“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 spigot, 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 neve
r 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 scientists 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.”
“What’s that?”
Cupcake turned and looked at the scientist. “You’re right, it was Dave who was with me when I found him. Aw hell, Dave found him, not me. I was all but along for the ride. He…”
“Spit it out, Dorothy. Time’s wasting, and you would not believe how much is riding on this.”
Cupcake’s usual tough-girl expression twisted with concern, then anger, then fear. Finally, she stared at the floor. “I do not like to rat out my coworkers, but…well, it was spooky. I’m not making any accusations, but Dave just drove right out there—it was miles—and—” She snapped her fingers. “There he was.”
Skehan nodded, encouraging her to say the rest.
Cupcake said, “It was like he knew exactly where to look.”
22
VALENA FELT THE COLD SLICE THROUGH HER. SHE wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, trying to squeeze away the cold. “The man I’m replacing died?”
“Oh, yes,” Hilario said. “Didn’t even make it to Christchurch. Died on the plane. You’ll excuse us, it’s going to be a while before we’re going to feel like driving anywhere.”
Edith lifted her head and shoved a leather glove across her nose, sniffling. “No, I say we get going. There’s nothing like a job to do to get things off your mind, and we can honor Steve by doing that job well. I’ll take the first shift on his—the Challenger.” She headed for the rig. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder. “We’re falling behind schedule.”
Hilario turned toward Valena and gestured toward the door to the Delta.
Taking hold of the grab handle mounted on the side of the cab between the two doors, Valena climbed back up into the cab and settled herself in the right front seat, which featured torn olive drab plastic upholstery over a brick of foam rubber. She felt oddly shaky. She hadn’t known the man who had died, but she was walking in his shoes.
“Mierde,” Hilario said, rubbing his hands together to warm them as he settled himself into the driver’s seat. “The man had a family, you know? And he had us.”
Valena did not know what to say, so she said nothing.
“This sort of thing really shakes people up around here. Es verdad. They’re still talking about that Air New Zealand flight that crashed into Erebus back in 1979.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Well, like Edith said, we shall honor our man. They’re going to do a memorial for him on Sunday, when we all have the day off. Meanwhile, it’s business as fucking usual.” He thumped the steering wheel, and then added, “Perdona. Mi lenguaje.”
“No te preocupre.”
“Right. Now, how you suppose
this thing works?” He switched on the ignition, opened the heater up full blast, then wriggled out of his jacket.
Trying to bring up lighter topics, Valena asked, “Why’s this thing called Flipper?”
Hilario shrugged. “Aw, it used to belong to the Fire Department, but they got to practicing maneuvers one day.” He grabbed the huge, flat-mounted steering wheel and pantomimed turning it all the way to the right. “Rolled it. Guess you can only turn so sharp in one of these things, unless of course you’re going some kind of reasonable speed. So we cut the box off it and here it is, the pride of Fleet Ops. Bella, eh?”
“Simply gorgeous.” She felt the cab rock and turned to her right just as a large face appeared at the window beside her. It scared her and she jumped.
“Aw, don’t get so excited,” said Hilario. “It’s only Willy.”
It was another man dressed in the light brown Carhartt canvas ECWs. He was a big guy, as young as she or perhaps younger, but not blessed with even a single detail of physical beauty. He greeted her with an expression as lively as a cucumber, while banging on the door with one gloved fist.
She opened the door. “Hi,” she said, trying to be friendly.
The man stared at her.
“Don’t mind him,” said Hilario. “He don’t talk much. I guess he thinks you’re going to sit in back so he can ride shotgun. Rank has privileges. You’re the fingie.”
Valena shoved some gear aside and moved to the back seat. Wee Willy lumbered into the cab. He was almost as big and about as pleasant as a bear who had just awakened from hibernation. With a motion like a bricklayer dropping his hod, he occupied the seat Valena had just exited, then turned, reached past her, and began digging through one of the flight lunches. Feeling her eyes on him, he fixed a glare on her.
Valena began to have doubts about just how much fun the trip was going to be.
Hilario fired the ignition. He sang, “We go cruisin’ in the ma-chine!” swung the wheel, and off they lurched.
McMurdo Station flowed past in a tumble of steel and black road metal as they rumbled down the slope that led to the edge of the sea ice. At the transition onto the ice, Hilario stopped the Delta next to a cluster of snow machines and heavy equipment that was parked there.
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