In Cold Pursuit vw-1

by Sarah Andrews

  “The cook, is she here this year?”

  “She’s out at Black Island.”

  “Lindemann’s out in the Dry Valleys.”

  “Yes,” he said, trying to sound patient. “He’s up on a glacier in the Olympus Range. I heard he got on with that crew from the University of Maine.”

  “Why didn’t he stick with Emmett?”

  “How should I know? Your academic politics. I stay out of that.”

  “The blaster’s assistant? What was his name, David?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s around. There are probably a dozen Davids on the roster this year.”

  “That last one. William somebody.”

  “William was a punk kid. I doubt they hired him back.”

  “A punk. What, as in homicidal?”

  Manuel threw up his hands. “As in not very competent. Had to have everything explained to him. What he was doing in Antarctica, I’ll never know.”

  “So, were you all in the same tent while you waited for the drop?”

  “No. We had four Scotts and a cook tent. Most people hung out in the cook tent, because it was warmed by the stove, and it’s the largest—eight feet across and sixteen long. Scotts are tall, but not very big across, as you’ll remember from your training today. You can sleep three people in them, but two is better. I was in the cook tent with Sheila, helping her with the sick man. I think Bob and Dan were in their Scott tent most of the time.”

  “Bob and Dan.”

  “Schwartz and Lindemann. They have first names. Dave was with us most of the time in the cook tent. So was William, eating cookies. They shared a tent with Ted, but Ted had left. Cal Hart—that’s Emmett’s friend—he was in the tent he shared with Emmett, reading Nietzsche. I had a dome tent right next to Sheila’s Scott, but we were both in the cook tent that day. Emmett went from tent to tent, making sure everyone was okay.”

  “How did Emmett get from one tent to the next?”

  “They were close together. It was no more than a hundred feet from one end of the camp to the other. And we’d seen the storm coming, so I had strung ropes so we could find our ways from one tent to the next and to the latrine.”

  “And Emmett went out in the storm looking for the chute?”

  “As soon as he could see his hand in front of his face, yes. He took Cal with him. Safety in numbers. He wanted that man to live! I kept telling the FBI men that, but they believed what they wanted to believe. The chute was gone, I tell you! It probably blew into a crevasse and was immediately covered with blowing snow. I went out and helped as soon as it was safe. We all did. Then it began to blow again. We just weren’t lucky. End of story.”

  More gently, Valena said, “I’m still trying to understand what it was like there, Manny. Since coming here, I’ve learned one thing, and that is that this place is like no other place on earth. Half the time, I feel like I’ve left the planet. I’m on Mars, or the moon. What was the camp like? How high were you? How steep was the terrain? That sort of thing.”

  Manny leaned onto his elbows and ran his hands through his hair. “We were at 10,500 feet. Add to that the effects of the cold and of being five degrees further south than McMurdo. The higher latitude increases the apparent elevation. Call it 12,000 feet. And the ground is rough. It’s not so much how steep the terrain is, it’s the ice. Crevasses. You just don’t screw around up there. And then here’s the reporter, straight up from sea level. He looked okay for a day, almost two, then down he went.”

  “And everybody’s certain it was altitude sickness.”

  “What else would it be?”

  “Something else, if federal agents are hauling scientists off the ice a year later.”

  Manny shook his head. “The doctors here at the hospital looked at him, and you bet there was an autopsy. His lungs were full of fluid. No big bacterial or viral growths, so it wasn’t an infection. And there were no toxins in his tissues, so you can’t pin it on anything he ate. No punctures, no nothing.”

  “They checked for punctures?”

  “I checked for punctures. We had a medical kit there. All the field crews carry one, very extensive, with some pretty heavy drugs in them, including for pneumonia—and yes, we were administering that drug—and we had it because you never know when somebody’s going to get sick when you can’t get them back out to McMurdo. So yes, I checked him over.”

  “Why?”

  Manny leaned back in his seat and bared his teeth in frustration. “Because there’d been such a commotion.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s no secret that the man fought… argued with Emmett. Nothing physical.”

  “Argued about the science?”

  “About everything. About Emmett’s techniques. About what was for dinner. The man had a real burr up his butt. He chewed at Emmett and a couple of the others, harassed them like there was no tomorrow.”

  Valena sighed. “Apparently there was no tomorrow for him.”

  Manuel squeezed his eyes shut.

  Valena said, “I’m sorry, but I have just a few more questions. The feds: they came down this year and started asking questions. Why? Could you tell anything from what they asked?”

  Manuel shook his head. “Talk to the fellows in the Airlift Wing. The feds arrived on one of their LC-130s. They asked a lot of questions. Then Emmett took them out to the field camp. They were gone six or seven hours, long enough to fly out there, stay a few hours, and come back.” He stared into space past Valena’s shoulder, as if watching the scene unfolding. “And when they came back, that was it. They had Emmett by the sleeve. I watched them come in off the ice. They marched him off to Hut 10. I hear they interrogated him all night and into the next morning. Nobody could believe it was happening. I went to the door of Hut 10 and was told to leave. Early afternoon the next day, they packed him into a Herc again, and were gone.” He swung his gaze to Valena, focused his eyes on hers. “That was Saturday.”

  Valena thought a moment, then asked, “I’m sure there’s something else I should ask you, but I don’t know what it is. I know so little about this place.”

  Manuel looked at her a long time, then said, “Ask yourself why he didn’t have a Gamow bag in camp. Why he had to send for one.”

  “Who, Emmett?”

  “Yes. It’s standard procedure to have one along.” Having said this, Manuel appeared to deflate, as if something that had been stiffening him had finally escaped. Then he said, “You want to know anything else, you’ll have to ask the Air-lift Wing personnel who went into the field with them.”

  Personnel. Plural. Of course, thought Valena. There’s more than just a pilot on those planes, there’s a whole crew! “Who else went out there with Emmett and the investigators?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. There’d be a crew of at least five. Pilot, copilot, flight engineer, navigator, loadmaster. More, maybe. I don’t know that much about the military here. They stay kind of separate.”

  You just have to go talk to them, she thought, but then she recalled the undecipherable look in Hugh’s eyes. Had he actually been giving her information, or had he just been toying with her?

  She looked at the tired mountaineer. “Thank you, Manny. I’ll leave you in peace now.” As she rose from the table, she thought about all the questions she would ask this man and all the other citizens of McMurdo if she was not afraid of being downright rude. People here ask where you’re from and what you’re doing here, but what I’m beginning to wonder is, why are you here and what are you hiding from?

  17

  THE COFFEE HOUSE WAS MADE FROM TWO SMALL QUONset huts connected at right angles. Half buried under a sad-looking bank of dirty, thrice-frozen snow that had been thrown up by the plows, the little watering hole seemed to be holding onto the past as much as to the ground. The corrugated iron arches were old, battered, and painted an unappealing shade of brown. At the point where they joined, a small plywood airlock had been constructed, so long ago that it now sorely needed paint. Valen
a pushed open the outer door of the airlock and passed within.

  Inside, the atmosphere was comfortingly dim. The structure had no windows, creating the illusion that the sun had actually set, returning her world to low-latitude normalcy. She passed down a short hallway that housed coat hooks and a bulletin board displaying photographs of a number of local women dressed in ball gowns as they carried out their daily routines on the ice; driving Cats, riding snowmobiles, cooking chow for a thousand people or so. The shorter Quonset opened off to her left. It was filled with derelict couches that faced a large-screen TV. Nothing was on, but one couple sat familiarly close on an eight-foot-long divan that featured fuzzy, grass-green upholstery. They had their arms around each other, and if their wineglasses had been any closer together, they could have dispensed with one and simply shared the other.

  Valena turned right into the other Quonset. The inside of its low barrel arch had been paneled with knotty pine, yielding an arched rendition of a hunting cabin, though without the crackling fire, stuffed heads, and frosty windows looking out over pine-dappled landscapes. Into this space had been stuffed a bar, behind which stood a bartender, and a great many small, square tables surrounded by miscellaneous hard-backed and overstuffed chairs, another McMurdan monument to scavenging. Various pairs and groups of people sat around talking, swigging vino, and playing cards or board games. A huge man in canvas overalls played darts with a woman who couldn’t have weighed over ninety pounds.

  Valena looked right and left, searching the room for Major Muller. He wasn’t there. She finally spotted Betty the firefighter sitting with a group of people at a table toward one end of the room.

  Betty raised her sleepy eyes as Valena approached. “Hey, glad you could make it,” she said. She gestured to her left, toward a man in military fatigues. “May I introduce Tractor Larry, who is standing in as protocol officer for Tractor Waylon. That guy with the turquoise eyes next to him is Tractor Matt. Next to him we have…”

  The names began to blur in Valena’s mind. She had met entirely too many people in the past few days. Appellations seemed to descend into a netherworld even as they emerged from Betty’s lips, almost as if she were on television and the sound had been turned off. Even the faces were beginning to merge into one big composite southlander, a hardy soul of intermediate gender who eschewed fashion for warmth, easy care, and fitness. In fact—she realized, now that she thought of it—Antarcticans, while attractive people on the whole, wore no fussy shoes or constraining clothing and almost no jewelry, and she saw not a lick of makeup on any of the women present. She smiled. In a very true sense, she was home. She took a seat next to Tractor Matt, a burly man she had last seen whooping it up in the galley with the man who, with Cupcake, had found the missing Cat driver.

  “May I serve you some wine?” asked the flyboy to her left.

  “Ah, sure. What are we having?”

  “Red, I think.” The man pulled one of three bottles out of the center of the table and poured. As Valena took a sip, another flyboy said, “Got any Georges to send north?”

  “Georges?”

  “One-dollar bills. We’re bringing Susan B. Anthony, Sacagawea, and Jefferson south and sending George home.” He produced some two-dollar bills and one-dollar coins from his pocket. “Even exchange.”

  Valena pulled her wallet out of her back jeans pocket and emptied out most of her folding money, holding back her New Zealand currency and the two US twenties that lurked behind them. “Here’s a five to contribute to the wine money,” she said. “And here are all the ones I have.”

  “Good woman.” The man pounced on the money, swapping her two-dollar bills and dollar coins for the singles. The five he approached differently. Producing a stamp and green-inked stamp pad, he printed little green antique tractor symbols all over it. Then he hit all the singles as well, apparently for good measure. Then he ceremoniously slipped his tractor stamp into a special pouch. A block of wood lay next to his hand. It was about three by four inches, and adorned with large green letters that read MOATS.

  “What does ‘moats’ mean?” asked Valena.

  The man grinned. “It stands for ‘Mother of All Tractor Stamps,’” he said. He turned it over, revealing a very large version of the antique tractor symbol on the other side. “Come to think of it, I’m behind on my job here,” he added, charging the enormous stamp with ink. He examined each of the wine bottles in turn and rolled the tractor onto the labels of those he had not previously hit.

  The man with the stamp raised his voice a bit and addressed the group again. “As president pro tempore in lieu of Tractor Hugh, who could not be with us this evening due to grave and unavoidable duties in the line of duty and so forth, I call everyone’s attention to…”

  Larry said, “Some more new business.”

  “Yeah. Tractor Larry, as the meeting of the Tractor Club is already in session, how do we proceed with the introduction of this new candidate?”

  Larry rubbed his buzz cut as he mulled this question. “I believe that, in emergency situations such as these, we can use the abbreviated form. In any case, we must start with introductions.”

  Valena interrupted. “Is it okay if I do this even if I’m about to leave?”

  “Leave?” said Matt.

  “Uh, yeah. I just got here Saturday evening, but my—uh, Professor Vanderzee had to leave. So they’ve scheduled me to go out on the next flight north.” She glanced at Larry, wondering if he’d be the pilot of the plane that took her away from the ice.

  Matt said, “So they aren’t even having you go ahead and do your scientific research?”

  “Not unless I can get my professor back,” said Valena. “Or find a job all of a sudden. Anyone have employment for a beaker who’s mislaid her professor?”

  “Aw hell,” said Betty. “Most beakers don’t even lay their professors, much less mislay them.”

  The crowd broke into cheerful laughter, with hoots of, “Good one, Tractor Betty,” and, “Oooo, it burns!”

  The man with the stamp said, “Then we must proceed with speed on two accounts. Okay, let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves to the candidate. Members please state your names to the candidate.”

  “Tractor Betty.”

  “Tractor Larry.”

  “Tractor Matt.” Matt made eye contact more pointedly than most, then hopped up and wove his way between the tables toward the bar, where he leaned an elbow next to a man who was perched on a stool there working on a bottle of white and engaged him in earnest conversation.

  Meanwhile, the introductions continued around the table. “Hi, I’m Valena,” she said, when the process ended with her.

  Betty said, “What now, Tractor Larry? Hell, I never knew it was so difficult to remember all this crap. Where’s Tractor Hugh when we need him?”

  “We ask the candidate the Questions,” said Tractor Larry. “Valena, we must ask you two important questions, which you shall answer as honestly as you can. Are you ready?”

  “Sure,” said Valena.

  The man with whom Matt was speaking at the bar had twisted around on his stool and was looking at her.

  Larry said, “Okay, here’s the first question. What is your name?”

  “Valena.”

  All present nodded in approval.

  “Okay, you are doing well,” said Larry. “Now for the second and more crucial question: Valena, do you like tractors!”

  Valena looked from face to face. All now gazed on her with feigned solemnity. Confused, she said, “Oh, sure. I love tractors.”

  A great cheer went up from the table, arms flying upward with delight, all faces beaming with happiness.

  “Huzzah,” said the protocol officer. “Tractor Betty, you may proceed with the investiture.”

  Betty turned her heavy-lidded eyes toward Valena. “Valena, I now pronounce you Tractor Valena. You are a duly invested member of the Tractor Club, and therefore endowed with the rights and privileges thereof, or something like that.�
��

  All raised their glasses, roared, “Tractor Valena,” and took a drink.

  Valena asked, “What exactly are my rights and privileges?”

  In unison, they announced, “Membership is lifelong, free, and irrevocable!”

  “Well, how nice,” said Valena. She felt unaccountably pleased.

  Matt resumed his place at the table.

  Larry said, “Now the best part. The story.”

  Betty said, “Oh, yeah. Okay now, Tractor Valena, we proceed to the best part, the solemn invocation, or some such. Tractor Valena, you may now tell us a story about tractors. What’s the rule on that, Tractor Larry?”

  “It can be the truth, a lie, or a story,” said Larry.

  “Yeah, that,” said Betty.

  “Me?” said Valena.

  The assembled broke into cheers.

  “Yeah, you,” said Betty. “Give us a tractor story.”

  Valena’s mind went blank. She stared from face to face, trying to think of what to say. Her gaze dropped to the Mother of All Tractor Stamps, and the jaunty green tractor reminded her of an ancient one that occupied a special corner in her grandfather’s barn. “My grandfather has a 1929 Case L,” she began.

  An appreciative “Oooo” ran around the table. The men performed heavenward looks of spiritual transcendence. Larry held his hands to his heart.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Valena could see the man at the bar rise and move toward their table. He was looking at her. To her audience at the table, she said, “Grandpa is proud of that tractor. Sentimental, even. He inherited it from his grandfather along with the farm. He keeps it oiled and fueled, and on very special occasions he drives it. Like in parades, that sort of thing. And sometimes around the near meadow.” An image began to arise in her mind, of brilliant sunshine, the dogs running along behind, grasshoppers scattering…

  “A fine man!” said Matt. He looked like a cat who had caught a canary.

  “A fine tractor!” said Larry.