In Cold Pursuit vw-1

by Sarah Andrews

  Cal came after him. “So you say. Well, this guy Jim Skehan’s got a real hard-on about finding out who killed Steve.”

  Dave turned back and faced him. “And why should this be a concern of mine?”

  “Because it looks like Skehan’s organizing a posse, and you’re right smack in his radar.” Cal stepped closer to him. “Skehan’s trying to figure out who really killed that reporter Emmett had up in his camp, and you’re on that list, too. I’m not the only one who got a little paranoid. You get it?”

  “So what?”

  “Valena Walker is ‘so what.’ Watch out for her, man.”

  Dave closed his eyes. The image of his companion of the afternoon sitting in the seat of the Challenger smiling, filled his mind. Beautiful Valena smiling. That smile fading as the conversation careened toward what was so clearly troubling her. He shook his head, but it didn’t free him. So he did the one thing he could do for himself: he kept his hands in his pockets and walked away.

  33

  IN HER DORM ROOM, VALENA PACKED AND THEN RE-packed her duffels for field deployment. As she moved through the task, she nibbled at her dinner, which she had brought from the galley on a take-out plate. She had laid the dish on the bunk below hers, chancing spilling chop suey on the comforter, but she was too wired to be concerned with such details. If food spilled off the plate she’d deal with it and take things from there. This seemed a metaphor for the way her entire life seemed to be playing out of late. Besides, on the comforters and Army blankets issued from Housing, a spill might go unnoticed. Like everything else in Antarctica—the so-called furniture in the room, the buildings, the Deltas, the whole town of McMurdo—they had a scavenged look to them. Skuaed, thought Valena, remembering the local term. Picked over by predatory gull-like birds.

  When she was done eating and confident that she had forgotten nothing she would need to survive in a remote Antarctic field camp—short of the equipment she would check out from the Field Center in the morning—she sat down with Emmett Vanderzee’s computer on her lap. She began to skim through the files she had noticed before, looking for anything that seemed connected to his arrest.

  She began with a transcript of the article Frink had published in the Financial News almost two years earlier. It purported to debunk a scientific paper Emmett had published in a scientific journal. She knew the paper backward and forward: it examined data from a wide range of paleoclimate records, including ice cores, lake cores, ocean cores, tree rings, and historical records, and showed that the modern-day climate was warmer than it had been at any time during the last two thousand years. It also showed that this increase had occurred during the last fifty years. The increase was so large and abrupt, in fact, that the graph of temperature increase versus time looked like a hockey stick laid on its side. For the first 1,950 of those two thousand years, the shaft of the hockey stick lay horizontally, with little or no increase. Then in the last fifty years—the puck end of the stick—the temperature had shot upward. AI Gore had emphasized this information by standing on a lift in his movie, An Inconvenient Truth, rising with the line on his graph in a horrifying swing toward the ceiling.

  Frink’s article attacked Emmett’s findings by stating that his data were scant, self-contradictory, and subject to misinterpretation, and concluded with a strong statement about Emmett’s motivation for having published his analysis: “Clearly, Mr. Vanderzee wishes to scare citizens back into the Stone Age. One wonders to what lengths he will go to obtain his next dole of grant money from public funds.”

  “Whoa!” said Valena out loud. She read on. The next file in the sequence was a compendium of letters to the editor of the Financial News that had been sent in response to the article. Emmett had written an eloquent rebuttal to the article, as had Jim Skehan and other scientists. Following each letter was a transcript of the way each had actually been published in that newspaper. As Skehan had told her, the letters had been severely edited, changing them into confused prattle.

  Rebuttals to the edits followed, Skehan’s particularly vitriolic. Responding e-mails from the editor stated only that they were “looking into the matter.” Next in the file were a flurry of e-mails from colleagues indicating that the edited letters to the editor had done their damage within the scientific community.

  Things got even worse from there. The next file was a scanned photocopy of a letter to Emmett Vanderzee from the United States senator who chaired the committee on science. The letter “requested” that he come to Washington to appear before the committee and explain his analysis of the data. The senator demanded a list of documents: not only Emmett’s published analysis but also his raw data, his colleagues’ data, a listing of his funding sources, and justification for all current and planned climate studies. Finally, it required that he open his books, showing how all project funds were being spent.

  The letter was a shotgun approach to fact finding, a witch hunt, an attempt to intimidate, so outrageous that Valena thought at first that it must be a joke letter sent by a colleague, and she reexamined the letterhead to make certain that it was authentic.

  Why would the US Senate presume to review scientific research? Was that within their purview or, more sensibly, within their expertise?

  She understood more fully now why Emmett had invited Frink to his camp. He had wanted to teach the man how science was done, and what it meant. He had wanted the journalist to understand that while scientific interpretations of data were open to debate, that debate belonged between people who understood not only how to analyze the data but also how those data had been gathered. He had wanted Frink to call off his dogs.

  But instead of Frink, he had gotten Sweeny. What was Sweeny’s piece in all of this? Why was a political reporter looking into science?

  Valena read on. After Sweeny’s death, the Financial News articles went for Emmett’s jugular not just as a scientist but as a man, painting him blacker and blacker through innuendo and almost direct statement that he had set Sweeny up to die. “Emmett Vanderzee, who is under investigation by the Senate Committee on Science, was not content to take criticisms,” began one article, and, “Having attempted to incite widespread panic with his flawed analysis of climate variations, Vanderzee greeted criticism by leading Morris Sweeny to his death,” read another. There were accusations that he “would do anything to protect his funding.”

  The date of the latest article was three days before Emmett had invited her to join him this year in Antarctica. Was that because Schwartz and Lindemann had just that minute jumped ship?

  Flicking the cursor back into the list of programs, she opened her professor’s stored e-mails and set the pointer to group them alphabetically by sender. She scrolled to F for Frink, but there was nothing there. She then scrolled to S for Sweeny and found a short list. The first few were no surprise, questions about what to expect in the camp and what to bring. They were all dated within just weeks of Sweeny’s arrival on the ice, suggesting that he had signed on late in the game. The last one caught her interest:

  Mr. Vanderzee

  Am in receipt of the image taken in your camp yesterday. Wanting to know name of second man from right. Is this Edgar Hallowell?

  Morris Sweeny

  She backed up one e-mail and found what she expected: Sweeny’s original request for a photograph of all personnel who were working with him that year. Why would he want that? And who was Edgar Hallowell, and why was Morris Sweeny interested in him? She closed her eyes, concentrating. The only name even close to that is Ted, which could be a nickname for Edgar. But why would a political reporter coming to Antarctica to learn about climate change be interested in a guy who blows things up?

  Pondering these questions, Valena turned on the word-processing program, opened a blank document, and began to write, making notes of the conversations she had had with the people who had been in Emmett’s camp:

  Emmett Vanderzee—arrested

  Bob Schwartz—stayed in tent, doesn’t want to talk about it, argu
ed with deceased?

  Manuel Roig—saddened by events, was in cook tent, cook is alibi

  Sheila Tuttle—Roig her alibi

  Willy?—seems unmotivated and slow-witted, but crafty?

  Mischievous? Could he be stupid enough to get into trouble?

  Calvin Hart—says he helped EV, but did he? Where was he?

  Dave Fitzgerald—

  She could not bring herself to make an entry next to the last name, so instead she added Ted’s, just in case he had some previously undisclosed connection to the deceased.

  It was getting late. Valena turned off the computer and once again hid it inside her closet. She rolled her bath kit and pajamas into her towel, stuffed them under her arm, and headed down the hallway toward the showers, where she crammed herself into one of the tight, worn-out shower stalls with the plastic curtains too narrow to fill the gaps they were meant to cover.

  The water became hot very quickly. Abstractedly, she thought of Peter the energy efficiency engineer. Had he fitted the system with a recirculating hot water system so that people wouldn’t have to run the water long to get it hot? It’s all resources, she thought. Antarctica is all about the resources. So if that’s so, what resource came into play at Emmett’s high camp?

  She was at last beginning to relax a little, enjoying the sensation of hot water coursing over her body, when she heard a familiar voice call her name. It was Cupcake. Oh, good, I can ask her Ted’s full name, she thought, as she turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain across her body. “Hey, what’s—”

  “Just looking for you, darling.” Cupcake wobbled a little, the effect of several stiff drinks. “You know, I’m good. Real good.”

  “Aw, come on, Dorothy! I’m in the shower!” Valena pulled the scanty curtain closed as far as it would go and turned the water back on.

  “I can see that, not that you’re showing me much.”

  Valena’s blood began to boil, an old habit of getting mad so she wouldn’t have to know that she was scared. “Get out of here! I mean now!”

  Cupcake began to back away. “Don’t get so touchy. Wha’ happened at the rest of that meeting? ‘At’s why I’m here. I jus’ wanna know what’s up…”

  “I said go away!”

  Another woman came into the bathroom. “Hey there, Cakes, wassup?”

  “Oh, I’m just having a little chat with my friend here, tryin’ ta calm her down. She’s sort of upset.”

  Valena stuck her head out again. “Upset? You want to see upset? Just push it an inch farther!”

  The third woman grabbed Cupcake by the arm. “Come on, Dorothy, you know better than to screw with a grantee.”

  Cupcake yanked her arm loose. “Screw with her? Hell, I came in here to warn her about her new boyfriend!”

  The woman grabbed Cupcake by both arms now and hauled her out the door. “You’re drunk! Come on, Dorothy!”

  As the door swung shut, Valena heard Cupcake yell, “He looks real sweet, but it’s just a candy coating! You don’t want to know what’s hiding inside!”

  Valena huddled against the back wall of the shower. Adrenaline coursed through her naked body. She began to tremble, shivering with cold even under the hot water, and she wondered if she was going to throw up. She tried to think, to get herself under control. It’s just been a hard few days, she told herself firmly. Get a grip. Yeah, there’s bad shit happening around here, people getting killed, but I’ve got that under control now. I’m leaving for Cape Royds in the morning, and I’ll be safe where I’m going. Okay, maybe it’s not smart to go to that field camp where Lindemann is, but what’s he going to do to me? Screw up his doctoral position? Not hardly.

  The water began to warm her skin, but deep inside she still felt cold. She turned off the water and pulled her towel inside. Tried to rub herself dry. Her skin felt like it was crawling around on her body.

  Cautiously, she stepped out of the shower, dressed, and headed down the hallway, glancing both ways to make sure Cupcake wasn’t waiting for her there.

  Back in her room, she climbed into her bunk, pulled the blankets and comforter up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Slowly, by inches, she admitted to herself that she was scared, not angry, and that what had scared her most was the chance that Cupcake might be right about Dave Fitzgerald.

  34

  VALENA ONCE AGAIN AWOKE EARLY. SHE DRESSED quickly and, leaving her gear in the room, slipped out the door and across the way toward the building where the Airlift Wing had its offices. There she left a note with Master Sergeant John Lansing, with instructions to give it to Larry. It read:

  One of the men at Emmett’s camp may have been using an alias. Sweeny may have been looking for someone named Edgar Hallowell.

  Thanks, Valena

  She wrote her e-mail address across the bottom of the page.

  This task dispatched, she jogged back across to Building 155 and headed down the hallway in search of a hearty breakfast. Glancing neither left at the flight manifests, nor right at the monitors mounted near the galley door, she grabbed a tray and headed into the food lines, steering a course directly toward the omelet man. “Good morning,” she said, awarding him her best smile.

  “Good morning to you,” he said. “What can I get for you today?”

  “I want three fresh eggs with tomatoes, black olives, mushrooms, green peppers, and jack cheese,” she said.

  “It’s yours,” he said, cracking the eggs onto the griddle. He chopped the yolks expertly with the edge of his spatula and started adding the toppings.

  “I wonder if I could ask you kind of a personal question,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “The other day, how did you know I needed privacy?”

  The omelet man continued to stir and fold the eggs, indicating not a flicker of change in the tenor of the conversation. “I’m in the room next to your friend Matt in the dorms,” he replied. “There was a discussion out in the TV lounge.” He turned the eggs, flicking a runaway bit of cheese onto the heap. “It had been quite a day for news, as you’ll recall.”

  “I’m not used to this place yet. I don’t know how people do business.”

  He scooped the eggs onto his spatula and slid them onto the plate. “There’s good folks down here, by and large,” he commented. “Everybody’s got their reason for being here and not somewhere else, but once they get here, they usually find a place here. Those that don’t, you seldom see. They hide.”

  They hide, thought Valena. “Thanks for the omelet,” she said. Completing the circuit of the service area, she poured two glasses of water and one of orange juice, grabbed a muffin, and headed toward a table under the windows.

  She was four forkfuls of egg into her meal when a woman with gray hair and gentle blue eyes appeared with a tray at the opposite side of the table. “May I join you?” she inquired.

  “Certainly.”

  “You’re Valena Walker, am I right?” She settled into a chair and arranged her breakfast in front of her. She moved methodically, removing each item from the tray and laying it out as Emily Post might have done.

  “Yes,” she said, “Emmett Vanderzee’s student.” She tried to sound cheery as she added, “Why, am I wearing a sign on my back?”

  “No, it’s on your big red parka,” said the woman. “It’s my job to know who all the grantees are.” She extended a hand. “And how rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Nancy Saylor. I’m in charge of Berg Field Center.”

  Valena shook her hand. “Well, what luck, then. I need to come see you this morning to check out some equipment.”

  Nancy set about consuming a large bowl of the homemade granola topped with yogurt, canned peaches, and milk. “No need to. When George told me to reinventory the gear Emmett had checked out, I sent someone to fetch it but simply put it back into Emmett’s cage. Like you, I am hopeful that he shall return this year.”

  “His cage?”

  Nancy smiled. “It’s a system we have so that people can come and
go at whatever hour to work with their field gear. In the back of BFC, we have a series of screened alcoves with combination locks on them, and you can get in there and get your gear anytime you want. That way I don’t have to lock the whole place up or be there twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I see.”

  “Before he came south this year, Emmett filled out a request for the equipment. That way we know we have enough, and if we don’t, we can order more.” She waved her spoon concisely in the air to describe things shuttling back and forth. “At any rate, when he arrived this year I already had his order waiting for him in his cage. He took his part of the kit when he went to the high camp last week and left it in his office. They weren’t planning on spending the night”—she gave Valena a look that said little do they understand this place—”but of course they had all the equipment they might need, including sleep kits, tents, stove, food, and a Gamow bag.”

  “A Gamow bag.”

  “Of course, I don’t handle that gear,” she said. “The Gamow is issued through Science Support Center, I believe, but for some reason, it was returned to me last year instead of going directly to them.”

  “You mean the one that was airdropped?” Valena asked. “But I thought—” she managed to stop herself before saying, they only found that this year.

  “I mean the one Emmett had with him when he first went up to the high camp last year.” She paused from her eating to study Valena’s face. “You don’t think that Emmett would go to high elevation without proper precautions, do you?”

  “I… to tell you the truth, I don’t know Emmett all that well.” She paused, then stated, for what felt like the fiftieth time, “I was brought onto the project just a short while ago.”

  Nancy went back to her granola. “Of course. Yes, I heard about that. His other fellows decided to come down with a different event this year.” She shook her head. “Irritating fellows. You’re much more pleasant. What were their names?”