“No one has their confidence the way I do.”
“Oh really?” Murphy replied. “Last time you visited Sinclair, I seem to recall you calling for reinforcements. What happened? Your trust break down?”
Michael still regretted that, but as Darryl jumped in to explain about some promising blood work he'd been doing in his lab, his thoughts kept racing ahead. Was this the time to broach his idea? When would he have another chance? Interrupting Darryl's monologue, he blurted out, “Then they should both go back with me.”
Darryl stopped talking and turned toward him, while Murphy shook his head in exasperation. “And how do you suggest we arrange that?” he said, throwing up his hands. “This ain't the bus station in Paducah. The plane doesn't land-at pole, for Christ's sake-and pick up three passengers when the manifest calls for just one.”
“I know that,” Michael said, “but bear with me.” He was fitting the pieces of the plan together even as he sat there. “Danzig's wife knows he died, but she doesn't know when to expect the body to be returned. Right?”
“Right. Somehow I never got around to calling her back to tell her that he'd turned into a zombie and was floating around somewhere under the polar ice cap. Kind of a hard call to make, don't you think?”
“And what about Ackerley?” Michael persisted. “Does his mother know when his body is supposed to be returned to the States?”
“I'm not sure she knows it will be,” Murphy said, starting to sound intrigued. “I told you, she was pretty out of it.”
“Let me think,” Michael said, putting his head down and concentrating with all his might. “Let me think.” It was outlandish, but it was all coming together in his head. And it could, conceivably, work. “Danzig's wife-”
“Maria,” Murphy supplied. “Maria Ramirez.”
“She works for the county coroner's office in Miami Beach.”
“Yeah, that's where she met Erik. He was driving a hearse in those days. In fact, he once told me-”
“Tell Maria that I'm accompanying her husband's body, and Ackerley's, to Miami Beach.”
“But you're not,” Darryl said, perplexed. “Danzig's never going to turn up again, except maybe in my nightmares.”
“And frankly, she didn't want him to,” Michael replied. “Remember, she said that he was never happier than when he was down here? And that, if he'd had his way, that's where he'd have wanted to be buried?”
“Yeah, but I told her Antarctic burials are prohibited by law,” Murphy said.
“But what about Ackerley? You're going to dispose of his remains right here, aren't you?” Michael persisted. “Or were you planning to send back a corpse with a bullet in its head?” Murphy squirmed in his chair, and that's when Michael knew he had him. “A bullet from your gun, no less?”
Darryl frowned quizzically at that, and asked Murphy, “Now that it's come up, what did you do with Ackerley's remains? I know he asked to be cremated, but that would have been a contravention of the Antarctic protocols.”
“That's right, it would have been,” Murphy said, staring Darryl straight in the eye and holding it. “Officially, Ackerley went down a crevasse while doing his fieldwork.”
Michael was relieved to hear it. “That's perfect.”
“I'm still not following,” Murphy said.
“Don't you see? If we want to, we can put two body bags on that plane, both of them fully accounted for. But the bodies inside don't have to be the same ones as the names on the tags.”
Michael could see that the light had gone on in Murphy's head. He just had to press ahead convincingly with his case.
“Eleanor and Sinclair may not be able to leave the Point as passengers on that plane, but they can leave as cargo. Just use some of that bureaucratic pull you've got to book me-and them-back to Santiago, and from there on to Florida.”
There was a silence in the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock. Finally, Murphy broke it by saying, “But it's a nine-hour flight just from Santiago to Miami. They'll die in transit.”
“Why would they?” Michael said. “They've suffered far worse. Try a century of suspended animation. If they could live through that, this would be a piece of cake.”
“It's different now,” Murphy countered. “They're alive and kicking, and they've got a big problem that you seem to be conveniently forgetting.”
“That's what I was trying to address,” Darryl said, “before I was so rudely interrupted.”
Michael slumped in his chair, more than happy to have someone else carry the ball a few yards downfield. But he quickly realized that Darryl wasn't looking for a first down; he was heading straight for the end zone. After proudly describing some of his laboratory breakthroughs with the Cryothenia hirschii, he strongly hinted that he might have found a cure-”or at least as close as we're going to come to one”-for the disease afflicting both Eleanor and Sinclair. If Michael understood him correctly, he was suggesting that he could extract the antifreeze glycoproteins from his fish specimens and transfuse them into the humans’ bloodstream. Doing so apparently allowed the blood to carry oxygen and nutrients without constantly needing to be replenished by foreign supplies of hemoglobin. It seemed irrational, it seemed insane, it even seemed impossible-but it was also the first, and only, slender thread on which Michael could hang any hope. Michael would take it.
“It all sounds pretty cockamamie to me,” Murphy said, “but I'm not the scientist here. How do you know it would work?”
“I don't,” Darryl replied. “So far, the recombinant blood has been tolerated by the fish. But as for Eleanor and Sinclair, that's another question.”
And there wasn't time, Michael reflected, to do any trial runs.
“But you've got to remember,” Darryl reiterated, in portentous tones, “they're going to wind up in the same predicament my fish are. If their tissue touches ice, they're goners.”
For the next half hour, the three of them debated and discussed how all the elements of the scheme might work. Murphy, by his own admission, had not been dutifully recording all the events of the day in the NSF logbooks-”I just couldn't find the right way to explain how corpses were coming back to life”-and he was particularly worried about what Michael had already told his editor. Michael assured him that he had already unwound that knot-”though it means I may never be trusted with another decent assignment for the rest of my days”-and they called a halt only when a conference call about the oncoming storm came in from McMurdo Station. Murphy waved them out of his office as he recited the barometric pressure readings recorded at Point Adelie in the past twenty-four hours.
In the hall outside, Michael and Darryl stopped to take a breath and contemplate everything that had just been said. Michael was so on edge he felt like he had electric current running through his veins.
“So, this transfusion,” he said. “How soon can you try it?”
“I just need another hour or two in the lab. Then I'll have the serum ready.”
“But we're surrounded by ice,” Michael said, still fearful.
“Which they're never going to touch. They're going straight from the infirmary and the meat locker into the body bags. What's the alternative? You plan to oversee the procedure on your own, in Miami?”
That, Michael knew, would never work.
“If they're going to have a bad reaction,” Darryl went on, “we'd better know it now, before they're zipped into the bags and shipped out.”
“Eleanor first?”
“Sure,” Darryl said. “From what I know of Sinclair, he may need more in the way of persuading.”
Darryl was already turning away, when Michael took his elbow to stop him. “You think it will work?” he said. “You think Eleanor will be cured?”
Darryl hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully, then said, “If all goes well, I think that Eleanor-and Sinclair-will be able to live reasonably normal lives.” He held Michael's gaze, as Murphy had earlier held his, and added, “But that's only if you consi
der living like a snake, who has to warm itself by lying in the sun, to be normal. With the help of an occasional booster shot, Eleanor will no longer feel the need she does now. But she will carry this contagion to the end of her days.”
The words weighed like stones on Michael's heart.
“But so will Sinclair,” Darryl added, as if that made things better. “They'll pose no danger to each other.”
Michael mutely nodded, as if he, too, saw the wisdom and symmetry in that. But it didn't make the stones any less heavy.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
December 26, 11:20 a.m.
“Under assumed names,” Sinclair was saying. “We always traveled under assumed names, and changed them with some regularity. It became a game of sorts, choosing who we would be called in San Remo, or in Marseilles, or wherever it was we stayed after that.”
Lawson was transfixed, and Sinclair had taken some pains to relate the more dramatic episodes from their journey-the midnight rides through mountain gorges, the narrow escapes from suspicious authorities, the high-stakes card play that had generally paid for their travels. But he had carefully skirted the more appalling aspects-most notably the constant quest for a fresh supply of blood. Certainly no need to go into that. And time was running short, anyway. In a couple of hours, the watch would change, and the more-wary Franklin would come back on duty. If Sinclair was to make his move, and gain the maximum amount of time before anyone had discovered his escape, he had to act now.
“From Marseilles, we continued west. In Seville, Eleanor fell ill, and I thought the sea air might revive her, so we traveled to a small town on the Gulf of Cadiz. Its name escapes me, but if I heard it again…”
“Was it Ayamonte?” Lawson said, consulting the atlas.
“No, that wasn't it,” Sinclair said. “It was something longer. And it was on the way up the coast, toward Lisbon.”
“Isla Cristina?”
“No,” Sinclair said, tilting his head to one side, as if straining to remember. “But I do believe that if I saw it there…”
Holding the book open to the correct page, Lawson got up from the crate and came toward Sinclair-who readied himself.
He laid the book across Sinclair's lap, and before he was able to stand back again, Sinclair said, in his most innocent tone, “Where exactly are we on this map?”
“Right here,” Lawson said, pointing to a yellow line that he had traced across the page, and while his eyes were trained on the book, Sinclair lifted the beer bottle he had been concealing and cracked him smartly across the back of the skull.
Lawson went down onto his knees, but if Sinclair was hoping for him to be knocked out cold, he was disappointed. That damned kerchief must have interfered. He cracked him again, and the bottle smashed, leaving a bloody gash, but Lawson was still conscious and trying to crawl away. Sinclair had to act quickly; his chain was fastened to the pipe on the wall and he had only a few feet of slack. Looping his cuffed hands over Lawson's head, he dragged him backwards toward the cot; fortunately, the man was sufficiently dazed by the blow that he could not put up much of a fight. Sinclair tightened the cuffs around his windpipe and pulled up. Lawson's hands went to the metal around his throat and he tried desperately to claw it away, but Sinclair only leaned back harder, holding on and choking him until his feet-in the boots that Sinclair had been admiring-stopped scrabbling at the floor and his hands dropped limply to his sides. Even then, Sinclair held on for several seconds more, just for good measure, before easing up on the cuffs and letting Lawson's head loll forward.
The atlas, oddly, had remained open on his lap the whole time.
As the body slumped to the floor, Sinclair pushed the book away, and knelt. He put his ear to the chest and heard the heart still pumping; he had been in this position before, and for a moment the terrible urge to take advantage of the moment rose up in him like a blood tide. But he had neither the time, nor the desire, to kill the man. He put his mouth to Lawson's, and blew into it, just as the seamen had done with the soldiers who had drowned in the botched landing at Calamita Bay. Then he pushed down gently on the abdomen until he saw it rise, then fall, then rise again. Before Lawson could come to again, Sinclair rifled through his pockets and dug out the keys to the shackles. It was tricky work, undoing them all, especially as Sinclair's own heart was already beating faster at the prospect of freedom, new boots… and finding Eleanor.
December 26, 11:30 a.m.
“Are you trying to dissuade me?” Eleanor asked, looking into Michael's eyes.
“No, of course not,” he said, inching his chair closer to the bedside where she sat, and clutching her hands more firmly. “It's just that there's a risk involved-a considerable risk-and I'm afraid for you.”
She was deeply touched by his concern, but her life, for so long, had been nothing but risk and mortal danger that this was nothing new. She lifted one hand up and placed it against his cheek. “The choice is mine, and I accept it. If I'm going to live on, I don't want it to be in the shadows anymore. I want a life I'm not ashamed of. Can you understand that?”
She could see that he did understand, but he looked, if anything, more apprehensive than she felt herself. After all that she had been through, over such a span of time, even death held no great fear for her. With everything she had ever known-her family, her friends-already gone, how much lonelier could her life become?
And as for Sinclair… even if they were reunited, what would become of them? All that they could really do-she knew this in her very bones-was share their own profound loneliness and isolation from the rest of humanity.
“Should I go and get Darryl and Charlotte then?” Michael asked, and she nodded her agreement.
Michael left, and Eleanor remained, to sort through a tumult of emotions. Despite herself, she recognized that some sense of hope, of redemption, had been rekindled in her. And though she was reluctant to admit it, she knew it had something to do with the way that Michael Wilde looked at her.
And the way she found herself looking back.
A few minutes later, the door to the sick bay opened again, and this time Michael was accompanied by the others. Darryl, with his red hair sticking up like the comb on a rooster, was carrying a clear bag of fluid and Charlotte had a tray with several items on it-cotton balls, needles, alcohol, and a kind of bandage that conveniently adhered to the skin. Eleanor had seen the tray several times and knew the protocols by heart.
Charlotte took the chair that Michael had vacated and put the tray on the bed. Eleanor rolled up the billowing sleeve of her dress and watched as Charlotte applied the rubber tourniquet.
“Michael told you about the dangers of touching ice?” Darryl said, as Charlotte filled the syringe, an unusually large one, from the bag.
“Several times.”
“Good. Great,” he said, nervously. “And you might feel a certain flushing at first, from the sudden glycoprotein overload-it's a highly concentrated solution-but I think it should pass pretty quickly.”
Charlotte shot him a glance and swabbed a spot on Eleanor's forearm.
“I am prepared for anything,” Eleanor said. “And I have complete faith in my doctor.”
Which was true. After her initial shock, she had come to respect Dr. Barnes for her bold but friendly nature, and her reassuring bedside manner. That was something Eleanor had seen in Florence Nightingale, too-an ability to reach out to any patient and communicate a sense of calm and caring. Of course, in her own day, no one like Charlotte could ever have become a doctor-even if her sex had not barred her, her color most certainly would have done- but in this modern world that Eleanor might be about to join, many unimagined things were clearly possible.
The prick of the needle was barely noticeable, but the immediate effects of the fluid entering her veins was pronounced. Far from feeling flushed, she experienced a strange cooling sensation, like the trickle of a mountain stream running just beneath her skin. She shivered, and Charlotte looked up at her while still holding the syr
inge and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “I think so.” But was she? What would happen when the chill, which she could feel creeping up her arm, descended upon her heart?
“What are you feeling?” Darryl asked, and Michael, speechless, simply knelt by the edge of the bed, studying her face.
“It's like nothing I've ever felt before,” Eleanor replied. “A bit, perhaps, like stepping into a cool bath.”
Beads of sweat-a cold sweat-dotted her brow as Charlotte withdrew the needle and hastily swabbed the puncture wound. “Maybe you should lie down,” Charlotte said, dropping the syringe on the tray and helping Eleanor to rest her head back on the pillow.
The room was swimming around her, and she tried closing her eyes, but that only made it worse. Opening them again, she saw Michael hovering above her, and she focused her gaze on his face. He had taken her hand, and she could feel the nervous sweat from his palm dampening her own.
Charlotte and Darryl stood behind him, also looking anxious, and Eleanor was moved that she had already been able to find three such friends in this strange and alien place. It bolstered both her hope and her incentive to live. Perhaps the loneliness that she had felt from the moment that she and Sinclair had absconded from the Barrack Hospital in Turkey might not be her permanent lot, after all. Perhaps there was an alternative. The internal chill had spread across her shoulders and into her breast, like the petals of a night flower blooming beneath her skin. She shivered again, and Michael quickly fetched a blanket from the closet and tucked it around her. She was inevitably reminded of the voyage aboard the Coventry, the ill-fated trip that had ultimately brought her to the Southern Pole, and the night that Sinclair had bundled her in every blanket and coat he could find… before he was attacked by the crew.
Before she, too, was dragged from the bunk and wrapped in a chain on the rolling deck.
A warm compress was placed over her eyes, and as she lay there, she wondered under what circumstances she might emerge- if she emerged at all-from this untried experiment.
Blood and Ice Page 49