In Cold Pursuit

by Sarah Andrews

  She reached up and yanked open the forward door and shoved the box of lunches and her backpack in onto the floor, then climbed up the ladder to the running board. From there she could maneuver the lunches and her pack onto the backseat, which was already heaped with other peoples’ duffels. The windshield and other windows were flat slabs of glass, and the dashboard was olive drab metal with placards listing the vehicle’s weight, which was eleven tons. Long windshield wipers hung on pivots from the tops of the windows. The whole thing looked like a stage set for a World War II film about the mud-ridden life of the GI.

  Valena climbed down and gave the door a healthy slam.

  At the sound, the short man on the flatbed turned and saw her. “Oh, hey, you’re the new Steve,” he called. “We’re all filled up. Have to fill this thing at the last minute, as it would freeze if we left it overnight. Let me screw this lid on and we’ll get on our way. Oh, and I put Steve’s sleeping bag into the cab for you. It’s behind the driver’s seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  Half a minute later, he had climbed down and was standing on the ground in front of her, pulling his gloves off and stuffing them into his pockets. He was short and swarthy and had coal black hair, dark brown eyes, and wide cheekbones.

  “Are you Hilario?” Valena inquired, pronouncing the name with the Spanish accent she had learned from friends in Colorado.

  He gave her a look of appraisal. “Latina?”

  “No se,” she replied. I don’t know.

  Hilario tipped his head and stared at her. “You don’t know?”

  “I was adopted.”

  Hilario flashed a row of even, white, teeth. “Aw, screw it then, you’re Latina. Chica fine as you I claim for todos los Latinos.” He threw a hand over his head like a bullfighter.

  “Well, thank you,” said Valena.

  The door to Building 17 opened and the Boss stepped out. “Hilario, come in here, please. And get Edith, will you? Dave and Willy are already in here.”

  “Sure, Boss.” He turned and called to the crew chief.

  “Does he want me in there, too?” asked Valena.

  Hilario shook his head. “Don’t sound like it.” He disappeared into the building, with Edith close on his heels.

  Valena stood in the door yard and waited. Time was ticking past. She wanted to get moving. She burned to get out onto the ice. She itched to speak with Sheila Tuttle. And she wanted desperately to step beyond the reach of George Bellamy. Something was wrong, she could feel it in her gut. When he had stepped outside the door, the Boss had not looked as jolly as he had the night before. In fact, he had looked upset. Had he been told he could not have Valena’s help? Did that mean that the traverse to Black Island was scratched until Steve could recover?

  What was taking them so long? Were they talking about her? Were they changing their minds, deciding that she wasn’t up to the task?

  I’m getting really, truly paranoid, she chided herself.

  Two more men in insulated canvas clothing came hurrying along the road. “What does he want?” one asked the other. “Dunno. But I don’t like it,” said the other. A truck pulled up, and three more men hopped out and hurried into the building. The last slammed the door behind himself.

  At least this means it’s not about me, Valena decided.

  Ten minutes passed. It felt like an hour. She began to get cold. She pulled up her hood and hopped from foot to foot.

  Finally, the door opened. One of the last men to enter shambled outside, walked to the far side of the road, and stared up into the surrounding hills. He stood with his back to Valena. Lit a cigarette. Hung his head. Kicked at the ground.

  A second man came out. His eyes were red and swimming with tears. He wiped his sleeve across his nose. When he saw Valena, he averted his eyes, pulled up his hood, and hurried away down the road.

  The next time the door opened, Edith and Hilario came out. Edith’s eyes were red-rimmed and staring. “I can’t believe it!” she was saying, her voice tight with sorrow. “It’s just awful!”

  Valena cleared her throat.

  Four more heavy equipment operators came outside, shuffled a few feet away from the door, and stopped. Stared at the ground.

  Edith began to cry. One of the men put his arms around her and hugged her.

  “What is it?” Valena asked.

  Hilario looked up and turned toward Valena. His eyes were dark with anger. “Steve’s dead,” he said.

  21

  BRENDA UTZON HEADED DOWN THE RAMP IN CRARY Lab. She had news, and she knew just who she wanted to share it with. She would tell Michael. She hurried to his door and knocked, but he did not answer.

  She started back up the ramp toward phase 1 and her office. As she passed the middle of the ramp, where phase 2 branched left and right, she heard someone call her name.

  She turned to see who it was. James Skehan was ambling toward her. She said, “Oh, hi there, Jim.”

  “Hello, Brenda. You look like a woman with a purpose.”

  Brenda blushed. “Well, I am. I was just looking for Michael to tell him the news.”

  Skehan raised his eyebrows to indicate interest. “Ah?”

  “Well, it’s about Valena Walker, so I suppose you already know, being both from DRI and all.”

  “She’s with Emmett’s project.”

  “Right. Oh, so you don’t know?”

  “I offer you a visage devoid of knowing. So tell me, what is new that is about Valena Walker, pray tell?”

  “Oh, she’s gotten on with Fleet Ops for the moment. That’s very good news, because she was so disappointed to have to come all the way down here and not see anything of Antarctica.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Yes, just imagine, it must have been crushing. She has always, always wanted to come here.”

  “So Fleet Ops took her on? How was that accomplished so quickly?”

  “Well, they’re just borrowing her, what with Steve hurt and all. You heard that they flew him out to Christchurch. We’re waiting for an update.”

  They heard the inner airlock door open at the end of the hallway. Michael stepped slowly through it. He was staring at the floor.

  “Michael!” said Brenda. “I was just coming to tell you about—” She put a hand to her lips. “Something’s happened.”

  Michael looked up slowly. “Steve’s dead, Brenda. I just came from the Chalet. He was dead when they landed in New Zealand.”

  Brenda felt a sickening sense of compression.

  Michael put a hand on her shoulder. “I guess that injury was worse than we thought.”

  Skehan said, “Injury?”

  Brenda found her voice. “His head.”

  Skehan’s voice deepened. “And how did this injury occur?”

  Brenda said, “They figure he slipped off the bottom step of his tractor.”

  “In the middle of that storm, he was on his tractor?”

  “I don’t know how it happened. Cupcake found him.” Brenda felt herself trembling and wondered if she was going to be sick. “So they asked Valena if she’d go, and she said yes. That’s what I was coming to tell you, Michael.”

  Skehan’s eyes widened. “Valena’s driving to Black Island?” With urgency, he added, “Brenda, do you know where I can find Dorothy?”

  “You know Cupcake?”

  “She once assisted me with some field work.”

  Michael said, “I just saw her walking toward Berg Field Center.”

  “Poor Steve,” said Brenda. She spoke unevenly, trembling giving way to silent tears.

  Michael slid his arm around her shoulder and brought her up against his chest.

  Without saying good-bye, Skehan strode toward the door at the end of the hall and through the outside airlock door, heading in the direction of Berg.

  NATHANIEL LANTHROPE—THE PENGUIN GUY—FINISHED stowing the five-gallon water containers that he and his assistant had just brought in from their short helicopter ride from McMurdo. He adjusted the spi
got, put a mug underneath it, and poured himself a drink, to which he added a couple of tablespoonfuls of Raro, New Zealand’s answer to Tang. He favored the mango flavor.

  Water was the limiting factor out here at Cape Royds. Satellite phone they had, and high-speed Internet, a busy colony of penguins, no dearth of volcanic rock, and millions of square miles of sea ice, but no potable water beyond these five-gallon jugs. The last patches of the winter’s snows, which were in any case quickly melting on the sun-absorbent black rock, were full of salt from the mists that rode in from the ocean’s edge a hundred yards away.

  He walked out to a promontory from which he could survey the entire cape. He could see his assistant picking her way down the trail toward the Pony Lake and the penguin colony beyond. Summer was arriving in Antarctica, but the ocean was still frozen. Far below him on the rocks just above the frozen sea, fifteen hundred pairs of penguins had gathered, and he could hear their ruckus a quarter mile away. They had just completed their mating rituals and were beginning to lay their eggs, the meaning of their odd rr-churring sound shifting from “Hey baby!” to “Get off my nesting space, and gimme back that pebble.”

  The colony was struggling, still recovering from a five-year period during which the ice in McMurdo Sound did not break up. An iceberg the size of Connecticut—the infamous and mammoth B-15 berg—had broken off the Ross Ice Shelf and had grounded just north of Ross Island, blocking the two main agents that usually cleared the winter’s ice from the sound: the warm summer ocean currents that usually melted the ice from below, and the ocean swells that flexed the thinning ice, shattering it so that a hard wind could blow it out to sea. Hence, the little Adélie penguins who congregated on Cape Royds each spring and laid their eggs and raised their broods had had to walk sixty kilometers across the ice to find the krill that formed bulk of their diet instead of a few meters. This had limited their rate of success in raising their chicks. The breakup of the Ross Ice Shelf thus provided the basis for his study of population response to climate change.

  Nat drank his fill, then put on his jacket to protect himself from the incessant Antarctic wind, picked up his waterproof Rite-in-the-Rain notebook, and started down the hill. He knew the route through the odd mounds of volcanic rock by heart, so many summers had he worked here, watching the penguins, observing their births and lives, documenting their deaths. The crumbled rock that formed the path gave softly under his boots.

  He descended past the camp where the New Zealand archaeologists were working to conserve the artifacts in and around Shackleton’s hut. The little structure had been built in 1907 but looked remarkably fresh. He stepped past the dump where Shackleton and his men had thrown their disused bottles and other trash and continued past the little pond where they had watered their Siberian ponies. The Pony Lake was just starting to show some melt water around the edges.

  The din of the penguin colony filled his ears now, waves of k-kuk-ker-er-errr and err-kuk-err, a raucous symphony of avian communication. They lay on their little piles of pebbles, staring into the wind. The watermelon-sized black birds with their guano-streaked white bellies lifted their heads and stared at him through emotionless eyes. A crescendo of warning sounds lifted from the nests as he came closer.

  “Hey, something’s strange here!” called his assistant.

  He turned to see what had caught her attention. She was crouched near a group of nests inside a plastic snow fence that encircled them. They had erected the fence a week before. It did not prevent the birds from leaving the area, but did funnel them over glorified bathroom scales that recorded their weights as they left and returned from feeding. A small archway over the scales held an electronic reader that identified each bird from a small chip that had been inserted under its skin. “What’s up?” he called.

  She waved him toward her. “There are six eggs gone.”

  “What, did the skuas strike it rich?”

  “I don’t think so. Both eggs are missing from three nests, all in a tight cluster.”

  Nat pondered this as he closed the distance between them, stepping over the fence as he came. It was typical for the penguins to lose eggs to the skuas. There were always a few of the predatory, gull-like birds in attendance. But they tended to get one egg here or there but rarely both, and he had never seen them get eggs from each of three adjacent nests. “Have you found the discarded eggshells?”

  “No. And that’s another thing that’s weird.”

  He stood beside her, seeing what she had seen. Three disconsolate male penguins stood sentinel over empty nests, waiting for their brides to return from feeding. “It’s going to be a sad homecoming for those guys.”

  “Truly. But why the strange pattern of predation?”

  “Here comes Nigel. Maybe he saw what happened.” One of the archaeologists was walking quickly toward them from the direction of Shackleton’s hut. “Hey, there, were you here the past few days?”

  Nigel said, “Some artifacts have gone missing. Some bottles and a biscuit tin.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “You didn’t see anyone dodging about from your helo, did you? Somebody took those, we’ll nail their right and left testicles to the hut here, leave them as a warning.”

  Nat raised his eyebrows. “No. So you were gone during the storm, too?”

  “Right. Saw it coming, so we went out to Scott Base for a little respite rather than riding it out here. We just got back. Didn’t cross paths with anyone coming up the route, so I suppose we’re just getting daft from being out here too long. What’s up with your birds?”

  “It’s almost like someone walked in here and helped himself to half a dozen penguin eggs. But who’d do that?”

  The archaeologist took off his watch cap and scratched his head. “I don’t know, mate. Maybe the same kind of idiot who’d steal Sir Ernest’s tinned biscuits?”

  CUPCAKE ADJUSTED THE BINDINGS OF HER SKATE SKIS with a focused fury. Steve was dead. Eight seasons she had spent on the ice, and risk of injury and death had always ridden beside her like a passenger who never speaks until it is too late, but this death had “wrong” written all over it. She had been in McMurdo during the helicopter crash of 2003, and that was bad enough, even though no one died. And then there was that pestilent journalist a year ago. Hardly anyone knew him, but still his death had cut everyone to the quick. But a coworker? Dying like that? And through malice?

  Who in hell’s name killed Steve? The question rattled in her brain, jabbing at her, bashing her, whipping her into a rage.

  “Dorothy?”

  She turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Sucking herself up into the hardened exterior she preferred to present to the world, she said, “What spider hole did you just crawl in out of, Padre?”

  The man slowly closed his eyes and opened them again. “The name is Jim.”

  “Whatever. Come on, asshole, give a woman a hug.” She grabbed hold of him and crushed him against her body. “So how’s it hanging?”

  Disentangling himself gently but firmly, he said, “A little respect for my vocation if you will, madame.”

  “Okay, stick to your vows if you must, but it’s a waste.”

  He gave her a tired but patient look. “I want you to tell me about that tractor driver.”

  “Steve.”

  “You found him. You and a man named Dave.”

  “That’s right. Me and Dave Fitzgerald. Why do you need to know?”

  “Because I can’t help but wonder if it has some connection with the other death.”

  “Last year. The journalist. Why, because of Dave?”

  Skehan kept his face impassive, showing little of what he was thinking or feeling.

  Cupcake said, “Yeah, it was the same Dave who was at Emmett’s camp last year. And the official story about this year is that Steve slipped on the bottom step of his tractor and hit his head, but that’s bullshit.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “I am entirely sure. Or, like you scientist
s say, as sure as I can be without having seen it happen myself.”

  Skehan curled one side of his mouth in an ironic smile. “You’re a quick student.”

  “You’re a good teacher. Of course, I’d prefer a different subject.”

  “Let’s not go there.”

  “Killjoy.”

  Skehan shook his head. “I understand that you are grieving, but does nothing slow you down?”

  “I even have designs on the Grim Reaper. Imagine what a score that would be.”

  Skehan closed his eyes. “Steve,” he said. “A man’s been killed. Two men.”

  Cupcake looked away. “All I know is that Steve was out at the ice runway during the worst of the whiteout. The Boss sent him out there with one of the Challengers. He was supposed to be hanging out in the kitchen, but someone counted heads and noticed that he wasn’t there. Next thing we know, he’s out past Hut Point on the Cape Evans route, kissing something hard and on his way down. His tractor was back near the runway. You tell me how he got there.”

  “Did you see any tracks when you found him? Anything strange?”

  Cupcake shook her head. “It was still blowing, kicking up fresh snow, and all we had in mind was getting him to safety. Fat lot of good that did him.”

  “Has anyone been back out there to take a look?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I stopped by Science Support Center on the way over here and checked out a snow machine. How about you show me the spot?”

  Cupcake thought a moment, then nodded. “Just let me put away these tools. But there’s one thing I’ve got to tell you. Something that’s bothering me.”