“I thought this was a search party,” Michael said, “not a SWAT team.”
The chief gave him a look that said, Grow up. “Weren't you ever in the Boy Scouts? Be prepared.” He pulled out a speargun from his own cargo bay and tossed it to him. Lawson, Michael noticed, was carrying one, too. “When we get to Stromviken,” Murphy announced over the idling engines, “Franklin and I will sweep in from the ocean side, you and Bill here will head straight into the yards.” Then, before lowering the visor on his helmet, he said, “And watch where you're going. I lost one beaker in a crevasse last year and I don't feel like losing anybody else.” The visor dropped, and a second later he took off across the ice with a deafening roar.
Franklin sat down on his own Arctic Cat and said, “Best if you follow in a single file. That way you can be sure the ground ahead is solid.”
Lawson followed. The snowmobiles were powerful machines, well over five hundred pounds each, with raised mountain-style handlebars. Michael snapped down the hood of his helmet, with its oversized eye port and antifog screen, and settled himself on the seat. He twisted the throttle, harder than he should have, and the four-stroke engine growled. The tracks bit into the snow and the front skis lifted, and he shot forward in Lawson's wake. The machine he rode was nothing like the snowmobile he'd owned when he was growing up-one of the early Ski-Doos. On the Cat he could feel the massive horsepower rumbling under him. Not to mention the heavy-duty suspension; he was used to feeling every bump in the ice and every rough patch of rugged ground, but on this it was as if he were flying across the snowfield on a magic carpet.
That, he knew, was the danger of it. Already he could see Murphy and Franklin and Lawson peeling in a straight line across the vast white field, but a crevasse could still appear out of nowhere, at any moment, and swallow any one of them whole. In snow school, right after he'd arrived at Point Adelie, Michael had gotten the full rundown from Lawson, and though he didn't necessarily remember the exact differences between a marginal crevasse, a longitudinal crevasse, and a bergschrund, he did remember that they were often camouflaged by the previous year's snowfall. A fragile white bridge was formed across the top-a bridge that could hold for one man and suddenly give way under the next, revealing a jagged, blue-walled canyon of ice a hundred feet deep. At the bottom, where the air was supercooled to forty degrees below, lay a bed of frozen salt water. Very few people who fell into a crevasse ever emerged alive… or, for that matter, at all.
Michael tried to follow in the tracks laid down by the others, but it wasn't always easy to see them. There was a steady glare off the snow, and an occasional sharp stab of light off a slab of wind-polished ice. He hunkered down on the seat in order to let the windshield cut the blast of frigid air coming at him. The helmet helped, too; padded at the cheek and chin, it had a wraparound neck roll that muffled the engine noise, along with vents that sucked the heat and moisture out of the face shield. It reminded Michael of the deep-sea diving gear he'd worn when freeing Eleanor from the glacier.
Eleanor… Sleeping Beauty… who'd metamorphosed, in his companions’ minds, into the Bride of Dracula. How long her living presence could be kept a secret at Point Adelie was an open question… and how long she could be kept there at all was an even more daunting one. Michael's NSF pass had only nine days left to run, and he knew that as soon as the next supply plane landed-it was scheduled for New Year's Eve-he was going to have to go back on it. But what would happen to Eleanor then? Who would look out for her? Who would she tell her story to? Who, above all, would she trust? Michael had every confidence in Charlotte, but Charlotte had a job to do-she was the medical officer for the whole base, and she couldn't be expected to be a nursemaid. And Darryl-well, Darryl wasn't exactly the kind of guy who would dote on her, especially if there were fish to be dissected and hematology studies to be done. And what if Sinclair Copley never turned up? Lawson had made it sound pretty unlikely. More and more, Michael thought, Eleanor would again be abandoned, isolated and lonely in a prison not much bigger than that block of ice.
Unless…
The snowmobile hit a mogul, soaring above the ground, then thumping back, its rear briefly fishtailing
Concentrate, he told himself, or you'll break your neck and all bets will be off. He shook his helmet to loosen some snow from the visor and gripped the handlebars more tightly. But his thoughts went right back where they'd been… to the coming day, not far off, when he would have to leave the Point… and Eleanor.
But what if-and he marveled that he hadn't considered the idea before (or had he?)-what if she were to go back with him? What if she, too, were to board that supply plane? The thought was so crazy he could barely believe he was entertaining it. But Murphy if it came to that, would be nothing but relieved to see her go- and, as chief of operations, he could use his considerable leverage over the few others on the base who knew about her at all to buy their silence; he could make their life there as easy, or as difficult, as he liked. Still… how could Michael engineer such a thing? How could he get someone like Eleanor-and had there ever been anyone else like Eleanor? — all the way back to the States? Someone who had never seen an airplane, or an automobile, or for that matter a CD player? Who had no citizenship-unless Queen Victoria was around to confirm it-and certainly no passport to prove it?
And apart from all the obvious difficulties that the journey alone presented, how could he care for someone in her unheard-of condition? How far, he wondered, was the nearest blood bank in Tacoma?
A half a mile or so ahead, Michael could see the black clutter of smokestacks, warehouses, and sheds and, high on the hill in the distance, the steeple of the church. He was glad to see Murphy and Franklin, as planned, steer their snowmobiles off to the right, toward the beach of bleached bones and the wreck of the Albatros. If Sinclair was here at the whaling station-and what would they do with him if they did find him alive? Would they shutter him away in the infirmary as well? — there was a good chance he was barricaded in the church, in the room behind the altar, and Michael wanted to be the one to find him first. To calm his fears and reason with him. If he was alive, he would be wary, suspicious, even hostile; from his perspective, he had every reason to be.
That was why Michael would need to be alone with him if and when he was found.
Once Lawson had pulled to a stop in the flensing yard, where the iron tracks for the skip wagons threatened to destroy the snowmobile's treads, Michael pulled up alongside and cut his own engine. The sudden silence was awesome. Michael raised the visor on his helmet, and the cold air felt like a slap in the face.
“What now?” Lawson said, and Michael, just to be free of him, said, “Why don't you start looking around these yards and outbuildings? I'll start from the top of the hill and work my way down.”
Lawson, toting his speargun, nodded. He hung his helmet on the handlebar of his snowmobile and trudged off. Michael stowed his own helmet and set off for the church. From here, he could see the teetering tombstones and, soon, the doors-both of which were now closed. An interesting sign, since one of them had been propped open by a snowbank before. Somebody might be home.
As he mounted the steps, his shadow, cut short by the solstice sun directly overhead, fell straight onto the wood between his feet, and he heard from within a scrambling, then a bark. He put his shoulder against the creaking frame, pushed the door open, and was greeted by a mad rush of sled dogs. He knelt and let them lick his face and gloves and dance in wild circles all around him, while his eyes swept the empty chamber. There was a pile of supplies and gear gathered by the door, as if someone had been planning to leave shortly.
On the altar, he could see a candlestick and a black wine bottle.
He didn't know if he should shout to announce his presence or creep in quietly and hope to surprise his quarry.
But then, was he there to rescue Sinclair… or capture him?
He moved cautiously up the aisle, past the ancient pews, then around the altar to the room beyond. T
he door was ajar, and when he pushed it open the rest of the way, he saw that the bed had been slept in but the fire in the grate had gone out. There was a smell of cold ashes and damp wool, but through the open window-flung wide, the shutters banging-he glimpsed a furtive figure scrambling through the gravestones, picking its way around the back of the church.
And it wasn't anyone from the search party.
He was wearing a red down coat, open, with a white cross on the back-Michael recognized it as one of the many coats that hung on the kennel clothes rack-and his head was bare. He had dark blond hair, and a moustache of the same color.
So this was Sinclair… Eleanor's beloved. Alive, after all.
Michael felt a strange pang, gone almost before he'd noticed it.
He ran back out of the room, his boots clomping and sliding on the stone floor, the dogs leaping and gamboling in his way.
“Not now!” he cried, pushing their furry heads aside.
By the time he got to the doors, Sinclair was well down the slope, sometimes running, sometimes sliding with his arms outspread. Under the open down coat, Michael saw the glint of gold braid on a uniform jacket and a scabbard clattering at the man's side; he was making for the factory floors, where the evisceration and rendering of the whales was once done. Then he disappeared into a narrow alleyway that ran between two of the vast ramshackle buildings, but Michael, trying to run with a speargun in hand, had to make his way more carefully down the frozen hillside. He was also trying to think where Sinclair might be heading. He might have heard the approach of the snowmobiles, or he might have been caught off guard. The gear stacked at the door suggested he'd been planning a mission of his own. But if he'd simply wanted to hide, why hadn't he done so? There must be something in the yards and warehouses that he wanted.
And the only thing that Michael could think of was weaponry.
There was a flash of red far ahead, darting between two sheds, and Michael followed it. Lawson, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen-the last thing Michael wanted was any interference-and he could hear the distant rumbling of Murphy's and Franklin's snowmobiles down along the waterfront. If he could catch him, Michael would have Sinclair all to himself, at least for a while.
Then he remembered the rack of rusty harpoons in what had probably once been the blacksmith's shop. But where was it? Michael stopped for a second to catch his breath and get his bearings. He had seen the place when he'd been here before. It was far ahead, and somewhere on his left, but he felt sure he could find it again; an enormous rusted anchor had leaned beside the door.
Michael trotted along with the speargun down at his side, afraid that if he tripped and fell, the damn thing would go off. He passed one vacant building after another, giving each a quick glance inside- he saw hanging chains and frozen pulleys, long, scarred worktables, hacksaws, and enormous cauldrons squatting on stubby iron legs. He began to understand that, as random and scattered as the buildings appeared, there was an underlying plan to the way they were laid out. You could see it in the crisscrossing of the railroad ties that the skip-wagons ran on; everything was organized like a primitive assembly line-or disassembly line, to be more precise-to carve up and process the carcass of the whale, from skin to gristle. Their bones and teeth, even petrified eyes the size of medicine balls, still lay scattered here and there, blown into haphazard piles against the walls.
He came to an intersection, with footpaths or alleys leading off in many directions, and he had to re-create his first entry into the town. He had come in from the southwest, which meant he probably had traveled along the windswept concourse veering off to his right. He followed along it, until, to his relief, he saw the anchor next to a low and darkened doorway.
He slowed down as he approached, but there was absolutely no sight, or sound, of life within. Perhaps his guess had been mistaken. Lowering his head to duck inside, he had just looked up again- there was another open doorway at the rear, partly blocked by a bunch of hooped barrels-when something whizzed past his cheek and pierced the wall a foot away. The harpoon stuck fast in the wood, the shaft still thrumming beside his ear.
“Don't take another step,” Michael heard, though in the dim confines of the cluttered shop, he still couldn't see his adversary.
“And drop your weapon.”
Michael let the speargun clatter to the brick floor.
There was a huge, freestanding chimneystack made of red bricks-no doubt the forge-and a black iron anvil just in front of it. A figure emerged from behind the chimney. He had doffed the overcoat, and was wearing only a scarlet cavalry uniform, with the sword hanging down at his side and another harpoon already in his hand.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Michael. Michael Wilde.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I've come to find you.”
There was an uneasy pause, filled only by the moaning of the wind that had found its way down the chimney and into the cold forge. There was a faint scent of old, dead coals.
“You must be Lieutenant Copley,” Michael said.
The man looked taken aback but quickly recovered.
“If you know that, then you must have Eleanor.”
“Yes. We do. And she's safe,” Michael assured him. “We're taking good care of her.”
An angry spark lighted in Sinclair's eye, and Michael immediately regretted his choice of words. Surely Sinclair thought no one but he should be charged with that duty.
“She's at the camp,” Michael went on, “at Point Adelie.”
“That's what you call it?”
Sinclair looked, and certainly sounded, like a British aristocrat-someone Michael might have seen in a movie-but there was also a patently mad and unpredictable gleam in his eye. Not that it should have come as such a surprise. Michael just wished he could figure out what he could say that would get him to put down the harpoon.
“We haven't come here to do you any harm,” Michael said. “Far from it. We can help you, in fact.” He wondered if he should keep on talking, or simply shut up.
“How many of you are there?” Sinclair's ragged breath fogged in the air. For the first time, Michael could see what this exertion had cost him; the man was defiant but weak on his feet.
“Four. Just four of us.”
The tip of the harpoon wavered. His eyelids slowly shuttered, then sprang back open again in alarm.
Had he just “refreshed the image,” in Ackerley's words? Michael was reminded, not that he needed to be, of what a dangerous foe he might be facing.
“We're working here at the South Pole,” Michael volunteered. “We're Americans.”
The harpoon declined farther, and Michael could swear he saw the tiniest glint of a smile cross the lieutenant's lips.
“I had a fancy, a long time ago, to see America,” Sinclair said, coughing once or twice. “It seemed ideal. I knew no one there, and no one knew me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw movement in the rear doorway, and Sinclair must have followed his glance. He whirled around, the harpoon raised, and before Michael could do anything more than shout “Stop!” Franklin had barged through the barrels, rifle at the ready.
Sinclair hesitated for just a second, but when the muzzle of the gun came up, he let the harpoon fly. Simultaneously there was a deafening blast from the gun, and chunks of the redbrick chimney exploded in all directions. One of them stung Michael's cheek like a hornet and a smaller bit flew into his eye. He dropped his head to wipe the grit away, and when he looked up again, blearily the harpoon was quivering in the side of a barrel. Franklin was still holding the rifle up, but he was staring down at Sinclair, who was slumped over the anvil, his arms hanging loose and his fingers twitching.
Murphy was just charging in with his own pistol raised, too.
“What did you do?” Michael exclaimed. “What did you do?”
“He threw a harpoon at me!” But even Franklin looked shaken. “I didn't hit him, anyway. I hit the chimney.”
Michael knelt by Sinclair and saw blood seeping from his scalp and matting the blond hair at the back of his head. “What's this then?”
“A ricochet. I was using rubber bullets. It must have ricocheted.”
Murphy crouched on the other side of the anvil, and together they gently lowered Sinclair to the floor, then turned him over onto his back. His eyes were receding into his skull, and his lips were blue. All Michael could think of was how this would affect Eleanor.
“Let's get him back to camp,” Michael said. “We'll need Charlotte to take a look at him, fast.”
Murphy nodded and stood up. “We'll have to tie him up first-”
“He's out cold,” Michael interjected.
“For now,” Murphy shot back. “What if he comes to?” He glanced over at Franklin. “Then we'll load him onto the back of my snowmobile. At the Point, he goes straight into quarantine. Send up a flare so Lawson knows we're here and ready to go.”
As Franklin went outside to shoot off the flare, Michael remembered Ackerley in his own quarantine, laid out on a crate in the meat locker… and how well that had turned out.
“You know the drill,” Murphy said to Michael. “Until further notice, nobody but us needs to know he's there. Got it?”
“I got it.”
“And that goes double for Sleeping Beauty.”
Michael was perfectly willing to keep the secret. What was one more? He was getting to be an old hand at keeping secrets. But he wondered how long it could really be kept. Even if the others at the camp didn't find out about Sinclair, Eleanor might well be another story. For all Michael knew, there was some sort of psychic connection between them. A connection so strong that he would not have been surprised if she was already aware that Sinclair had been found… that he had been injured… and that he was on his way back to her.
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