Ice Storm (5 page)

"It won't work. Pat's a bulldog about stuff like this."

Curiously enough, the cafeteria had self-segregated. Scientists, administrators, and white-collar workers congregated on one side. Mechanics, youngsters, and assistants gathered on the other side. In other words, it was clipboards versus Carhartts.

I glared at Graham. "You knew he worked here, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"So, why didn't you tell me?"

"What's there to tell?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe that he has the power to deport us and happens to hate your guts."

Graham looked away.

I forced myself to calm down. "I've been thinking about those tracks. You know, the ones near the Ekström Ice Shelf."

Graham dipped his fork into his pasta. "Yeah?"

I took a bite of my burger. Then I opened up the bun and slathered the beef with ketchup. Lots of ketchup. "They were headed south toward the mountains."

"What mountains?"

I eyed Graham. His chin was tilted toward the ceiling. His gaze was directed at nothing in particular. "The ones on the moon."

"Oh yeah."

"You okay?"

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You seem distracted."

Graham chewed his pasta slowly. "Do you ever think about death?"

"I try not to."

"All those bodies on the
Desolation
… I guess they got in my head."

I took another bite of my burger and waited for him to continue.

"I'm getting old." He cracked a smile. "No way around that fact."

"You're not old."

"It didn't used to matter so much. But now I can barely get out of bed."

"You were tough enough to come here."

"I thought a little adventure would do me good. Too bad my body hurts like hell."

"So does mine. It's been a long day."

He shrugged. "My body won't last forever. I know that. Dust to dust, right? I just wish I knew what came next."

I lowered my burger. "You mean like heaven?"

"If it even exists."

"You don't believe in it?"

"I want to believe in it." He sighed. "But it's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't picture God as a giant asshole."

I frowned. "Come again?"

"If God exists, why the hell is He hiding Himself? Why doesn't He just pop His head out of the clouds and say, 'Hey jerks, here I am'? Instead, we're supposed to trust a bunch of dusty old books. Hell, I don't even trust what I read in the newspaper."

"Some people would say the evidence of God is all around us."

"Those people are idiots." He ate some more pasta. "I'd like to talk to God just once before I die. I don't need long. Thirty seconds would do just fine. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not for me. Then again I'm not God."

"You can say that again. Anyway I'd like to settle a few things before I go. You know, clear my conscience."

A realization dawned on me. "You didn't come here to help me find the Amber Room. You came to reconcile with Pat."

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Why didn't you call him first?"

"Because he's the most stubborn man alive. No way in hell he'd pick up a call from me."

"Well, you've definitely got his attention now. Maybe we can use that to our advantage."

"What do you mean?"

"You've got a history with him, right? So, remind him of stuff, talk about the good old days. It's the only chance you've got of getting closure." I took another bite. "And the only chance we've got of staying past tomorrow."

"I don't know. Pat's not the sentimental type. He's just an asshole, plain and simple."

"Dutch? Dutch Graham?" The unfamiliar voice was feminine and smooth as silk.

I turned my head. A woman stood behind me. She was tall and possessed the statuesque build of a ballet dancer. Her face radiated regal authority. She made no attempt to hide her many wrinkles. But she still managed to put forth a youthful appearance.

"Liza?" Graham's jaw dropped. "Liza Oliver?"

She smiled. "It's Liza Baxter now."

His jaw dropped even further. "You married Pat?"

"That's what it says on our marriage certificate." She offered her hand to me. "I'm Liza."

Her grip was light but full of life. "Cy Reed."

"Nice to meet you." She looked at Graham. Her smile lit up the room. "It's been so long. I can't believe you're here. Does Pat know? He's going to be so excited."

"Somehow I doubt that," Graham said. "So, what are you doing these days? Still focused on biology?"

"I gave up science. Now, I help Pat manage this place."

"Sounds like a difficult job."

"It is today." She sighed. "But it's not so bad. I get to help other people achieve their goals."

"That must be fun."

"Glamorous too, if you like penguins." Her eyes flitted back and forth. "Are you guys sticking around for awhile? I'd love to join you for a quick lunch."

"We'll be here."

She turned around and walked across the room. Her movements, effortless and graceful, stood out among the awkwardness.

"So, that's her?" I said. "That's the girl?"

Graham didn't move a muscle.

"Dutch?"

A sudden shiver ran through him. "Yeah, that's her."

I eyed my burger. Ketchup dripped out the side, oozing onto the plate. "She seems nice."

"Yeah."

I covered my burger with a napkin. Out of sight, out of mind or so I hoped. "Do you want me to stick around?"

He shook his head. "No. I need to handle this alone."

"Okay. But only under one condition."

"What's that?"

I stood up. "You convince her to let us stay."

Chapter 11

A clipping metallic sound, soft yet jarring, rang a discordant bell in my ears. I slowed to a halt and peered down a short corridor. I saw four doors, all closed. A large rectangular-shaped container sat at the far end of the corridor. Its sides screamed "SKUA" in bold yellow letters.

I glanced back at the main hallway. A circular sign hung from the far door. The words
Fitzgerald General Hospital
curved around its edges. The center featured a cartoon penguin, decked out in a colorful scarf. At first glance, he looked happy enough, waving his flipper and smiling brightly. But his drooping red eyes told a different story.

I wondered about the man from the
Desolation
. Was he still alive? If so, would he make a full recovery? Or was he doomed to drink out of a straw for the rest of his life?

Metal clattered loudly against concrete. I heard a string of soft curse words coming from the corridor. It sounded like someone was hurt.

I strode into the corridor and stopped outside a door. It was marked
Fitzgerald Station Records
. I heard muffled voices, two of them, coming from inside it.

I pushed open the door. "Hello?"

Something struck my legs. I toppled into the room. My sore chest smacked against concrete. Air emptied out of my lungs.

I lifted my head. The room was dark. But light from the hallway illuminated a portion of it. So, I could see it was a mess. File folders, papers, and sheared padlocks were strewn about the floor.

I looked up. A hooded figure hovered over me. Its left hand held a pair of three-foot long bolt cutters. Its right hand reached toward the door.

The door swung shut. Darkness swept over the room.

This can't be good.

I rolled to my back.

The bolt cutters slammed into the ground, inches from my head. I leapt to my feet. Opened my mouth to call for help.

A second figure charged me. Its fist slammed into my stomach, cutting me off. I sank to my knees.

The figure reared back for another blow. I blocked it and delivered a left cross in the general direction of its face. It gasped in pain and twisted away.

A fist crunched against my back. My fingers curled. My body stiffened. I twisted around.

The bolt cutters smashed into my face. I crumpled to the floor.

A few seconds passed. My ears detected scuffling movements and crinkling papers.

I forced my eyes open. I saw the two figures kneeling next to some filing cabinets. They appeared to be stuffing file folders into large duffel bags.

They stood up and walked across the floor. The door opened. I saw bright light. Then the door closed again. Darkness spread its cloak over the room.

I maneuvered myself to a sitting position and took a few deep breaths. For the first time, I noticed a curious odor lingering in the air. It was a peculiar mixture of mustard and grease.

My eyes widened. It was the exact same odor I'd smelled on that guy from the plane, the one who'd refused to talk to us. I searched my memory. Ted something or other. That meant his partner was probably the other guy, Dan Trotter.

My legs felt wobbly as I stood up. I made my way to the wall and hit a switch. A few overhead bulbs lit up.

Quickly, I examined the leftover papers and file folders. I saw nothing remotely interesting. It didn't make sense.

What the hell do they want with old personnel records?

Chapter 12

Models failed. Standards morphed. Knowledge changed. Paradigms shifted. Nothing in life was truly permanent. And yet, hardly anyone recognized that fact.

The wind picked up speed. Roy Savala tugged the brim of his cowboy hat, shielding his eyes from the blowing snow. The wind grew faster and faster. But Roy refused to budge.

Roy had spent his entire life standing athwart the winds of public opinion. He didn't care what experts or scientists said. As far as he was concerned, anything was possible. He possessed a truly open mind.

All people were born with an open mind. But they lost it when confronted by textbooks, teachers, the media, and peer pressure. There was no room for independent thinking in the modern age. Only the current paradigm was acceptable.

Roy knelt down. Using his trowel, he cleared snow away from the huge stone block. It was one of many in the area. This one, ten feet wide and six feet tall, was particularly large. Its edges consisted of straight lines. Its corners formed perfect right angles. That was a telltale sign.

Right angles didn't exist in nature.

Footsteps crunched through the snow. Roy's gaze remained fixed to the block. "Is that you, Ben?"

The footsteps halted. "Yeah, it's me."

"Is it done?"

"Not exactly."

Roy's anger surged. Turning around, he stared at his younger brother. Ben Savala was short and stocky. Like everyone else on Roy's team, he wore western-style clothing. "What do you mean?"

"We lost them," Ben replied.

Roy rubbed his forehead. "So, follow their tracks. Christ Almighty, do I have to do everything for you?"

"We tried. Unfortunately, the snow covered them up."

"What about the radio?"

"They haven't checked in yet. I'm guessing some of our bullets damaged their communications equipment."

A wave of relief ran through Roy. "So, keep looking."

"What do you think we've been doing all this time? Believe me, we looked everywhere. And now—”

"Then set up a perimeter around Kirby and shoot them on sight. You know what'll happen if they make an official report." Roy waved his hand at the block. "Our work will be destroyed. It'll never see the light of day."

With a quick nod, Ben spun around and trudged away.

Seething, Roy turned his attention back to the block. A large part of him wanted to join the hunt. But he couldn't afford to waste time, not when a breakthrough was within his grasp.

His eyes examined the many blocks in front of him. They varied in shape and size. But together, they formed something astounding. As a seasoned geologist, they'd originally intrigued him for a different reason. But the more time he spent with them, the more he'd begun to realize the truth.

He ached to show his discovery to the world. But he knew the experts would merely scoff at him. They wouldn't even bother to examine his claim. They'd just dismiss him out of hand.

That was why he needed to finish his excavation. He needed to gather proof, indisputable evidence. Only then could he go public. Only then could he turn the tables on the experts.

According to them, Antarctica hadn't been sighted until 1820. A year later, Captain John Davis became the first person to set foot on its icy shores. But the theoretical notion of a
Terra Australis
, or South Land, extended at least as far back as Aristotle.

Roy felt a soaring feeling in his gut. The blocks would change everything. They'd rewrite history.

They'd shift the paradigm.

Chapter 13

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me."

The man stared at his monitor. His thin fingers punched away at a keyboard.

I looked around the small waiting room. It was nothing fancy, just a few chairs and a magazine rack. The walls, a light blue, showed signs of heavy water damage. The marks were covered with several coats of paint, each thicker and more useless than the last. That was how the world worked. You could try to paint over old problems, pretend they didn't exist. But they always found a way back to the surface.

I glanced at the nameplate on the desk. "I need to see a doctor, Connie."

Connie Chico's eyes stayed glued to his monitor. "Dr. Shay is busy."

I slammed my hands on his desk.

Startled, he glanced up at me. His eyes widened. "What happened to you?"

"Just take me to Dr. Shay."

Chico hustled me through a door and into another room. Curtains hung from the ceiling, dividing the space into a half dozen makeshift rooms. Two permanent rooms branched off from the rear wall. I caught a glimpse of Baxter inside one of them.

The second room was closed. A sign mounted on the door read "Examination Room."

Chico led me through one of the curtains. He sat me down on a wheeled gurney and took my temperature. "Ninety-eight point four. Congratulations. You've avoided the Muck so far."

"The Muck?"

"You must be new here. It's like the flu. It crops up every year, no surprise given the close quarters and lack of proper vitamins." He gave me a few more tests. "Dr. Carol Shay is plenty busy. I imagine you heard about the
Desolation
. But I'll let her know you're here."