THE WORLD SHRANK IN AROUND ME. NOTHING EXISTED BUT the image on my screen.

The article was titled “Ice Road Truckers.” The black-and-white photo showed four men, all wearing parkas, fur-trimmed hats, and safety vests.

Three of the men were smiling and squinting as though facing into the sun. I recognized two of them.

The fourth man had his face turned from the camera. Though I couldn’t see his features, something about him looked familiar.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here, Pete.” Squeezing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Really. You’re awesome.”

“I know.”

“I’m about to head out, so could you e-mail the partners’ names when you find them?”

“Will do. How about Katy’s news?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Pretty ballsy move.”

“I’ve got to go, Pete.”

I clicked off, skimmed the article, then stared at the photo. The caption identified the three forward-facing subjects: Farley McLeod, Horace Tyne, and Zeb Chalker.

Facts zinged like popcorn in my head.

Charles Fipke had discovered diamonds in Canada, setting off a staking rush in the nineties. McLeod and Tyne had both worked for Fipke.

McLeod had staked claims during the rush. He had named his offspring—Nellie Snook, Daryl Beck, and Annaliese Ruben—as coowners.

Snook and Ruben possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals. DIMs point to kimberlite. A kimberlite pipe means diamonds. Diamonds can mean millions, even billions, of dollars.

Snook now held all of Farley McLeod’s active claims.

Horace Tyne had confused Snook into thinking that she owned land. He’d persuaded her to donate the land for a caribou preserve. A preserve necessitated by the impending opening of the Gahcho Kué mine. But Snook’s claims were nowhere near Gahcho Kué.

My ill-formed idea began to solidify.

I stared at the photo, heart pounding my ribs.

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

Zeb Chalker had bola’ed me at Snook’s house. Blown me off when I’d reported Ruben’s murder. Spread rumors about my drinking.

Had Chalker discredited me to divert suspicion from himself and his cronies?

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

McLeod died in a plane crash.

Tyne. Chalker.

One of these men wanted McLeod’s claims. Maybe both.

Ruben and Beck were dead. Snook, the sole survivor, was easily manipulated.

Had that been the strategy? Kill Beck, disappear Ruben to Montreal, after seven years have her declared dead? Then get Snook to sign over the claims? Had Ruben’s sudden reappearance spurred a change in plans?

Who had I seen in the woods the night Ruben was shot? Who had made off with her body?

Suddenly, I felt I was plunging.

I’d told Snook to do nothing. To sign no papers.

“No. Christ, no.”

I’d gotten Ruben killed. Had I put Snook in danger?

I checked the time.

Seven-ten. Ollie was already at the airport.

I grabbed my mobile.

Voice mail.

Unka be damned. I had to talk to Ryan.

I pocket-jammed my iPhone, slammed the cover of my Mac, and headed out.

I was unlocking the Camry when I sensed a presence behind me. Before I could turn, a gun muzzle kissed my temple.

An arm snaked around my neck and pulled me upright.

I couldn’t move or speak.

“Not a sound.” Male. Had I heard the voice before? Tyne? Chalker?

I thought of dropping fast and rolling under the car. What was the point? My assailant had a gun. He’d squat and nail me.

The arm tightened and twisted my body to the right. “Move.”

Probably wanting to avoid notice, the guy dropped the arm from my neck, stepped close, and lowered the gun to my back.

On rubber legs, I took a few very small steps.

“The truck.”

I hesitated. Every cop I know says,!!!If taken, never enter a vehicle. Once inside, your chance of escape plummets.

The muzzle gouged deeper into my spine. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I walked as slowly as I dared. Two feet out, I stopped.

I felt the guy’s gun hand tense. I pictured the long dark tunnel, the bullet tearing through my bones, my heart, my lungs.

Instead, my assailant pushed me forward into the side of the pickup. With the gun back in place, he yanked my purse from my shoulder. “Get in.”

I didn’t move.

“I said get the fuck in.”

Maybe fear. Maybe boldness. I believed he would shoot me but remained frozen.

I felt his body shift. Saw movement in the corner of my eye.

A shadow crossed my face.

I heard a sound like the snap of a piano wire.

The world broke into millions of white particles.

Went black.

I was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, struggling to climb out and getting nowhere. A moth flailing in sap slowly turning to amber.

The pit shifted.

A pinpoint of light appeared overhead.

I strained to reach it.

Slowly swam upward.

To consciousness.

The place I was in sounded hollow.

I smelled moisture. Ancient rock and soil. An acrid scent unfamiliar to me.

The world lurched.

My body shifted.

I was curled fetal on a cold, gritty surface.

I listened.

Heard the crunch of rubber on gravel. A soft humming.

I was in a vehicle. But not a car. The engine was wrong.

A flash image. The parking lot. The SUV.

The gun!

I lifted my head.

Almost screamed.

I lay back until the pain and dizziness passed.

The pressure on my body changed. The vehicle was moving downhill.

I tried to roll to my back.

My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t move.!!!Dear God! I’m paralyzed!

My heartbeat kicked into high.

The adrenaline helped.

Sensation crept back.

I felt tingling in my cheeks and fingertips. Drought in my mouth, my eyes.

I tried to swallow. Could barely muster sufficient saliva.

I attempted to open my lids. They were crusted shut. I blinked them apart.

Inky black.

The vehicle stopped. The motor cut off.

I held my breath.

Voices. Male. Close but all around. How many?

Trickling water. A faucet? A stream?

Boots on gravel. One pair to the left, one to the right. Moving away? Approaching?

Every noise echoed back onto itself. Nothing was clear.

The voices grew louder. Ricocheted wildly. Two? Three?

Banging.

More voices.

Footsteps.

I froze.

The footsteps clomped toward me.

Continued past.

Receded.

The pounding in my chest was supersonic.

I had to do something.

Ignoring the fiery arrows shooting through my brain, I twisted my neck and looked around.

I was in the back of a golf cart.

Moving gingerly, I finger-wrapped the safety bar on one side and slowly raised my head.

Ten feet ahead and to the left, a beam cut the darkness. Behind it, I could make out a form wearing some sort of helmet. Vapor swirled in the tight cylinder of light shooting from above its brim.

For a few feet to either side of the beam, the scene was visible through a milky-white haze. The contours of a tunnel. Snaking pipes. Yellow and orange numbers and letters hand-painted on rock. Beyond that, a black void.

My eyes traced the beam to a row of yellow barrels. Painted on each was a single red word: Arsenic.

My mind registered. Analyzed.

Subterranean shaft. Miner’s helmet. Arsenic. Horace Tyne.

My blood chilled to ice.

I knew where I was.

The Giant gold mine.!!!Sweet Jesus. How far underground?

Tyne had brought me here to kill me. To hide my body.

As he’d done with Annaliese Ruben.

I had to get out. Or get help.

Please!

Moving with stealth, I fumbled for my pocket.

Yes!

I pulled out my iPhone and cupped the screen.

No signal. Too far underground.

Think!

An e-mail would go out automatically as soon as the device reconnected with a tower. It was the best I could do.

I opened mail. Dispatched my location to Ryan.

Noticed a text from Pete. Why not? Whichever medium worked first.

Pete’s message was short:!!!Fast Moving general partner Philippe Fast.

I sent a reply:!!!Giant Gold Mine. Call Ryan.

Was I insane? Reading e-mail and texts? I had to get out.

Pulse gunning, I repocketed the phone, drew in one knee, and braced my foot on the floor of the cart.

Waited.

Breath frozen, I drew in the other foot.

Braced.

Waited.

A deep breath, then I flexed to spring.

One sneaker skidded.

Gravel ground between rubber and metal.

The sound was like a screech in the stillness.

The helmet beam whipped my way.

I caught a glimpse of the face below.

Disparate facts toggled.

A text message.

A photo.

Pieces. Players. Moves. Strategies.

Suddenly, I saw the whole board.