dulling the sharp edges of the gray-green leaves, muting the rich forest colors so that the scene resembled a faded color-tinted photograph from the forties. Despite the nearness of the redwoods, there was a fair amount of light in the studio. Garrett’s easel stood near the back window.
    “May I?” Kiernan asked, before turning to face the work in progress.
    Garrett nodded, running his fingers across her hand before he released it.
    A preliminary sketch had been lightly indicated on the canvas. Kiernan smothered a gasp. The picture was of the mud flats. The same subject she’d seen inside. Three years had passed, and this was the same picture. The familiar photo was pinned on the wall next to the canvas.
    “Tell Kiernan about the painting, Gar.” Maureen’s voice held a tautness that didn’t match her words. Kiernan felt a stab, of guilt; in the few moments she’d been in the studio she’d forgotten Maureen, so engulfing was