In Cold Pursuit

by Sarah Andrews

  “Do you remember any particular boxes? Perhaps one marked ‘Do Not Freeze’?”

  The woman laughed. “Half of them say that.”

  “Are you able to guarantee that they won’t be frozen?”

  “We do pretty well,” she said, but her eyes were beginning to ask, Why all the questions?

  “Do you recall a man bringing you a ‘Do Not Freeze’ box last Tuesday about this time of day?” She indicated a tall man with her hand. “Good-looking guy with blond hair, or a big, scary guy with darker hair?”

  The woman gave her a crimped smile. “Now, you know that’s none of my business to answer a question like that.”

  “But if it had to do with the murder of Steve Myer?”

  The postmistress gave Valena a long, evaluative look before saying, “Then I’d have to answer that only one person came in at lunchtime that day, and that yes, he was tall and blond and good-looking. And he had a large box to ship, and as I recall it was marked ‘Fragile’ and ‘Do Not Freeze.’

  Valena thanked her and let herself out the door. She cut around the back of the post office building and through an equipment storage yard to reach her next target, which was Chad Hill’s office. If she was going to be successful, she needed the authority that was vested in the marshal of McMurdo Station.

  Chad Hill had gone to lunch. The woman who managed his office said that he would be back in half an hour.

  “May I leave him a note?” Valena inquired.

  “Sure.” She began looking around for notepaper. She fished a discarded notice out of the paper recycling and handed it across her desk.

  Valena lifted her pen and wrote:

  Mr. Hill:

  I have in my possession trace evidence that I believe will connect theft of protected wildlife and antiquities from Cape Royds to the murder of Steve Myers. The fact that this theft was accomplished during last Tuesday’s storm connects it to Steve’s murder, but also to the murder of Morris Sweeny. The connection is that whoever drove a snow machine out to Cape Royds in that storm would also have been able to use GPS and a snow machine to find the missing drop bundle at Emmett Vanderzee’s camp and bury it in one of the fuel drum excavations. GPS was present at Emmett’s camp and was used by his assistant, Calvin Hart.

  I have questioned every person who was in Emmett’s camp last year, and only Cal’s testimony varies from the others in important details. Raytheon studies the backgrounds of potential employees and would be harder to fool than my professor, who is too busy researching what is true to notice when someone is lying to him. It is my belief therefore that Calvin Hart is an alias, and that his true name is Edgar Hallowell.

  When Edgar Hallowell was a soldier in Iraq, he stole plates out of fellow soldier Jacob Sweeny’s body armor. Jacob died in an ambush because he lacked these plates. His brother Morris became obsessed with finding Hallowell, who disappeared after being dishonorably discharged. Morris came to Antarctica in search of him after spotting him on Emmett’s Web site.

  The postmistress states that someone answering to Hart’s description mailed a package from McMurdo’s post office last Tuesday. Please take steps necessary to track and seize this package. I believe it contains live penguin eggs and antique bottles from Shackleton’s Nimrod hut, which will prove his guilt in that matter at least.

  I request also that you use your authority to search clothing in Hart/Hallowell’s possession for trace evidence. In particular seize his FDX boots and check materials lodged in the treads for anorthoclase crystals, penguin guano, and feathers, and possible shards of antique bottle glass. Meanwhile, I will be at Emmett’s office in Crary Lab with corroborative trace evidence.

  Sincerely, Valena Walker

  Valena folded the note, stapled it, taped the edges, and handed it to the woman. “Please see that Mr. Hill gets this the moment he returns. It’s urgent.”

  The woman looked at her as if she had just sprouted a new head. “Okay.”

  “It has to do with Steve Myer.”

  “Oh! Okay!”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and relaxed a little, knowing that her job was almost finished. Chad Hill would return from lunch within the half hour, and she would be waiting in Emmett’s office with Jim Skehan.

  She let herself out through the air lock, automatically popping her sunglasses out of her sunglass pocket on her upper right sleeve and putting them on. Outside, as the outer door swung shut behind her, she strolled down the steps and tipped her face up into the great Antarctic sunshine. She closed her eyes and for a moment took off her sunglasses, confident at last to enjoy the sting of the cold and the blast of the sun. I’ll get a quick shower, she decided, and slather on some more sunscreen, then take a slow stroll through this glorious twenty-four-hour sunlight on my way to Crary Lab, where I’ll—

  Her face cooled as something slid between her and the sun. She opened her eyes, and was confronted by the presence of a tall, blond man who had just stepped into her path.

  “Valena,” said Cal Hart, smiling sweetly. “How nice to see you. Where are you going? May I offer you a ride?”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “But you do,” he said, firmly grasping her arm and steering her toward a red pickup truck.

  Valena began to shout, and then to scream, but her voice bounced off all the double-paned glass and heavily insulated buildings, rose, and flew away with the lone skua that was hovering overhead. Then everything went black.

  44

  GEORGE BELLAMY GRABBED HIS PHONE OFF ITS CRADLE. “George, this is Chad Hill,” said the caller. “What is this about stolen penguin eggs and artifacts on Cape Royds?”

  “How fast can you be here, Chad?”

  “I am in Crary and I am coming over. What we need to discuss is Valena Walker. She has left me a note, and we must act. Now. But I do not know where to locate this woman. I am in her office—Emmett Vanderzee’s office, George, do you get me?—but she’s not here. Brenda Utzon and her people have scoured Crary. They’ve looked everywhere. She is not in her dorm. She is not in the galley. She is not checked out with the fire department. She is not checked out with Mac Ops. I even called Fleet Ops, damn it! Where is she? She says that Calvin Hart killed Steve Myer and Morris Sweeny! You didn’t tell me that!” The connection ended.

  George Bellamy set his phone down slowly and faced Father Jim Skehan. “Chad and I were detaining Mr. Hart for observation because a few days ago, he mailed some very elegant mineral samples out through the APO. They were discovered as the package went through customs in New Zealand. As Mr. Hart does not have a collecting permit this was of course illegal. We bumped him off the flight north last Wednesday to see what else he might be up to.”

  Skehan said, “He didn’t know you were watching him?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Then there’s hope. If he knows he’s cornered, he might do anything.”

  Chad Hill burst in through the air lock and stormed into Bellamy’s office. He was still shouting, as if continuing his tirade on the telephone. “And she says that Hart is an alias for Hallowell, and that Sweeny was after him for killing his brother. We have to take action. Now! Do you get this picture, George? She leaves a note saying she has evidence against this man and then is not where she said she is going to be! If Hart—or whatever his name is—is indeed guilty of murdering two men, I will gladly escort him to Honolulu, but I will be damned if I will escort him there for killing a woman, too!”

  Bellamy crossed the room to the doorway. Felt himself moving through it, as if in a dream. Crossed to his secretary’s office. Spoke. “Get me the microphone for the public address system, and turn it on, will you? And patch it through to all buildings that are wired. And then I want you to relay this message to the main offices of all buildings that are not.”

  Eyes popping with surprise, she handed the instrument to him.

  He pressed the key to activate the microphone. Stared at the far wall, as if the words he needed to say might be written there. �
��All hands, all hands, this is George Bellamy. This is an all-points bulletin. I request an immediate search of McMurdo and environs for either of two people: Valena Walker or Calvin Hart. Repeat: Valena Walker or Calvin Hart. If anyone knows the whereabouts of either person, call my office immediately. Repeat: call my office immediately! Notice: approach Hart with extreme caution! Repeat, extreme caution!”

  He set down the microphone and put a hand out to steady himself against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. The image of the young woman’s face floated across the insides of his eyelids. So young, he thought, and so much promise. I did my best to protect her. If only they’d let me send her home!

  DAVE HEARD THE BOSS CALLING OVER THE RADIO ON the Fleet Ops frequency as he drove toward Pegasus, returning from lunch: “All hands, all hands, this is the Boss speaking. Anyone seen our girl Valena?” He sounded angry, very angry. Edith’s voice came next. “Edith here, Boss. Haven’t seen her. Is she supposed to be with us? What’s up?”

  The Boss answered, “There is an APB to locate either her or Calvin Hart, pronto. Approach Hart with caution. If you see Valena, offer aid. Over!”

  Dave turned the truck toward the sea ice, the place he knew how to search best.

  MASTER SERGEANT JOHN LANSING RAN DOWNSTAIRS with the all points bulletin ringing in his brain. “Hugh!” he called. “Waylon! Did you hear this?”

  “Got it,” said Hugh. He was already shrugging on his parka. “The damned thing is, I have no idea what else we can do to help, but I can’t stand still and do nothing. I’m on my way to the fire department. If they put together an organized search, I’m on it.”

  “Me, too.”

  Waylon and Marilyn followed them out the door.

  FATHER JAMES SKEHAN RAN OUT OF THE CHALET INTO the yard that lay between it and Science Support, trying to figure out what to do. He had assisted the others in the search of Crary for Valena. He had personally looked into the bottom of each fish tank in the aquarium.

  He saw Dustin, the teacher from Happy Camp, hurrying toward the Science Support Center and ran to him. “Is the SAR team forming?”

  “Yes. Cal Hart took a truck mid-morning. I was just out checking its parking space and it’s not there. Have you seen him since then?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s get back inside. Manny and the rest of the SAR team are putting together a plan.”

  The two men hurried inside and up the stairs to the warehouse space the Search and Rescue team used as a nerve center. Skehan could hear radio calls coming through people’s hand units as they rigged—units checking in, questions asked, messages relayed. Team members were arriving from other tasks, pulling on clothing and equipment on the run.

  Manuel Roig stood next to a wooden crate with a notebook open in front of him, talking on a radio. “Right. Okay, good. You got liftoff.” He turned to Dustin and Skehan. “The first helo is up looking for that truck.”

  Moments later, the radio squawked again. Manuel picked it up, said his name, and listened. “What? We’ll be right there.” He slammed down the phone and keyed the microphone on his radio. “All SAR, we have located a vehicle checked out to Cal Hart. It is parked at the dive hut on the sea ice off Hut Point. Repeat, Dive Hut 4 off Hut Point. Approach with caution, but hurry. Over.”

  DAVE HEARD THE CALLS AND SWUNG THE TRUCK TO-ward Hut Point and the dive shack and pressed the accelerator as hard as he could without breaking traction on the ice. A helicopter hovered overhead like a beacon shining the way. As he neared the hut, he saw Chad Hill skid his truck to a stop, clamber out, and slide to one side of the door to the hut. He pushed it open. Looked inside. Suddenly, all caution drained from his body and he rushed inside.

  Dave was out of the truck and across the ice to the building at a run. Adrenaline crashing through his brain and muscles, he crossed the threshold into the tiny hut, taking in the scene at a glance.

  The cover over the dive hole open, filled to the brim with freezing slush, traced in blood.

  Cal Hart, soaking wet, sprawled across the floor.

  Chad kneeling, his hand to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.

  Valena, alive. Pounding on Cal’s chest, her lovely face covered with blood and running with tears. “Breathe, damn you!” she roared. “Breathe!”

  Search and Rescue personnel began crowding into the hut. Manuel Roig shoved Valena out of his way as he and the others prepared to administer cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Valena tried to get back at Cal, but they firmly pushed her aside.

  Dave knelt beside Valena and gathered her up in his arms, squeezing her until she quit struggling. “Are you okay?” he said.

  She nodded. Then she began to collapse and leaned against him.

  “What happened?” Dave asked.

  Beginning to tremble with unspent adrenaline, she put her lips near his ear. “D-dragged me to his truck. Hit me. Was … blacked out. Until here. He … w-was going to stuff me down that hole. I—I—”

  “There, now. You’re going to be okay, and that’s all that is important.”

  Her voice came between her teeth. “I think I killed him!”

  “He was going to kill you, Valena. You had to protect yourself.”

  “I have to tell you!”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You won’t hate me?”

  “How could I hate a woman as fine as you?”

  Valena put her arms around him and buried her face against his chest. “He dragged me out of the truck. I fought like hell, but he had me by the arms, p-pinned behind my back. Dragging me in here, trying to get my neck. I fought! Braced my feet either side of the door. I could see he’d been down here already, had the lid off the dive hole. I knew what he was going to do!”

  “I am so glad you didn’t let him.” Dave began to rock her, soothing her.

  “He kicked my leg to break my hold. I fell forward. He kind of … rolled over me. It slammed my head. Stunned. When I came to, I saw him there in the hole.” She squeezed him harder, looked up into his eyes, begging him to understand. “All I could see was the soles of his boots. He kicked once, and then …”

  Dave shuddered at the idea of hanging head-down in a hole that narrow, encased in ice, in twenty-eight-degree water….

  “He’s dead,” said Manuel. “The ice is thicker than he is tall. There was nothing to grab hold of to push himself up, and the hole was too tight to turn around in.”

  “No!” Valena cried. “I did everything I could to pull him out!”

  Chad Hill put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay,” he said.

  “I want him alive, damn it! I want him to stand trial, so everyone can know the truth!”

  Chad said, “We all do know the truth now, thanks to you.”

  “But I want it in the papers! People have to know what’s happening in their world!”

  Chad smiled. “We have our own paper here, The Antarctic Sun, and it’s online. And you’d be amazed how a story like this will be picked up by the wires.”

  Valena took that in. A moment later, she hung her head. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “No, I am not,” said Chad. “You didn’t do this to him, Valena. He did it to himself. And I think there’s been far too much arresting of innocent people going on around here.”

  Dave helped Valena to her feet and led her out into the bright Antarctic sunshine, where her great, big, mixed-up, miscellaneous new family had begun to assemble, some arriving by vehicle, and others coming by foot or on skis. Paul, who was flying the helicopter that was hovering overhead, waved to her and headed back to the helo pad. Marilyn Wood stepped forward, took off her scarf and used it very gently to wipe the blood off of Valena’s face. Hugh Muller gave her a big smile. The Boss grinned. Edith slapped her on the back.

  “Hey, Valena, we were worried!” people were calling.

  “We’re so glad you’re all right!”

  “We want you to stay!”

  Valena looked from face to face in happy disbelief and th
e simple joy of being alive, tightening her arm around Dave Fitzgerald’s waist. In the privacy of her mind, she thought, I’ve finally found my heart, right here in Antarctica, and it’s broken wide open!

  45

  THE C-17 MADE A LONG, STATELY APPROACH ONTO THE sea ice runway at McMurdo. When it had finished back-taxiing and had pulled to a stop, Ivan the Terrabus pulled up next to it, and out of the passenger door spilled thirty-five men and women dressed in big red parkas, black wind pants, and blue or white boots. They turned and took in the view: the broad sweep of ice, the grand mountains, the endless sky.

  “Keep moving!” called the driver. “You can take your pictures later on!”

  One tall, angular man stood in the midst of the crowd, oblivious to the driver’s urgings. He had been here many times before and was not to be hurried. And he was looking for someone, a special someone who had helped him in a way he could never hope to repay.

  A Challenger 95 tractor pulled up next to the bus. The cab door swung open, and a young woman dressed just like the others, in United States Antarctic Program ECWs, emerged from the jump seat and climbed carefully but joyously down the steps that led out over the fender and down to the ice. The driver of the tractor smiled and gave her a wave good-bye as he headed out to Pegasus for another shift of rolling the runway smooth.

  The young woman grinned and waved when she saw her professor. “Emmett!” she called. “Over here!”

  A man with black hair and rich, tawny skin tugged at the tall man’s sleeve. “There she is!” he said.

  “Where, Taha?”

  “There!” Taha was grinning, waving a greeting to his fellow graduate student.

  Emmett Vanderzee turned and saw Valena. “Ah, there you are, my clever, clever one.” He held out his arms and gave her a fatherly hug.

  Thus anointed, Valena grabbed one of his orange duffels and pointed him toward the bus. “Right this way, gentlemen. We’d better hurry. We have a lot of work ahead of us, and we’re burning daylight!”