by Bryan Dunn
“I can’t believe Roscoe couldn’t launch the lifeboats, or at least get a couple of rafts in the water,” Harry said. “He’s probably the most experienced skipper working out of St. John’s.”
“I agree,” Nowhere said. “The weird thing is they did find one life raft. But it was shredded to shit – looked like some animal slashed it with its claws.”
“Claws?” Harry said, amazed.
“Well, that’s what it looked like,” Nowhere insisted. “Whatever happened must’ve been drastic.”
The table fell silent again. Nowhere Man lifted his pitcher, refilling everyone’s glasses.
“Have they called off the search?” Harry asked.
Nowhere Man swallowed a mouthful of beer and shook his head. “No. An Ice Patrol C-130 has been re-tasked and is flying a grid looking for possible survivors. No one is very hopeful.”
One hour and two pitchers of beer later, Harry had had enough to drink. Nowhere Man had gone home to get some rest in case his chopper was called up again. Boots was trying to get Harry to have something to eat, but Harry kept ignoring him. Roscoe and Harry had been close. He’d helped Harry when he first arrived in St. John’s. They’d become good friends and Harry was taking the news hard.
Harry sat bleary-eyed, looking at nothing in particular, when he noticed two people enter the pub and make their way toward the bar. Immediately two thoughts went through his mind: the guy in front looked like an uptight asshole, and the woman in tow was one hot-looking babe.
Lockwood and Amy looked uncomfortable and out of place as they stepped up to the bar. “Looks like we’ve found the rough trade,” Lockwood whispered to Amy.
Amy didn’t respond and flashed a friendly smile as the bartender, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and wearing earmuffs, moved up and asked what he could get them.
“Nothing to drink, thank you,” Lockwood said in a cultured voice. “We’re looking for a Mr. Harry McNills of Arctic Air Adventures. Perhaps you could locate him for us?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. McNills,” said the bartender, mocking Lockwood’s upper crust tone. Then he turned and pointed to the middle of the room. “His office is the third table down.”
Sensing he was being mocked, Lockwood offered no courtesy, grabbed Amy’s arm, and ushered her toward Harry’s table.
Harry watched as they approached. Heads were turning, and it was Amy who was getting all the attention. The closer she got, the easier it was to tell why – she was something to look at.
Harry wobbled, then quickly straightened in his seat as they stepped up to the table.
“Excuse me, Mr. McNills…?” said Lockwood, releasing Amy’s arm.
Harry stared at them, his eyes swimming in and out of focus. “I’m Han Solo,” he said, then waved his hand through the air, “and you must be Obi-Wan Kenobi and Princess Leia.”
“I think he’s drunk,” Amy said to Lockwood.
Harry’s head snapped toward her, “Yup, that’s definitely something Princess Leia would say.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Lockwood demanded. “Are you or aren’t you Harry McNills?”
Harry swayed in Lockwood’s direction. “C’mon, I just told you – I’m Han Solo.”
Lockwood looked at his watch, exaggerating his movements in a dramatic way.
“It’s mid-day and you’re drunk, sir!”
Harry raised his hand, and it was all he could do to keep it pointing at Lockwood.
“Yes, but when I wake up tomorrow I’ll be sober – and you’ll still be an asshole.”
Amy’s hand shot up to her mouth, trying to stop herself from bursting out in laughter. Lockwood snapped around, looked at her, then pointed an accusing finger back at Harry. “The man is stinking drunk.”
Harry tried to swat his hand away. “Obi-Wan, are you trying to break my balls? Because listen, I already know that jerk-off Vader is Luke’s papa san… And yeah, I have a couple of drinks every time I lose a close friend and almost ditch the Millennium Falcon in the drink.” Harry grabbed his glass, drained it, then wiped his mouth on his
shirtsleeve. “What’s it to you, anyway?”
“Do you have any idea who we are?” asked Lockwood indignantly.
“C’mon… I just told you – ”
“We’re from Cryolabs,” Lockwood interrupted. “And we have mistakenly chartered your plane for a week.”
Boots, who’d been quietly watching, suddenly reached over and pulled Harry towards him. “Harry, Harry… they’re clients,” he whispered.
Harry looked over at Boots, and just as what Boots had told him was sinking in Goodacre’s shrill voice echoed across the table. “You must have a death wish!”
Goodacre pushed past Amy and Lockwood, then pointed at Harry. “This man almost killed me yesterday,” he said in an accusatory voice. “Charter his plane at your own peril.”
Harry looked up at Goodacre, then had to wait for his eyes to focus. “Hey, it’s
C-3PO!”
Goodacre shoved some papers in Harry’s face. They hovered above the table, rattling in his trembling fist. “Look, look at my hands,” Goodacre demanded. “They’re still shaking!” He dropped the papers directly in front of Harry. “These are legal papers, Mr. McNills. They name you as a defendant in a personal injury lawsuit.”
Harry looked at the papers. Then up at Goodacre. A thought crossed Harry’s mind and he suddenly laughed out loud. “Goodacre, you know who you remind me of – that girl in True Grit. What’s her name…? You know, her and Lawyer Dagget –”
“I can assure you, sir,” Goodacre replied, “insulting me will not help your case.”
“Hell, you haven’t got a case,” Harry said, pushing back from the table and struggling to his feet. He reached down, balled the papers up in his fist, and slammed them into Goodacre’s chest. Goodacre pitched backwards, catching his foot on a chair, spilling to the floor with a thud. “There…” Harry said, “now you’ve got a personal injury to go along with your bullshit case.”
Amy and Lockwood had backed away from the table and stood watching – their eyes ping-ponging between Goodacre sprawled on the floor and Harry staggering at the table’s edge.
Harry tried to take his seat and crashed into the table. Boots jumped up and helped Harry into his chair. “Don’t worry about Harry,” Boots said. “He’ll be ready to go first thing tomorrow.”
“Well, he can go without us,” Lockwood replied, then signaled to Amy he was ready to leave. Amy shrugged, more amused than incensed, and led the way to the door.
* * * *
Amy and Lockwood stepped out of the pub and started down the narrow road.
“Well, it’s obvious I’ll have to inquire about the availability of other pilots and charter companies,” Lockwood complained.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Amy smiling. “It sounded like he had a pretty rough day yesterday – I think he was just blowing off a little steam.”
“Well, what about that Goodacre fellow? He sounded pretty shaken up,” Lockwood countered.
“I can’t stand people like that,” Amy said flatly. “In fact, it made me like Mr. McNills even more.”
Silently, Lockwood shook his head. How she could like that man was a complete mystery. “I’ve already made up my mind about McNills – I’m not going to trust the expedition to Arctic Air Adventures.”
There was a long silence. Amy didn’t respond. Then Lockwood’s mood suddenly lightened. The change in his voice was dramatic. “But enough about him. Let’s go over to the Fairmont and check on our room. I hear we have marvelous views of the harbor and Signal Hill.”
Amy suddenly stopped walking. “Room?” she asked nervously.
“Did I say room?” Lockwood replied, playing innocent. “I meant rooms, of course.”
The hell he did.
Amy’s eyes narrowed and, nodding, she let it go.
“Although I’m open to the possibility,” Lockwood added, probing further.
Over her dead body.
* * * *
She walked along St. John’s historic waterfront. It was unseasonably warm, and with every step her mood lightened. All thoughts of Lockwood were swept away. As she passed a refurbished square-rigger that was on display in the harbor, she heard a loud wolf whistle. Then a man’s voice with a heavy French accent called out to her.
“Cherie, please, come for a tour of le ship.”
Amy turned and stared up at three shaggy-looking sailors lining the bridge of a dilapidated four hundred passenger cruise ship named the Seraph. The hull was the color of dirty snow and rust bled from battered hull plates.
Amy laughed, then smiled and waved.
One of the sailors grabbed his chest as if he’d been shot by Cupid’s bow. “Come with us and we shall show you the hidden secrets of the Arctic.”
She smiled again, shook her head, and continued along the waterfront.
Chapter 6
On the far side of St. John’s Airport, opposite the jet terminal, was a weather- beaten hanger declaring itself to be the headquarters of Arctic Air Adventures.
Outside the hanger, a half-dozen brightly painted bush planes – mostly sturdy little Cessnas – were scattered around the tarmac like a flock of gaudy seabirds. Every bush plane in St. John’s was brightly painted in case, God forbid, they had to ditch in the outback, where bright red or yellow or orange gave them the best chance of survival.
Inside the hanger was Harry’s Twin Otter – it made the planes outside look like puddle jumpers. Boots was finishing up washing off the fuselage and the black and yellow paint sparkled in the pure arctic light.
Harry was doing routine maintenance on the port engine – and suddenly yelled at Boots. “Turn down the Led Zeppelin!” Jesus, he couldn’t think. He felt like the living dead after yesterday’s little adventure in the Frozen Coconut.
He had just replaced the nacelle when he noticed a man approaching the hanger. He was dressed like a professor, tweed coat and wool pants, and was smoking a briar pipe. Each time he took a step, a little curl of smoke rose into the air.
He stopped just outside the hanger, removed his pipe, knocked the dottle out on his shoe, then dropped it into a pocket. “Mr. Harry McNills?” he asked in a heavy British accent.
“I’m McNills,” Harry said, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Mr. McNills, I’m Inspector Rolland Hyde with the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary,” he reached into his overcoat, removed a small wallet, and showed his ID.
The first thing that flashed through Harry’s mind was that weasel, Goodacre. But he didn’t really think so. There was no way their little scuffle would rate an inspector’s time.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Harry asked.
“I’m following up on the report you filed with the Coast Guard regarding the sinking of the Ice Machine.”
Harry gave him a surprised look. “Everything I know is in that report, Inspector. It was my best take from five hundred feet in the air.”
“Yes, and everyone appreciates the effort you made, Mr. McNills. I was just hoping you might have seen something… shall we say… you couldn’t explain or didn’t feel like discussing over the radio.”
“Like in Porter’s filleted body?”
That got Hyde’s attention. “So you did see something that wasn’t in your report?”
“I didn’t see it, I heard about it.”
“The description of the body was never released to the public, Mr. McNills.”
“It’s a small town, Inspector.”
“Yes, I’ll remember that, Mr. McNills.”
“I don’t know much, Inspector, just that only half of Porter’s body was recovered and that it was pretty chewed up. That’s it.” Harry said studying Hyde’s face. “Why, is Porter’s death being treated as a homicide?”
“A possible homicide,” Hyde said. “The circumstances around his death are very odd. We’re not ruling anything out until we gather more information.”
“What about Roscoe Rains and the rest of the crew? Have any more bodies turned up?”
“Officially, we don’t have any information about that,” said the inspector as he reached into his coat. He pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco and began to fill the bowl. “Unofficially, no. No survivors. And no other bodies.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Harry said. “Roscoe was a pro. He was fanatical about safety, too. He was always upgrading his equipment and even kept a list of old sailor’s superstitions he’d never violate: no bananas on board, don’t whistle in the wheelhouse, never leave port on a Friday, never change a boat’s name.”
Inspector Hyde lit his pipe, puffed a couple of times and blew out a plume of smoke. “Yes… everyone I’ve interviewed has a high opinion of Mr. Rains as a sailor. Unfortunately, the Ice Machine is sitting in a thousand feet of water. And we don’t have the equipment or resources to get any forensics from the ship.”
“Inspector, what do you know about Porter’s death? I heard it looked like he’d been literally ripped in half…”
There was a long silence. Hyde puffed on his pipe, then tamped down some loose tobacco and relit it. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. McNills – I’ll strike a bargain with you.
I’ll tell you what we know – and if you get any information from town, you come to me with it straight away.”
“Deal,” Harry said without hesitation.
The inspector puffed a few more times, then removed the pipe from his mouth. “Shortly after Porter’s body was recovered, an arm was found. Blood and tissue samples matched the limb to Porter. The arm revealed some scratches and claw marks and looked like it had been wrenched from the socket by brute force. But it’s what was clenched in the hand and wedged beneath the fingernails that have the department buzzing.”
Harry was hanging on the inspector’s every word, waiting to hear more. “What was it? he asked impatiently.
“Hair,” Mr. McNills.
“Polar bear?” Harry guessed.
“Yes, that was our first thought, too. However, the hair isn’t ursine. It doesn’t belong to a polar bear or any other kind of bear, Mr. McNills. All the tests came back negative. But here’s the part that has our heads spinning – mass spectrometer readings have dated the hair and found it to be at least five thousand years old.”
“What!” Harry said, amazed. “But that’s impossible…”
“Hair follicles retrieved from some of the samples and sequenced for DNA have turned up something else, something even more fantastic – although right now the lab thinks the results are erroneous and that the test sample must’ve been corrupted with foreign matter. They’ve requested another sample, and of course we’ve complied. But what the initial test results showed was that the hair is unmistakably mammalian – a species descended from the genus Homo erectus.
“Okay, wait a minute,” Harry said, raising a hand. “I’m not sure how much of what you just said I understand – but it sounds like you’re saying Porter got attacked by some half-man, half-animal creature that just happens to be five thousand years old.”
“We are not saying anything, Mr. McNills. We are as confused as you are. No one is prepared to make any pronouncements. Like I just mentioned, more tests must be run. And hopefully more evidence will turn up. For now, at least, it’s a mystery.”
“This is bizarre,” Harry said, shaking his head. “There must be some simple explanation.”
“Let’s hope so,” Hyde said. “Until we know more, I trust you will keep our conversation confidential.” The inspector handed Harry a card. “Call me straightaway if you hear anything.”
Harry took the card and looked at it. “Thanks for letting me know what you found, Inspector.” Then added, “I can keep my mouth shut.”
Inspector Hyde thanked him with a nod
and walked out of the hanger.
Boots emerged from the shadows behind the plane. “Don’t worry, Harry, I didn’t hear anything about five thousand year old hair.”
“That’s great, Boots,” Harry said flatly. He took the rag he was holding and pitched it into a metal can. “C’mon, let’s knock off early. We can finish up tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
Amy stood in front of Arctic Air Adventures in the morning sun watching Harry wipe down one of the Twin Otter’s wing struts. Harry’s back was toward her and he wasn’t aware he was being watched.
Boots came around the tail pushing a broom and swept his way toward the hanger door, then stopped when he saw Amy staring at them.
“Harry…”
Harry looked up at Boots. “What?” He could see the surprise on his face.
Boots raised his arm and pointed. Harry turned, banged his head on the fuselage, and cursed to himself. Rubbing his head, he crouched out from beneath the plane, spotted Amy, and crossed towards her. “Good morning, ah, miss…?”
“It’s Amy,” she extended her hand and smiled. “Dr. Amy Tyler, Cryolabs. And yes, I know, you’re Han Solo.”
Embarrassed, Harry shook her hand. “Harry McNills,” he motioned to the plane, “Arctic Air Adventures.” Then he turned to Boots. “And this is my colleague, Boots Dalton.”
Boots lifted his ball cap and smiled at Amy. “Nice to meet you, doctor.” Then he turned to Harry. “Ah, your colleague is going to get some breakfast.” Before Harry could respond, Boots beat a hasty retreat into the rear of the hanger.
Amy watched Boots clump away, then looked past Harry and studied the plane.
“Hmm… yes, this must be the alleged Millennium Falcon.”
“Well, not quite,” Harry smiled. “But out here it’s almost as good.”
He motioned for her to come into the hanger and walked over to the plane, lovingly patting a wing strut. “What can I tell you about the DeHavilland Twin Otter?”
Amy let her eyes run down the length of the plane, then leveled them at Harry.