We continued down the hall, past the tape on Terry’s door to the outside door. When we reached it I glanced back quickly, but Elizabeth was gone. To be on the safe side we made a show of trying to find some birds to ogle, but we didn’t last long. It was cold and we weren’t really dressed for it. Besides, our minds were somewhere else.
When we opened the door and peered down the hall it was deserted, but then it was 12:30 a.m. For the first time I wondered what Elizabeth had been doing up. Why hadn’t we asked her? When we reached Terry’s cabin Martha was fidgeting like a hummingbird on speed. I opened the door in the same way as I had opened Sally’s and let it swing open. I turned on the light switch.
Terry’s room was palatial compared to all the other ones I’d seen. She had a big living room with six port–holes so that the light streamed in. There was a bright red corduroy sofa that had such an upright back that it must have felt like sitting against a wall. The two match–ing chairs were no better. There was a writing desk that ran the length of four portholes. It was covered in papers, typewritten and handwritten. There was a laptop com–puter and a printer.
Right by the door was a small desk with a dull bronze elephant, about the size of a cherry, on it. It had a broken right tusk that looked as though the artist had fashioned it on purpose. I dimly remembered seeing something sim–ilar fall out of Terry’s briefcase on the plane. I marvelled at what people took with them on trips to make them feel at home.
There was an open door into the bedroom and beyond that another open door into the bathroom. Part of the rug by the bathroom door was wet and from the reflection in the bathroom mirror I could see a bathtub and the sink, which was full of makeup bottles and lip–sticks; nothing there. Martha nudged me. “Let’s get out of here, Cordi.”
I quickly turned off the light and tried to lasso the door with the binocular strap, but missed three times before I got it. Martha was beating a tattoo on the floor with her feet. As soon as the door closed we scampered back to my room.
“Cordi, that was close.”
“Martha, she was just a woman in the hall,” I said, but my voice croaked. I cleared my throat and tried again.
Martha was looking at me the way my mother used to when I’d get a cold — kind of predatory.
“What’s wrong with your throat?” she asked.
“Must be laryngitis.” The words came out all scratchy and Martha was on me in a flash. She wouldn’t leave until I was in bed with several different cold remedies sloshing around in my stomach.
As she turned to go she poked her head back around the door and said, “I wish to god these doors had locks.”
So do I, I thought in alarm. I retrieved my only chair and wedged it up under the doorknob before I went to bed.
Next morning I felt awful. Not my stomach this time, but my head, and when I went to clear my throat I found I had no voice. I had to cancel my lectures and after breakfast I pretty much stuck to my room all day, until bedtime when I sheepishly did the doorknob and chair routine again. Just in case.
Chapter Ten
The sun floated down on me like a soft warm blanket. I was lying on my belly on an ice floe no bigger than I was, and wearing a blue and white polka dot bikini. There was some sunscreen and a book about frogs at my left hand and a short, squat little Margarita on my right. I looked around, wondering how I had got here. There were dozens of other little ice floes, but they were all black and seemed to be moving. When I looked closer I could see the rolls of fat cascading from the backs of hundreds of walrus. Some of them had human faces. I could make out Sally’s and Terry’s and Arthur’s, but the others were turned from me. Was I a walrus? But then I remembered the bikini — it hadn’t been on a walrus.
There was no ship in sight, just me and the wal–ruses, until a three-storey iceberg sailed into our midst. It was shaped just like a polar bear climbing an iceberg. I took a sip of my margarita, adjusted the sunglasses that suddenly appeared on my nose, and idly watched as it came nearer. Or perhaps I was moving and it was still. The midnight sun left rose-coloured streaks on its snowy sides, making it look warm and soft when really it was neither. I watched it glide by my ice floe, which suddenly reared and dipped violently, catapult–ing me off. As I struggled to breathe I saw a huge black, water slicked walrus hauling itself up onto my ice floe, water streaming off its sides like little rivers. While it usurped my tiny island I was plunged into the violently cold waters of Lancaster Sound. As I went under I saw the magnificent statue of the iceberg give way to what lay, sombre, quiet, and deadly, beneath — an enor–mous mountain of luminous blue and aquamarine ice, a good twenty times larger than my polar bear. The tip of the iceberg….
I sat up in bed. The dream was as real as my breath–ing. I sat there for a long time, thinking about the iceberg and the revolting shock of just how big its hidden sec–tions were, like cancer run amok inside while the out–side looks benign. It’s true what they say — that eighty percent of an iceberg is hidden beneath the sea. Amazing considering that some are huge, calved from a Greenland or Ellesmere glacier.
The thought was chased out of my mind by a dull thud in my outer room — the door shutting. I heard someone quietly moving around and found myself star–ing at my doorknob with dreaded fascination. I consid–ered pounding on the walls, but two of them were out–side walls, the third was occupied by my intruder, and the fourth — the one in the head — was a common wall with the library, and who would be up reading at this hour? But then, maybe it was Martha?
I watched as the doorknob began to shake and the chair began to shift at the first suggestion that the intruder was pushing against the door. Not Martha. I flung the sheets off me, grabbed my down vest, and turned to the only escape hatch I had — my porthole. The doorknob was rattling now as I frantically looked out. I was three decks above the main deck and there were no conve–nient trellises or other handholds. I looked up and my hopes went up too. Above me, just within reach, was the barred metal catwalk that ran alongside the bridge so that the officers could see sternwards. I looked back at my door, hoping the thudding was a dream, but the door was shaking the chair free and it looked ready to give at any moment.
I threaded my body out through the porthole. I sat on the edge and reached up, my fingers gripping one of the metal bars. I took a deep breath and glanced back at the door, which suddenly swung open. A person in a balaclava moved quickly towards me. I pushed myself off the porthole, swinging rather violently and wrench–ing my arms. I made the mistake of looking down and nearly swallowed my teeth. I quieted my body but found, as I walked my hands along the bar toward the edge of the underside of the deck, that I had to kick out with my legs. That’s when it happened. Balaclava grabbed one of my legs and started to pull. I could see him or her squeez–ing through the porthole, trying to reel me in. I could feel the strain on my arms get worse as I tried to shake off their hands. I gave one almighty shout but nothing came out. I could see whoever it was now, their eyes glinting through the holes of the balaclava.
I figured I had one shot at this. I braced my mind and on the next violent tug I went with it, at the same time kicking viciously with my other foot. There was a muffled gasp and the pressure on my foot lightened. I immediately kicked out and was free! I brought my legs up to my chin and walked my hands along the bar as fast as I could. I could see that Balaclava was trying to get through the porthole. My arms were screaming and my fingers were so cold I was beginning to lose feeling in them. I had very little time left.
When I reached the end of the catwalk I tilted my head way back and could see that the railing was a lat–ticework of squares made from bars. I painfully reached up and grabbed one, then began to haul myself up. I nearly cried when I reached the top of the railing and fell like a clod of earth onto the metal deck without feeling a thing. My arms felt like jelly and my hands didn’t feel anything at all. I rolled over onto all fours, got to my feet, and ran toward the bridge and help. But the bridge was empty. Where the hell w
as everybody? I remembered that the ship was at anchor, but even so there should have been a watch.
I ran into the map room and tried to remember what exits there were from the bridge — through the radio room. I ran into the radio room, all the dials and blink–ing lights mocking me, and ran for the door. I burst out into a corridor and couldn’t remember which way led down. There was no time; I could hear Balaclava behind me. I turned left and fled down the corridor, braced my arm on the wall and skidded around the next right turn. There was the door at the end of the hall. I pelted towards it and burst through, the slapping of Balaclava’s footsteps close behind. I turned to see if I could lock the door, but it only lost me precious time. I looked ahead of me and my heart sank. I was on a catwalk that led to a set of stairs that went up, not down, to an observa–tion deck. I couldn’t remember if there was another way down or not.
I scrambled up the stairs as the door behind me crashed open. When I reached the top I knew I was in trouble. There was no way out — just a big deck sur–rounded by a metal railing and a small padlocked room with loud rumblings coming from it. I ran to one of the side rails and looked down three decks. I raced to the other side, but there was nothing. Suddenly Balaclava was there, standing on the top of the stairs. I backed up towards the stern railing as Balaclava began walk–ing toward me. I judged the height and the weight of the person — large woman or medium sized man, but I couldn’t tell which because they were wearing a bulky down coat. When I felt the railing hit the small of my back I quickly turned my head and glanced down, then immediately back. Balaclava was closing in on me. It was now or never. I turned, gripped the railing with both hands, hoisted myself up, and swung my body over.
As I fell I heard Balaclava’s running footsteps, but I was too busy looking at what I was falling into to care: a bevy of naked men taking a dip in the pool, or hovering around the ladder waiting their turn. As I plunged into the water I almost laughed at the expressions on their faces. It seemed to take a long time to reach bottom and I’d tucked up my legs so they’d be bent on impact. I was just glad they’d refilled the pool after draining it to clean it. It was still a jolt and as I unbent my legs and pushed off to the surface I could feel my PJs and down vest hold–ing me back.
When I came to the surface there was a flurry of male bottoms frantically disappearing up the ladder to the safety of their towels. They stood aside to let me through and as I passed them I smiled and said, “Excuse me, gen–tlemen. I seem to have lost my way.”
“Cordi, you realize that these things that have been hap–pening to you — nobody can corroborate them.”
‘The men in the pool can,” I croaked.
“They only saw you. They didn’t see anybody chas–ing you. And the anchor thing; same deal. Besides, why would anyone want to kill you and do such a bad job?”
Duncan, Martha, and I were sitting in the library the next morning. Duncan was looking at me with such con–cern that I was getting uneasy. “Cordi, you know you have problems with depression.”
I narrowed my eyes and looked at Martha, who unnerved me by staring right back at me. “I’m definitely not depressed.” It was summer and summers are good. “Don’t tell me: you think I’m delusional, that I’ve been hallucinating or something?”
Duncan had the good grace to look sheepish.
“Duncan, I’m your friend. How can you not believe me?”
“Because I’m a physician too. And I didn’t say I don’t believe you. I’m worried about you. I think maybe you’ve had some sort of psychotic episode triggered by the twenty-four hour light cycle.”
“Which made me imagine these things?”
“Possibly.” At least he wasn’t saying definitely.
“And what about my murder theory? Delusion?”
“I don’t know. We have to wait for the autopsy results.”
“Since I believe these so-called delusions are real, I figure I must have seen something to do with the deaths.
Except the hawsehole happened before the murder, so it can’t have anything to do with it.”
“We don’t know that it’s murder, Cordi,” said Duncan.
Suddenly Martha jumped in. “Hold on. Maybe Cordi overheard someone or saw something that could have twigged her to the murder before it happened.”
Duncan glared at Martha, but she ignored him.
“Oh great. So I could have saved their lives?”
“Cordi, why do you always look on the dark side of things?”
“Because the things I’m looking at are dark!”
“Look — if it had to do with the deaths then maybe whoever it is has lost interest in you. Realizes you aren’t a threat.”
Yeah right, I thought, and wished I knew what they thought I knew that I didn’t know I knew.
“It was just an accident, Cordi,” said Duncan quietly.
“But if it wasn’t?”
“Would you at least promise to see someone when we get back to Ottawa? I can set you up with an excellent specialist I know.” He looked so serious and so concerned that I agreed. The way one does when they don’t really mean it. After all, I was not delusional.
By the time we’d figured out the state of my depres–sive nature and the fate of the bodies it was 9:00 a.m. Since it was a foggy day there were no shore excursions and I wasn’t slated to give a lecture until the afternoon. I took off for the bridge, deciding to retrace my route of the night before, in case Balaclava had dropped any–thing. When I got there I thought there was no one on it, just like last night. But I was wrong: Jason was leaning against the starboard side of the ship, staring out to sea, his face completely still except for the tear dribbling its way down it.
I cleared my throat and he hastily looked away, bring–ing up his sleeve to his cheek, and then turning to face me. Who did he keep crying for? Sally? Terry? Surely not Terry. Or was it something else altogether? His eyes were red and I wanted to say something, but since I didn’t know why he’d been crying I was limited to saying “Hello.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Laryngitis on the mend.”
He gave me a weak smile and flung out his arm at his fog-enshrouded ship. “Zero visibility. I’ve never seen such bad weather. Storm moving in too. You people have hardly been ashore at all and we’re due in Nanisivik in forty-eight hours.” He stopped abruptly, moved over and twiddled with something next to the helm, while I digested the fact that the trip was almost over. We were due to fly out of Nanisivik. I’d lost count of the days, but I couldn’t honestly say that I wasn’t happy to be going home. The ship was beginning to feel like a prison, or maybe Tweety Bird’s cage with a human sized Sylvester on the loose.
We talked a bit about the awful weather and the pack ice, then I asked him who was on watch last night at about 1:00.
“That’d be the second mate,” he said. “Why?”
I didn’t tell him everything but I did tell him I’d been on the bridge at 1:00 and nobody had been there.
“Probably in the washroom. Did you call out?”
I pointed at my throat and shook my head. Why hadn’t I thought of the washroom? Not that I knew where it was. Even so, it couldn’t be far, so there’d been someone right there to help me all along. If nothing else, Balaclava lived with a lot of luck. But then, if there had been someone on the bridge, Balaclava would have gone down the outside stairs, which I had completely failed to notice, and left me in peace. I sighed. I wondered what else I had failed to notice.
Chapter Eleven
I left the bridge and followed my route from the night before, all the way up to the sixth observation deck. I was alone.
I could feel the motion of the ship swaying gently in the quickening breeze. I looked out over Lancaster Sound and thought again about the men who came looking for the Northwest Passage — Frobisher, Davis, Hudson, Bylot, Parry, Ross, Amundsen, Franklin. It didn’t exist at the time, but now, with global warming, it did. I wondered what they would have thought of
our world. Ship after ship had come to sail the ice-infested waters, their men to chart the unknown land, and, for far too many, to die in this vast and barren place, so cold and far from home.
I was in my own little world up here on the grass green deck with the white railings hemming me in, keep–ing me from the sea, which seemed to come alive and begin throwing itself at the ship. I felt it in my legs too and not long after, in my stomach. I walked over to the stern rail and looked down. Overnight someone had drained the pool. It looked like a giant cement tube capped on the bottom, lifeless the way only empty pools can be. The rails stood guard around three sides, like sentinels who don’t know their quarry has flown. The inside of the pool was painted a pale ocean blue that was flaking off like spindrift, reminding me of the wind that was whipping all around me. I felt the hundred and sev–enteen metre ship groan and quiver up through my legs.
I headed back to my berth.
The following day I awoke to a dead calm and bril–liant sunshine. When I looked out the porthole I could see Dundas Harbour, cradled by stark, eroded cliffs that looked like one of those cakes with scalloped sides. The cliffs swept down to the sea and turned into gravel spits left behind by the glaciers. As I watched, a single Zodiac headed out, presumably to check things out before we all descended.
I took the last boat out, spending the intervening time standing at the railing watching the Zodiacs being swung over and lowered to the water below. There was a biting wind, but on the lee side of the ship, with the sun shining down, it was almost warm. But I was still glad I had my orange jacket on.
I noticed the group below were being handed some hot chocolate and I scurried down to get some. I could see Martha and Duncan heading toward the gangway.
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