Blood and Ice

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

December 13, 7:30 p.m.

THE MOMENT MICHAEL RETURNED TO CAMP, he hurried back to his room, switched some of his camera gear, and went looking for Darryl. He was on his way to the marine lab when he bumped into Charlotte on the snow-covered walkway.

“Welcome back,” she said. “Want to join me for dinner?”

“First things first,” he said, lifting the camera slung around his neck. “It's been hours since I got a shot of the ice block.”

“Then one more won't hurt,” she said, slinging an arm through his and dragging him in the opposite direction. “Besides, Darryl's in the commons.”

“You sure?” Michael said, digging in his heels.

“Positive,” she assured him, “and you know he doesn't like anyone in his lab when he's not there.”

Michael did know that Darryl was very territorial, but he would still have been willing to risk it-if Charlotte hadn't been clinging to his arm so insistently, and if he hadn't actually worked up quite such an enormous appetite on his journey to the whaling station. He told himself that he'd make it quick, then haul Darryl straight back to the lab with him.

On the short trip to the commons, Charlotte told him that she'd just finished attending to Lawson, who'd dropped some ski gear on his foot, but Michael was still having a hard time focusing. He had that itchy feeling that he sometimes got, the sense that he was missing out on something, and every time the camera thumped on his chest it only got worse.

“But I'll say this,” Charlotte confided, as they mounted the ramp to the commons. “I don't have a single soul in the sick bay. If I can keep that up for the next six months, this won't be such a bad deal, after all.”

In the commons, they ditched their coats and gear, then piled their plates high with beef stew, sticky rice, and sourdough rolls. In the Antarctic, salad just didn't cut it. Beakers and grunts were coming and going, and even Ackerley-a.k.a. Spook-who usually just grabbed a milk carton and some small cereal boxes and took them back to his botany lab, was sitting at one of the picnic-style tables with some of his cronies. Even though there were no hard-and-fast dining hours at the Point-no one would be able to keep them-the kitchen staff, headed by a grizzled old Navy cook who insisted on being called Uncle Barney, always seemed to keep things coming. No one, not even Murphy O'Connor, knew quite how the trick was pulled off.

Michael spotted Darryl before Charlotte did, nearly hidden behind a pile of rice and string beans, with his nose buried in some lab reports. He plopped his tray down across the table and Charlotte slid in next to him.

Darryl glanced up while dabbing at his mouth with a paper napkin. “Such a handsome couple,” he said. Then he tapped the papers. “These are the readouts from the blood sample in the wine bottle.” He said it as if that was what they had been waiting for.

“And this is what you bring to dinner?” Charlotte said as she snapped her napkin open.

“It's fascinating stuff,” Darryl said, but when he started to elaborate on the sources of the putrefaction, Charlotte stuck a sourdough roll in his mouth.

“Didn't your mama tell you not to talk about certain things at the table?”

Michael laughed, and once the roll was removed from his mouth, so did Darryl. “But, really, you would not believe the blood-cell ratios,” he said, starting up all over again, which Charlotte put a stop to by saying, “Michael, why don't you tell us about what you did today?”

Darryl gave up, broke open the warm bread and began to ladle in scoops of butter, while Michael regaled them with tales of the Norwegian station and piloting the dogsled back to camp.

“Danzig let you do that?” Darryl said.

Michael nodded, swallowing a particularly tough morsel of stew. “In fact, I thought I saw you coming back from the dive hut on a snowmobile.”

Darryl admitted that he'd been there. “But nothing I brought up in the traps was worth keeping this time. I'll try again tomorrow.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes-at pole, every meal was a sort of communion, a way to tell your body what time it was, a break in the unending day. There were many times when you had to stop and ask yourself whether it was lunch or dinner you were sitting down to, but Uncle Barney tried to make that easier for you by providing lots of sandwiches at lunch, and big hot entrees, like stew or spaghetti or chili con carne, for dinner. Betty and Tina had suggested candles be put out for the evening meal, but the grunts had overwhelmingly rejected that idea, in colorful language attached to the bulletin board outside Murphy's office.

Michael had tried to be patient, but before Darryl had quite finished with his hot peach cobbler, he said, “You are planning to go back to the lab tonight, aren't you?”

Darryl nodded, as he chased an errant slice of peach around his plate.

“Because I could always go on ahead of you,” Michael said, “if you don't mind.”

Darryl scooped up the peach, ate it, and said, “Gimme a break. I'm coming.” He crumpled up his napkin and tossed it on the plate. “I want to see what's up just as much as you do.”

Charlotte, sipping the last of her latte, said, “I'm in, too.”

After donning their coats and goggles and gloves, they were all barely identifiable, even to each other. In the Antarctic, people tended to recognize other people based on something simple-a colorful scarf, a stocking hat, a way of walking-because apart from that, everyone looked like big fat bundles of down padding and rubber and wool.

The night was uncommonly still, and the sun was veiled by a thin scrim of wispy clouds-all betokening serious weather to come. Their boots crunched on the ice and snow as they walked by the glaciology lab-they could hear the buzzing of a drill from inside the core bin-and approached the sled shed. Off in the distance, the botany lab, where the grow lights were always on, beckoned. It all reminded Michael of Christmas nights as a kid, when his parents would take him to midnight mass, and there was such an air of anticipation hanging over everything. Back then, he knew that something wonderful was waiting for him in the morning, and now he knew that something amazing was waiting for him in that low dark module just around the bend.

Darryl trotted ahead of them and up the ramp. So as not to keep the door open any longer than he had to, he waited for them to catch up before opening it-no one ever locked a lab at Point Adelie; it was a safety point laid down as law by the Chief-and the three of them ducked inside all at once.

The first thing Michael noticed, even before he'd unzipped his coat, was the wet floor. The marine lab often had spills-that was why the floor was a slab of concrete, with drains at regular intervals-but it was a lot wetter than usual. His rubber boots made a sucking noise as he stepped around the lab counter, where the microscope and monitor sat, and followed Darryl over to the side of the central aquarium tank.

Water was still dripping over its sides, the PVC pipes were still operating, as far as he could tell, but apart from the seawater, the tank was otherwise empty. There was no block of ice, and certainly no floating bodies. Chunks of ice drifted around like tiny bergs on the gently moving water, and the whole lab had a strong, briny odor. But Michael was puzzled-and frankly, a little pissed. Was this Dar-ryl's idea of a joke? Because if it was, he wasn't laughing. He, Michael, should have been consulted if the bodies were going to be relocated again.

“Okay-what gives?” he asked Darryl. “Did you tell someone to move them?” But from the stunned look he now saw on Darryl's face, he already knew the answer to that.

“Where are they?” Charlotte innocently asked, unwinding a long scarf from around her neck.

“I… don't… know,” Darryl replied.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” she said. “You think Betty and Tina took ‘em back?”

“I don't know,” Darryl repeated.

The shock in his voice was apparent to her, too. She glanced over Darryl's head at Michael.

“Well, it's not like they got up and went anywhere on their own,” she said.

But the silence hung heavy. Michael went around to the other side of the tank and turned off the PVC valves. He saw a stool, set up in front of one of the space heaters, and another one close to the door. Why, he wondered, would Darryl have moved the lab stools like that?

“I know you like your privacy, but has anyone else been working with you in here?” he asked.

“No,” Darryl replied in a low voice, as if still unable to process the disaster. He hadn't moved from the lip of the tank.

“Murphy will know what's up,” Charlotte said, in an upbeat tone. “He must have had the bodies transferred.” She went to the intracamp phone mounted by the door, and even she looked puzzled for a second by the stool that stood in her way.

Michael, his thoughts reeling, used a mop to push some of the water toward the floor drains while Darryl looked into the tank as if staring long enough could make the bodies reappear. Charlotte talked on the phone, and Michael didn't have to pick up more than a few of her actual words-”not here,” “are you sure?” “of course we did”-to know that Murphy O'Connor was as baffled by what he was hearing as anyone.

Darryl, his brow furrowed in thought, retreated to the lab counter, where he plopped down in front of the microscope. Michael used the mop to move the stool away from the heater and noticed that although the tank overflow hadn't really come up that far, there was a round puddle underneath where the stool had been. Almost as if something had been drying and dripping onto the floor there. He glanced over at the other misplaced stool, the one by the door, then leaned the mop up against the wall and walked over toward it.

Charlotte had just hung up the phone and announced that Murphy had no clue about what was going on. “He's contacting Lawson and Franklin. Maybe they'll know what's up.”

Michael looked under the stool by the door, and although there wasn't any water there, he suddenly felt a cold sliver of air descending on his shoulders, and glanced up. A narrow, rectangular window, more of a vent really, ran along the roofline, and when he climbed up onto the stool, he found that the window had been cranked open. Flakes of snow and ice had already begun to congeal on the inside rim, and through it, he could see straight across the concourse and into the bright glare of the kennel and sled shed, where everything appeared quiet and undisturbed.

“Darryl,” he asked, “did you ever crank this vent open?”

“What?” Darryl looked up at him, as he balanced precariously on the stool. “No. I doubt I could even reach it.”

Michael cranked the window closed again, and got down. Somebody, he thought, had cranked it open-and recently-and they'd done it to get a glimpse of the outside.

“Want to hear something else?” Darryl said, resignedly.

“Is it good or bad?” Charlotte said.

“The wine bottle's gone.”

“Was it on the lab counter?” Michael said, and Darryl nodded.

“It was right here,” he said, “next to the microscope.” He picked up a slide. “I've still got proof-this-that the damn thing existed. But no bottle, and no bodies, anymore.”

But to Michael, it made perfect sense; whoever had come to make off with the bodies-but why, and what for?-had grabbed the wine bottle, too. The slide must have been overlooked. Was someone really going to try to destroy all the evidence and make it seem that the whole discovery had never happened? What would be the point of that? Or was it-and this made even less sense to him-somebody's idea of a moneymaking scheme? It was way too knuckleheaded for any of the beakers to try, but had a couple of the grunts found out what was going on and decided that they could spirit the frozen corpses back to civilization and make a fortune exhibiting them?

Or was it all just part of an immense, and not very funny, practical joke? If that's what it turned out to be, Michael knew that Murphy would have the heads of the perpetrators.

Michael realized that he was clutching at straws, that these ideas were crazy. He told himself to calm down. It had to be something simpler. Betty and Tina had probably reclaimed the ice block for further work, or something like that. And the mystery would be solved before they all went to bed.

“Weren't there some other bottles, in that chest that was brought up?” Charlotte said, and Darryl's eyes brightened.

“Yes, there were. Michael, where'd they put the chest?”

“Last I saw it, Danzig had unloaded it from the sled. It was in the back of the kennel.”

“Then at least we might still have those!” he said.

“Why don't you and Charlotte look around the lab here-make sure nothing else is missing-and I'll go over to the kennel.” Ever since he'd looked out of the vent, he'd wanted to check out everything across the way.

He zipped up his coat again, and as he descended the ramp, he looked carefully for any signs of a dolly's wheels, but the only markings were from bootheels. How the hell did whoever it was get the damn thing out? He marched across the snow to the kennel and found the chest at least right where Danzig had unloaded it. But despite the fact that a few odds and ends were still inside-a silver cup engraved with the initials SAC, a white cummerbund, yellow with age-the bottles were all gone.

“Hey, what the hell's going on?”

Michael turned around to see Danzig himself standing with his arms out in wonderment.

“I guess you just heard from Murphy.”

“Heard what from Murphy?”

“Oh, about the missing bodies, from the ice block.”

“The dogs, for Christ's sake-I'm talking about the dogs! There's one hell of a storm coming, and I came to make sure they were settled in for the night.” He looked all around, like somehow he might have simply missed them. “Where the hell are they?”

Michael had been so set on retrieving the bottles that it hadn't occurred to him that something even more surprising was gone. But now he saw the dogs’ stakes, still in the ground, and their empty food bowls, lying upturned on the straw.

“The sled's missing, too,” Danzig said. “What the fuck is going on?”

Michael couldn't believe that anyone would dare to mess with the dogs, much less without Danzig's express permission-which would almost certainly not be granted.

“I was just checking to see if the chest had been looted,” Michael said, feeling the need to explain his own presence. “It has been.”

“I don't give a shit about that, or that pair of human popsicles. Where are my dogs?” Danzig boomed as he stomped around the kennel, his eyes fixed on the floor. “How long have you been here?”

“I got here just before you did.”

“Goddammit!” He kicked one of the bowls clear across the kennel, then he stopped at the foot of the stairs, yanked off one of his gloves, and touched something on the steps. As Michael looked on, he raised it to his face, smelled it.

“It's blood,” he said, lifting his eyes toward the loft. And then he was racing up the stairs as fast as his heavy boots and gear would let him.

Michael heard him cry, “Jesus, no!” and by the time Michael got up there, Danzig was down on the floor, cradling the bloody carcass of Kodiak in his burly arms.

“Who did this?” Danzig was muttering. “Who would do this?”

For Michael, too, it seemed unthinkable.

“I will kill the son of a bitch,” Danzig said, and Michael believed him. “I will kill the son of a bitch who did this!”

Michael put a hand on Danzig's shoulder, not knowing what to say, when he saw the dog's eyes flicker, then open. “Wait, look…” he started to say, when the husky suddenly let out a low, angry growl. And before Danzig could even react, the dog had lunged up at his face. Danzig toppled backwards, and the dog was on him, snarling and tearing at his clothes and skin. His legs kicked out wildly, he was trying to stand, but the dog was too powerful and too insane with rage. Michael saw the short chain, with its stake still attached, dangling from its collar, and grabbed for it. It flew out of his hands, but he grabbed again, and finally got hold of it. He pulled back on it with all his might, and the dog's jaws, dripping with blood and foam, came away from Danzig's throat. It was still snapping, still trying to bite its master, when Michael yanked it away toward the stairs. Kodiak's paws scrabbled at the wooden floor, but only then did it turn its attention to Michael, whipping around, its cold blue eyes burning with fire, and leapt up. Like a matador, Michael stepped neatly to one side and the dog went flying down the open stairs; Michael heard a thump, a splintering sound, and a loud snap… and then silence.

When he looked down, he could see that the stake had wedged itself between two of the open steps, and the dog was now swinging by its broken neck from the short chain. The stairs creaked with the strain, and Danzig, clutching his throat on the floor, whispered “help” in a weak, burbling voice. The blood was pouring out between his fingers, and Michael ripped his own scarf off, wrapped it tightly around Danzig's neck, and said, “I'll be right back with Dr. Barnes.” As he shot down the stairs, in shock, Kodiak's body swayed back and forth beside him, blood dripping from a puncture wound in its chest-how had that happened?-and matting the straw below.