“I’m going to do the show on it,” she explained.

April smiled. “The Snowhawk at the cutting edge.”

“That’s right, babe. I was wondering whether you’d be interested in going on tonight. Want to be a guest?”

April considered it. She owed the woman, but she didn’t want to face phone calls. “I think I’d better pass,” she said.

But she was interested enough to stay and watch.

The Snowhawk’s show ran from nine until midnight. If the subject for the evening was the excavation, it didn’t stop people from calling in to comment on the new property tax initiative, the schools, the tendency of the county to run up postage costs unnecessarily, or other nongermane topics. The Snowhawk (funny how Andrea seemed to change personalities and become more dominant, even confrontational, in front of her microphone) dealt with these callers summarily, slicing them in midsentence. “Eddie,” she might say, “I’m on Johnson’s Ridge, freezing my little butt off, and you are out of here. Please try to stay on the rails, folks. We’re talking about the Roundhouse tonight.”

On the whole, however, April was impressed by the level of dialogue. She wasn’t sure what she had expected. The Snowhawk’s callers were reasonably rational. They were excited by the mystery surrounding the find, but by a ratio of about four to one resisted far-out resolutions in favor of the more mundane. It’ll turn out to be a mistake, they said, one after another. April was reminded of Max.

Toward the end of the show the storm began to weaken. April could make out the dome of the Roundhouse rising over the blowing snow.

It seemed to be glowing.

She turned away and looked back.

It was a trick of the security lights. Had to be. But they were dull and indistinct in the general turmoil of the storm.

Furthermore, the snow looked green.

It was hard to see clearly from the illuminated interior of the security station. She pulled on her boots and took down her jacket. Little Ghost glanced at her. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, and walked out the front door.

April caught her breath. A soft emerald halo had settled over the Roundhouse.

The Snowhawk saw that something was happening, but she was talking with Joe Greenberg in Fort Moxie and did not have a portable mike. She frowned at John Little Ghost and nodded at the door by which April had just left.

“It’s lit up,” Little Ghost said.

“What is?”

“The Roundhouse.” This exchange, of course, went out live. No damage yet. That came a moment later: “Son of a bitch, I hope it’s not radioactive.”

14

Fear has many eyes.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

Walhalla, Cavalier, and Fort Moxie, like prairie towns across the Dakotas, are social units of a type probably limited to climatically harsh regions. They are composed of people who have united in the face of extreme isolation, who understand that going abroad in winter without checking the weather report can be fatal, who have acquired a common pride in their ability to hold crime and drugs at arm’s length. From Fort Moxie, the nearest mall is eighty miles away, and the nearest pharmacy is in Canada. The closest movie theater is within a half-hour, but it’s open only on weekends, and not even then during the hunting season. Consequently these communities have developed many of the characteristics of extended families.

Mel Hotchkiss was sitting in the kitchen of his home on the outskirts of Walhalla half-listening to the Snowhawk and enjoying his customary bedtime snack, which on this occasion was cherry pie. He was just pouring a second cup of coffee when she conducted her exchange with the unfamiliar voice. Something untoward was obviously happening. He put the pot down, intending to walk over to the window and look out toward Johnson’s Ridge, when Little Ghost delivered the remark that galvanized the area: Son of a bitch, I hope it’s not radioactive.

An eerie green glow did hang over the top of the promontory.

Ten minutes later, having paused only to call his brother and a friend, Mel, his wife, his three daughters, and their dog were in their pickup with a couple of suitcases, headed west out of town.

Within an hour the population was in full flight. Beneath the baleful light atop the escarpment, they loaded kids, pets, jewelry, and computers and took off. Those few who, out of principle, refused to believe in anything having to do with astrology, numerology, crop circles, or UFOs were nevertheless bullied into leaving their warm homes by frightened spouses and well-meaning teenagers. They headed southwest toward Langdon, east to Fort Moxie, and north to the border, where the closed port was defended only by warning signs and highway cones. But nobody planned on stopping for international niceties, and the flood rolled into Canada.

State police flew in a Geiger counter and by about one-thirty in the morning pronounced the area safe. Radio and TV stations broadcast the news, but by then it was too late. The town lay effectively deserted, and its roads were littered with wrecked and abandoned vehicles.

April, John Little Ghost, and the Snowhawk listened to the reports and watched the long lines of headlights moving away on the two-lane roads with a growing sense of horror.

Fortunately, nobody died.

There had been three fires and a half-dozen heart attacks. Several men had intercepted Jimmy Pachman as he was trying to get out of his driveway and forced him to open his gas station. The men paid for the gas, but Pachman claimed he’d been kidnapped. Police, fire, and medical facilities had been strained to the limit and would announce before the end of the week sweeping reviews of their procedures. The City of Walhalla spent nine thousand dollars to rent equipment and pay for overtime out of its perennially hard-pressed treasury. And there was talk of lynching some of the people on Johnson’s Ridge.

Max found out over breakfast. It was, he decided, the same effect that had lit up the boat in Tom Lasker’s barn and scared the bejesus out of Ginny. Except this time it was on a wider scale. This time there would be lawsuits.

He left his bacon and eggs, called the security station to talk to Adam, and got April. “It has not been a good night,” she said.

“I don’t guess.” Max took a deep breath. “I’m on my way.”

He passed several wrecks along the highway.

Police helicopters roared overhead.

At the turnoff to the access road, a man in a Toyota was arguing with the cop on duty. The cop spotted Max, rolled his eyes, and waved him around. This action infuriated the driver of the Toyota.

Max took his time going up, noting the large piles of snow on either side where the plow had gone through. At the crest he passed one of the Sioux security people. This was the topside traffic coordinator, looking cold, carrying a radio in one hand, waving Max on.

The 8:00 A.M. shift had arrived and begun removing the tarps. Max took a long look at the Roundhouse. In direct sunlight it was hard to see whether it was putting out any illumination of its own. He stopped the car in his accustomed place and sat holding one hand over his eyes, trying to get a good look.

“It faded with the dawn,” April told him a few minutes later.

“Just like the boat.”

“Yes. Except that this time it wasn’t just a set of running lights that came on. The entire building lit up.” They’d taped the early-morning news shows. April ran one of them for him. The segment included views from an aircraft. The top of the ridge glowed softly.

“More like phosphorous than electricity,” he said.

“That’s what we thought.” She sipped coffee. Outside, they heard a few cheers.

Max looked through the window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Any reaction yet from the city fathers in Walhalla?” he asked.

“Reaction? What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I think we threw a scare into the town last night. They are probably not happy with us.”