by James Tabor
She had just witnessed a murder.
A murder by torture.
Of a friend.
By someone who might be living in the next room, for all she knew.
On Denali, climbing with Emily, she had been buried by an avalanche. One second she was leading a pitch on the Cassin Ridge route; the next, the avalanche had swept her away, consolidated around her, and encased her like cement. Only her tongue and one eyelid could move. She could not even struggle.
That was how she felt now, on the floor in the dark.
So many questions. Why was there a surveillance camera in the room? Emily must have placed it herself. If someone else had put it there, they surely would have removed it before Hallie arrived. What reason could Emily have had for doing something like that? She must have been afraid, but why, and of what? Of whom? Hallie knew that Emily had been an inveterate video blogger. Maybe she just wanted to record time spent in the room without having to activate a camera every time she returned.
What should she do now? Tell somebody? Who? Not tell anyone? But then what? Was the killer still here in the station? Killers, plural? Who else was in danger? Was concealing evidence of murder a crime in its own right?
She was suddenly, intensely claustrophobic. A very experienced cave explorer, she had not felt that way for years. She did now, squeezed into the tiny room, gripped by the dark station, trapped by the wasteland that stretched a thousand miles in every direction. Ironic in a way, feeling like that in a place with more empty space around it than any habitation on earth. Like an outpost on Mars, Graeter had said. Just words at the time. Not any longer.
She awoke where she had fallen asleep, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, feeling no less confused and exhausted. She stood, breathed deeply, and the licorice smell, faint before, now was stronger, heavy and cloying. Almost as unpleasant as the smell of her own body after five days without bathing. In gray sweat clothes, towel in hand, she stepped into the hall and nearly ran into a bulky man. He had long, greasy hair and needed a shave. He wore black bunny boots and Carhartt coveralls that had been tan when new but were now dark with oil and hydraulic fluid.
He looked her up and down, with bloodshot eyes, as though she were stark naked.
“Lookee here. A new girl Beaker. Whooeeee.” His voice was rough, his breath heavy with liquor. It was not yet eight A.M. She was very aware of being alone in the hall with him. As far as she could tell, there were no surveillance cameras in the station. She took a step back.
“Excuse me?”
“Escuse me. Escuse me.” He laughed as if those were the funniest words he had heard in months. “They ain’t no ’scuses here, fungee.” She could see the hunger in his eyes. The tip of his tongue peeked from between his teeth, flattened, a third lip. Her stomach twitched. She started to walk around him. He sidestepped, blocking her path.
His tongue slid out like a thick, pink-skinned eel and kept coming until its tip hung even with his chin. He gave a slow, leering lick to something Hallie could not see but had no trouble imagining. The man reeled his tongue back in, winked, and lurched off.
She watched him go, her heart racing and hands shaking from the adrenaline surge.
Was it him?
If only there had been sound, or better image quality, or just one good look at the killer’s face. From now on she would wonder the same thing about every man she met here.
In the women’s shower room, she lifted her face to steaming spray, washed her hair, stepped out of the stream to work up a soapy lather all over her body. Before she could rinse, the water stopped.
“What the hell?”
“Two minutes is all you get,” said Rockie Bacon, just entering.
“How could you stay clean showering two minutes a day?”
“Two minutes a week.”
“You’re screwing with a fungee, right?”
“Takes a lot of energy to melt ice. That shower will reactivate after five minutes, but there’s an honor system.” She gave Hallie a long look. “You got soap all over. Take some of my time to rinse.” Hallie wasn’t sure she had heard right. But Bacon said, “C’mon, c’mon,” and Hallie went.
Afterward, while they were toweling dry, Hallie thought, Tell her? but decided, Not yet. Instead, she related what had happened outside her room.
“That was Brank. Total, dead-end, asshole loser. And a mean drunk. He put two Draggers in the hospital a month ago. One was a woman. Stay clear of him.”
“Why is he still here?”
“Ever try finding normal people willing to spend a year in Alcatraz on ice?”
“The money’s supposed to be great.”
“Yeah. But a year here is …” She shook her head, as if unable to find the right words.
“What does he do?”
“As little as possible.”
“He has the longest tongue I ever saw on a human.”
Bacon chuckled. “His most prized possession.” She considered that for a moment. “Well, probably the second most.”
Hallie was thinking: Put a woman in the hospital. And: Why did he just happen to be walking past my room?
“You want eggs with them waffles?” The galley server was about five-five, with a ferret face and a voice like squeaking hinges.
“Sure,” Hallie said.
He deposited a soft yellow pile.
“Are those fresh?” she asked.
He grinned around spotted teeth. “Honey, the only fresh thing around here is the tube steak.”
“The what?”
He pointed his spoon at a discernible bulge and waited for her reaction, which was to say, “Mouse in your pocket?”
Hallie sat by herself. The eggs and waffles and coffee all tasted of chlorine. It felt utterly bizarre sitting there eating breakfast, or trying to, overhearing snatches of conversation, taking in the new surroundings, all the mundane trappings, while carrying around the secret of a horrible, violent death. It occurred to her that a spy would have it this way, hoarding secrets and telling lies, fear a constant shadow. It would have to corrode your soul. She’d been carrying her secret around for only a few hours and it was already starting to feel like some live thing wanting to claw out of her.
She understood, suddenly, that this must be exactly what the killer himself was experiencing—unless he was one of those monster psychopaths who felt nothing, including remorse. Regardless, he and she were connected by Emily’s death, although only she knew that.
An odd sensation came over her, and she glanced around. It felt like people in the galley were looking at her. It had to be her imagination, of course, another side effect of the secret. Or some weird form of Pole-induced paranoia. But then, working her way through the awful food, glancing up now and then, she realized it was not her imagination. People really were looking at her strangely, some staring, others peering out of the corners of their eyes. A couple even pointed. Four men in particular, at a table halfway across the room, were making no attempt to hide their interest. Then one of them rose and walked over.
“Hey.” He was smiling—smirking, actually—and standing with his head cocked to one side. He wasn’t bad-looking, but his eyes kept flicking around, scanning for something or someone more important. She was surprised to see eyes like that down here. In Washington they were as common as flies.
“Hi,” she said.
“Maynard Blaine.” She took his extended hand and, eventually, had to pull her own free.
“I might need that someday.”
“Need that someday. Ha, ha.” His laugh was like two little coughs. “So you are Dr. Holly Leland, replacement for Emily Durant and the newest addition to our distinguished team of Beakers.”
“How did you know that?”
“Are you kidding? Fresh face, you stick out like a sore thumb.”
That was why people had been looking at her. “It’s Hallie, not Holly. You knew Emily?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Well, just to say hello.”
/>
“I knew her.” Hallie was surprised at how surprised he looked.
“You did?”
“Very well.”
His features became disarranged, like a turned kaleidoscope. Putting them back in order took a few moments. “Tough break,” he said.
“For me or her?”
“Both. But I meant her dying like that.”
“Like what?”
He shook both hands beside his head, like a man warding off bees. “Enough about her. I came over here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Like what?” Hallie wanted to learn what he knew about Emily’s death, but he misunderstood. He thought she was very eager to hear his offer.
“How would you like to be my ice wife?”
10
UNDER OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, SHE MIGHT HAVE BANTERED—Where’s the ring? and Why aren’t you on your knees? Not now.
“I’m in a relationship.”
He winked. “What happens at Pole stays at Pole.”
“How about ice friends.” She hoped the words, and her tone, would ease his exit.
“Like, friends with benefits?”
“Not that kind.”
Blaine’s smirk faded, his shoulders sagged.
“Friends?”
He sighed. “A friend indeed leaves a man in need.” But he shook her outstretched hand, and once again she had to pull free. “Holly,” he said. “A thorn by any other name is just as sharp.”
“Hallie.”
“What’s your field?”
“Microbiology. What’s yours?”
“Genetic virology.”
She decided that a serious insult to speed his departure might not be wise on the morning of her first full day here. It was entirely possible that he had killed Emily. Or knew who did. Be smart, be civil, try to learn something.
“What science are you doing down here, Maynard?”
“Do we have to talk shop?”
“I’m sure your friends would enjoy having you back.”
“Picornaviruses.”
“Mostly common cold pathogens.”
“Right.”
“Using human subjects?” she asked.
“Do I look like Josef Mengele? Mice.”
“What strain?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Um, BALB/c. Why do you ask?”
“I work with mice, too, back in the world. I like to keep abreast of the matches between strains and applications.” In fact, she was very current on the optimal mice strains for picornavirus research because work conjoining those viruses and bacteria was hot right now. BALB/c was not one of them. Why in God’s name would anybody lie about such a thing? Maybe he wasn’t lying—just wrong. Or maybe those were the only mice he could get down here. Before she could ask, he said, “So you’ll be doing time with Fido.”
Curiosity overcame her dislike of talking about absent people. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Fido is one crispy critter.”
“As in burned out?”
“He hasn’t been playing with a full deck for some time. And Emily’s death knocked him for a loop.”
Whoa, she thought. I’m wasting a golden opportunity. “Since we’re friends now, can I ask you something?” she asked.
“I guess.”
“Do you know how Emily died?”
His face did that thing again. He lowered his voice. “Through the grapevine—overdose.” His voice became more distant, and he glanced back at his table.
So the killer’s ruse was working. Assuming this man wasn’t the killer, she thought.
“Wasn’t there an investigation?”
“You’re barking up the wrong Beaker.”
She had noted by then that his speech consisted largely of trite idioms. “What do you mean?”
“Merritt found the body.”
Before she could speak, he looked over her shoulder and said, “Uh-oh.”
She turned. A woman, eating alone several tables away, had jumped to her feet. Her eyes were wide, mouth open, face contorted. She screamed once, grabbed her belly, dropped to the floor.
A tall, thin man with the paper-white skin of an albino was sitting not far away. He wore dark glasses even in the dim galley. He moved quickly and knelt beside the woman, whose paroxysms reminded Hallie of childbirths she had witnessed.
“Who’s that?” Hallie asked Blaine.
“Doc. The station medical officer. Orson Morbell.”
The woman’s pain appeared to ease. Panting, she said, “I don’t know what happened. I was just sitting and all of a sudden …” She stared not at his face but overhead. Hallie looked up. Nothing but the burned-out Christmas lights.
“You lie still, Diana. I’m going to have people bring you down to the infirmary. It’s probably appendicitis.” Over his shoulder Doc said, to no one and everyone, “Call comms. Get the EMTs in here. Tell them we need a gurney.”
Hallie thought the woman was about forty. She had olive skin, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a Spanish accent. Her hands looked like Graeter’s, and a gold wedding band and engagement ring shone brightly against the reddened skin.
“It’s Diana Montalban,” Blaine said quietly. “She’s a biochemist. University of Madrid.”
“Look.” Loud whisper from somewhere to one side of Hallie.
Montalban wore a black sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and running shoes. Something was happening to her belly. It swelled as though inflating, rising above the waistband of her sweatpants, pushing them down. Hallie saw the ragged pink line of a C-section scar.
“What the hell is going on?” Someone else, not whispering now.
“Diana?” the doctor said. “What’s happening? Talk to me.”
She screamed, cutting him off. People started edging back, pointing.
“Somebody get a goddamned gurney!” the doctor shouted. “We need to bring her to the clinic.”
The woman’s hands were clamped over her belly, covering the scar. She began to writhe. As Hallie watched, blood started seeping through her fingers, then flowed freely. The doctor put his hands over Montalban’s, applying hard direct pressure. Someone offered a folded-up lab coat, which Morbell grabbed. He pushed Montalban’s hands away, and in the split second before he applied the makeshift compress, Hallie could see blood pulsing from where the healed incision had reopened into a gaping red slash. The sweet stink of blood filled the cafeteria.
Three EMTs arrived this time, one carrying medical kits, the other two pushing a wheeled stretcher. Blood had pooled all around the woman’s torso, soaking the doctor’s legs and hands.
“Everyone clear this area NOW!” Graeter yelled, behind Hallie. She hadn’t heard him arrive. The doctor was telling the responders to prep an IV coagulant while he kept the sopping lab coat pressed in place. Hallie and Blaine joined the flow of people heading for the galley exits. She heard Graeter key his radio and say, “Get the biohazard team to the galley. Yes. That’s right. Again, goddamnit.”
11
HALLIE ARRIVED LATE FOR HER MEETING WITH THE STATION’S CHIEF scientist, but Agnes Merritt seemed not to mind. Before Hallie even sat, the older woman blurted, “Did you hear what happened in the galley?”
“I was there. Yesterday and today both.”
Merritt shook her head. “What an awful introduction to Pole, Dr. Leland. I can’t imagine how I’d feel in your shoes.”
“Thank you. Please call me Hallie.”
“Good deal. I’m Agnes. Aggie to my friends, which is just about everybody.”
Merritt’s office was slightly bigger than Graeter’s, and she had two folding chairs for visitors. A coffeemaker sat on a small table in one corner. Merritt filled mugs and handed one to Hallie. Then she passed a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
Hallie had left most of her breakfast back in the galley. She nibbled one cookie, then gobbled another. “These are great.”
“Grandma’s recipe. I love to bake. Sneak into the galley during off-ho
urs.”
Unlike Graeter’s office, Merritt’s was adorned with framed pictures. One wall was all Antarctic shots: Merritt boarding a C-130 at McMurdo, standing in her Big Red parka beside the station’s “barber pole” ceremonial marker, hoisting a champagne glass in honor of some holiday or memorable occasion. The other wall’s pictures were from back in the world. Most of them were grip-and-grins, Merritt receiving or holding awards and certificates. A typical bureaucrat’s wall, Hallie noted, except that there were no family pictures.
Merritt looked to be in her late forties. She wore comfort-cut jeans that stretched tight across her wide rump and a black turtleneck with a red fleece pullover on top of that. She had a round face red from high blood pressure or windburn or both, a red-veined snub nose, and a small, moist mouth that formed circles around words, as though she were blowing bubbles when she spoke. “So tell me what happened.”
Hallie did, and then everything slipped out of focus. She realized that Merritt was speaking. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Dear, you just zoned right out.”
“God. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. Pole’s tough.” She patted Hallie’s knee.
“Agnes … Aggie, two deaths like this, so close together. That has to be unusual, even for the Pole.”
“I thought so, too. But have you ever heard of dehiscence?”
“No.”
“Me, neither, until Doc called. Part of Harriet’s esophagus was removed last year. Some kind of precancerous condition. They severed and reconnected some major veins and arteries.”
“You’re saying they ruptured?”
“Doc thinks so. When surgical scars reopen, it’s called dehiscence.”
“Why now, though?”
“Goodness, why not? Altitude. Extreme temperature fluctuations. Radiation. Stress. Bad food. Hard work. On and on.”
“I never heard of something like that.”
