by Karen Dionne
“Their teeth are like chisels,” Simon agreed. “They bit through that seal’s hide like it was butter.”
Hank shuddered. “Anyway, fellas, I’m gettin’ the shivers. Let’s talk about something else.”
Simon slept fitfully that night.
Not only because at two o’clock in the morning the weak austral sun persisted in shining through the orange tent walls like an unwelcome nightlight, but because Colin had insisted on regaling them with rat stories late into the night: grisly tales of rats chewing off a sailor’s foot while he slept, or eating babies in their cribs.
He rolled onto his side and pulled the sleeping bag over his head. During the last hour, the wind had picked up, and every little noise—squeaking tent poles, ice crystals brushing against the tent walls—became the sound of rats. Scurrying, furtive, bloodthirsty rats.
“Simon,” Hank whispered.
Simon grinned. Apparently he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping.
“Over there. Look.”
Simon sat up. Through the thin nylon fabric, backlit against the sky, he saw movement. It wasn’t his imagination. Hank’s expression said he saw it, too.
Rats. Hundreds of them.
Chapter 12
Los Angeles, California
Donald Gillette swung his Caddy into his six-car garage’s number three bay and turned off the engine. He opened the door and climbed out, whistling as he ran his hand along the rear quarter panel before retrieving his briefcase from the backseat. He disarmed the door between the garage and the house, entered the foyer and reset the lock, then dropped his briefcase in the study and moved on, still whistling, to the kitchen. Carla was on the far side of a cooking island the size of Madagascar, stirring something simmering on the stove.
He kissed her a chaste hello. Donald’s wife was no Emeril, but she took her culinary efforts seriously, and “Behave now, play later,” was her unspoken rule. Considering that at thirty-five she was as trim and gorgeous as a super-model, Donald was happy to comply. “Smells good,” he said as he leaned over the pot. “What are we serving?”
“Chicken marsala, wild rice, and fresh green beans, with a Caesar salad for openers and lime gelato for dessert.”
She glanced at the clock. “You’d better hurry. Sally and Quentin will be here any minute.”
Donald retraced his path down the hallway, then climbed the right half of the double marble staircase to the master bedroom suite. He laid his watch on the dresser, hung his suit on a padded hanger, and headed for the bath, a glass-and-chrome construction worthy of a spread in Architectural Digest. Stepping out of his boxers, he dropped them in the hamper and headed for the shower.
The shower area was separated from the rest of the room by an S-shaped glass-block wall and offered a choice of three units. He eyed the beauty in the middle, a nine-thousand-dollar recirculating waterfall shower with twenty-seven jets capable of delivering a magnanimous forty gallons a minute; then conceded L.A.’s shortage by turning on the water-saving model instead. He closed his eyes as he lathered his chest and shoulders, imagining he was standing under the waterfall he and Carla had discovered during their honeymoon in Tahiti. Smiling, he added Carla to his fantasy and had just included the overture to La Bohème playing in the background when the automatic timer chimed a thirty-second warning. Quickly he rinsed his hair, then groped for an oversized Egyptian cotton towel.
He wrapped another around his waist and walked over to the bed to where Carla had laid out his black Armani. As he toweled off and dressed, he reflected on his good fortune in marrying a woman who understood that appearances mattered, even if their dinner guests tonight were only family. Especially because they were family.
When the doorbell chimed ten minutes later, Donald was waiting with his hair slicked back and a tray of drinks in hand: single-malt scotch for himself and Quentin, a highball for Carla, and a tall glass of iced orange juice for Sally.
Quentin’s wife accepted her drink with a Mona Lisa smile. Patting her belly in the obnoxious way that pregnant women were wont to do, she went off with Carla to the kitchen. Donald frowned. If his sister-in-law’s navy blue overblouse with white sailor collar and generous bow was supposed to make her look as innocent as a prepubescent girl, her waxing stomach proclaimed otherwise. If Carla ever had a child, he wouldn’t hide her condition under yards of fabric; he’d take the Demi Moore approach and flaunt the consequences of her sexuality with sophistication and style.
At least Quentin was appropriately dressed. His Leveti was less expensive than Donald’s Armani; a discerning choice, and just another example of his brother-in-law’s impeccable judgment. Unfortunately, all the designer clothing in the world wouldn’t help Quentin’s appearance. Quentin was utterly hairless, a victim of inherited alopecia. Some men looked good without hair, but Quentin wasn’t one of them. On seeing him for the first time, most people were taken aback by his ridged, knobby skull and nonexistent eyebrows and lashes, a reaction Quentin often used to his advantage. If his appearance unsettled his opponents, it also gave him a momentary edge. Donald liked that in a man: The ability to take what should have been a handicap and turn it into an asset. That talent was just one of the many reasons Donald had plucked Quentin out of Research and Development four years ago, married him off to Carla’s younger sister, and groomed him until he was fit to serve as his number two man. Every king needed a prime minister, and Quentin served admirably as his.
Quentin lifted his glass and took an appreciative sip. “Glenfiddich?”
“Good guess.”
“Then I take it we’re celebrating tonight.”
“Right again.”
“And the occasion?”
Donald motioned him into the study and shut the door. He opened his briefcase and handed Quentin a telegram.
A slow smile creased Quentin’s face. Donald grinned back. Quentin’s smile more than made up for his lack of hair: a disarmingly open, boyish grin that even the most hard-hearted down-in-the-mouth never failed to return. No doubt his smile was a big part of the reason why Sally had married him. If Donald hadn’t been straighter than the road to Reno, he might have succumbed himself.
“Congratulations.” Quentin raised his glass. “This is incredible, Donald—even for you. I know you predicted the Aussies would pull out, but I never guessed it would happen so soon.” He read the telegram again and laughed. “ ‘She’s yours.’ I’ll give him this: Mawson’s a man of few words. Why do you think they gave up so quickly?”
“Does it matter? The Australians were doomed from the start. I knew it; you knew it—even Maki knew it. Now Mawson knows it, too.”
“Less than four days after they claimed the berg, they pulled out. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
Donald noted the mercenary gleam in his brother-in-law’s eyes with approval, knowing it reflected the one in his own. “Now we’ll show them how it’s done. Eugene’s back on standby. As soon as the storm quits, he’ll get under way. If all goes well, we could be making water by the end of next week.”
“Excellent. And he’s approaching from the north, right? Because . . .” Quentin licked his lips.
Donald’s smile broadened. He’d set Quentin up well.
Involve your underlings in your shady doings, let them think they were acting on their own initiative, and they covered for you better than you would yourself. “Of course. Eugene knows better than to land anywhere near the western edge. Your men are ready?”
“Our snowsuits have been packed for months.”
“Great.” Donald walked over to the wet bar and freshened their glasses. “Let’s go tell the girls.”
Chapter 13
Raney Station, Antarctic Peninsula
Zo stood on the beach looking out over the harbor, shielding her eyes with one hand and waving good-bye with the other, playing out her role as Official Station Hostess to the last. The new gig wasn’t so bad. As the only unemployed researcher at the station, she was the logical drafte
e, and at least playing den mother to the tourists let her salvage something out of the season. Two boatloads had dropped anchor since she became a permanent Raney resident, and both times, Zo met the tourists at the shore, then shepherded them to the rec room for an orientation meeting spelling out the dangers (frostbite, snowblindness, and hypothermia) and the rules (don’t touch the wildlife, don’t touch the research, and don’t take away any souvenirs except for the Raney Station paraphernalia for sale in the “gift shop”; an artful display of imprinted coffee mugs, T-shirts, postcards, and refrigerator magnets she and Mac set up in the rec room prior to each visit). After turning them loose, she hovered and clucked like a good mother hen until the Zodiacs ferried her chicks back to their ships once again.
Elliot hated the disruption. Zo couldn’t really blame him. It wasn’t easy balancing the needs of the scientists against the desire to be hospitable. She only wished he could bend enough to concede that the tourists didn’t have an easy time, either. An expedition on even the most luxurious ship was an adventure. Berths in the bow came equipped with seat belts; in high seas, closet and bathroom doors turned into swinging projectiles, and the only safe place to store cameras and other breakables was on the floor. A vessel pushing through sheet ice was prone to sudden lurches severe enough to break an unwary passenger’s arm or nose. Every ship had a doctor on board; the better ones included a helicopter for medical emergencies. A woman had shown Zo a snapshot she’d taken of her husband lounging on deck: wrapped in a blanket, wearing a fur hat and down jacket, he was covered with frost from his head to his toes.
At any rate, it wasn’t as though Elliot exactly had a choice. Ever since the National Science Foundation had designated Raney an open station, welcoming tourists was an unavoidable part of station life.
Behind her came the crunch of footsteps on gravel. She turned around.
“Is that the last?” Mac nodded toward the receding Zodiac.
“That’s it till Thursday.”
“How’d we do?”
“I don’t have the final tally, but it looks like we’ll clear around forty-five dollars.”
“That’s great! I vote we use the money to buy a new VCR.”
“What’s wrong with the old one?”
“It keeps eating tapes. Last Sunday it ate The Thing.”
“Not the John Carpenter version! That was my favorite. I love the special effects.”
“So do I.” Mac took a military stance and pretended to spray the beach with ordnance. “That flick has more flame-throwers per person than any research station I’ve ever worked at.”
She laughed. “We’ll definitely have to order a new player now. That, or convince the powers that be it’s time to join the twenty-first century and switch to DVDs. I wonder if they have an extra copy at McMurdo?” The eighties Antarctic horror flick was a favorite at research stations across the continent.
“E-mail them and ask.”
“I will—just as soon as I finish my paperwork.” Zo made a face, but then the wind shifted, and her pained expression became real. She took a step back. Mac had changed out of his work clothes after he hit the station, but he hadn’t showered, and the Hai Karate he’d doused himself with to cover the penguin smell definitely wasn’t working. Not that the lack of hygiene was his fault. Antarctica was the driest place on earth, and water was a precious commodity, produced by a closed-loop system that passed the exhaust from the diesel engines that powered their generators through a heat exchanger to melt ice. The process was time-consuming and expensive, the open cistern in which their water was stored woefully undersized, making water rationing mandatory. Toilets were flushed only when necessary and showers limited to two minutes, two times a week.
“Are you okay?” Mac put his arm around her shoulders. “ ’Cause you look like you’re gonna puke.”
“I’m fine. Just tired, is all,” Zo managed to reply.
He chucked her under her chin. “In that case, kiddo, a little supper will fix you right up. And you’re in luck. Luis is fixing his specialty tonight: Tex-Mex chili.”
Zo gagged.
When Zo heard shrieks coming from the dining room not long after the dinner announcement came over the PA that evening, she smiled and put down her pen. The dormitory-style living at Raney tended to foster an atmosphere reminiscent of summer camp, and with all of the scientists borderline if not outright geniuses, a certain amount of horseplay was inevitable. Every year as the season progressed, their stunts became more and more outrageous until Elliot had to intervene before things turned dangerous. Even so, last year one researcher suffered a bad case of frostbite when someone turned off the outdoor floodlights as a joke, knowing their victim was outside following the flag line, and the season before that, Mac had smeared himself with ketchup and, brandishing a knife, grabbed a diminutive biologist and screamed “You’re the last one!”—forgetting the researcher was also a martial arts instructor. Before he could explain, she had the knife, and he was on the floor with two broken fingers.
She pushed back her chair. Braving the odor of garlic and turmeric, she headed for the dining room and stopped just inside the doorway. Dr. Rodriguez was a popular cook, and the room was full. Whatever was up, the perpetrator had chosen their timing well.
The action was coming from the center of the room. “Eww,” someone was saying. “That’s gross! Get it out of here!”
“Geez, Mac. Don’t be an idiot. We’re trying to eat.”
“What wrong with you guys?” Mac’s voice carried over the clamor. “You’re scientists, aren’t you? I thought you’d be thrilled to see my wonderful new discovery. This little guy just made history. He’s the first of his kind on the continent. Sam found him in the maintenance shed. Killed him with a wrench.”
“I can tell.” Shana, the Renée Zellweger look-alike who was Mac’s confessed love interest this season, broke from the group, fanning her nose. As the crowd parted to let her pass, Zo caught a glimpse of Mac holding something on a plate.
“This settles it,” Elliot said. “No more tourists for the rest of the season. I don’t care what the NSF says; from now on, if anyone wants to visit, they can just go on to Rothera.”
“There’s no need to impose a ban,” Ross said. “Dozens of ships stop every season, and nothing like this has ever happened.”
“That’s true,” Dr. Rodriguez said. “Even if a whole horde of rats were to descend on us from off a tour ship, they wouldn’t pose a threat. Rats proliferate under unsanitary conditions; they need garbage and filth. Raney’s the cleanest place on earth. There’s nothing here for them to eat.”
“No kidding,” Mac said. “This guy made a big mistake when he jumped ship. Poor little thing. Sam did you a favor when he smashed your head in. Otherwise, you’d have starved to death.”
He caught Zo watching from the doorway and held out his trophy. “Hey, Zo! You hungry?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Mac had arranged the dead rat on a bed of crumpled green paper to simulate parsley, with a painted-red golf ball in its mouth in place of an apple. The haute cuisine accessories may have been fake, but the bulging eyeballs and the dried blood matting the rat’s crushed-in skull were real.
Laughter followed as she ran down the hallway. Pushing past a pair of scientists blocking the exit, she sprinted for her ice cave—damning the rat that must have somehow stowed away with her in the Hägglunds, damning Mac’s ridiculous, high-spirited antics, damning the pregnancy that made her so perpetually and inconveniently nauseous.
Reaching the entrance, she ducked inside and stopped short. Slowly, she backed away from the dozen sleek brown rats greedily devouring her vomit pile.
Chapter 14
Los Angeles, California
