Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

“No… I…” Yes, that was her laptop and she had taken Emmett’s. Did that make her an accessory after the fact?

“Anything I can help you with?”

Her heart pounded. Somebody had killed that man, just as surely as if they had run a knife through his heart, and now more than ever she wanted to know who had done it. The Black Island traverse was the next task and she needed a sleeping bag in order to join it. She needed to be at Building 17 with that sleeping bag at 7:00 a.m. “When does Berg open?”

“I don’t know. Seven-thirty? Eight?”

Valena began to tremble. Just when things were looking up, they came crashing down.

“Hey,” said Michael. “You look like your puppy died.”

The trembling was getting worse. She could feel her lips begin to go. “I n-need a sleeping bag,” she said.

Michael stepped toward her and put his arms around her, scooping her up into a great, warm hug. “There,” he said. “There.”

The tenderness of that hug unhinged her and she leaned against him, fighting tears. “I’m just so—I don’t know what to do!”

Michael ran his hands down her back, stroking her like a kitten. He said, “Surely there’s another sleeping bag to be had in this great expanse of ice. When do you need it?”

“Seven tomorrow morning. I—I’m supposed to help drive some equipment up to Black Island.” With that, she remembered that there was another person whom she could call on for help. Matt. Tractor Matt. Because membership is free, lifelong, and irrevocable… Her tears immediately began to subside. She straightened up, wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, and said, “How can I get in touch with Matt?”

“I don’t know. Matt who?”

“I don’t know his last name.”

Michael let his hands drop from her shoulders. “Come with me.”

Valena followed him up to the library at the top of the lab and watched as he sat down at one of the computers there. He woke up the screen and clicked quickly through a menu that brought him around to what looked like a phone list. “Matt with two t’s, right?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, that’s the standard spelling.” He typed the name and clicked the mouse. “Okay, we have three Matts in McMurdo just now. Not bad, out of twelve hundred people, a third of which are women. One’s a cook. Looks like the second is in the carpenter’s shop. And number three is Fleet Ops. What’s your guess?”

“He had a khaki parka.”

“That rules out the kitchen. You’ve described a tradesman, so he’s either a carpenter or a heavy equipment operator. What else do you know about him? Who introduced him to you?”

“He—” The wheels inside Valena’s mind were finally turning again. “Wait, he knew the Boss, who’s in charge of the people who are driving out to Black Island. Is that Fleet Ops?”

“Bingo. Here’s his number.” Michael pulled a pen out of his pocket, wrote the number on the palm of his hand, got up, crossed to a telephone, and dialed. When the call was answered, he said, “Excuse me, but I got a young lady here in search of a sleeping bag. Can you help her?” Grinning, he handed the phone to Valena.

“Yes, is this Tractor Matt? Oh, thanks. Yeah, I thought I could get the one out of the lab, but no dice. Can I still borrow yours? Hey, thanks. Yeah, just drop it off at Building 17, and I’ll get it there. You’re a champ.”

After hanging up the phone, Valena turned to Michael and threw her arms around him, mashing a huge squeeze on him. “Thank you, Michael.”

“Hey!” said another male voice from somewhere behind her. “I hear love blooms even in this cold excuse for a continent, but so quickly!”

Valena jerked clear of Michael and turned. It was James Skehan. He didn’t look as big without his ECWs, but that did not abate the embarrassment she felt. It cut like a hot knife clear down to her socks. “We were just—what business is it of yours?” she demanded.

Skehan held his hands up in mock defense. “Whoa! I didn’t mean to step on any tender toes here. Just being sociable. So how goes the detective work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw Manny Roig an hour ago at Gallagher’s, and he was telling folks all the questions you were asking. Sure sounds like a Sherlock Holmes job to me.”

Valena felt the blood go out of her face. This was bad. She glanced from Skehan to Michael.

Michael had adjusted his face into a mask of pleasant civility. She realized too late that she was asking an employee of Raytheon to defend her to an NSF grantee, and a very powerful one, at that. Would Skehan, or Roig, or anyone else for that matter go to George Bellamy and report her before she could leave McMurdo Station in the morning?

Skehan’s beard hid most of his expression, and his eyes were equally opaque.

“I think I’ll get some sleep,” said Valena, as she hurried toward the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, VALENA DODGED DOWN THE hallway and into the galley exactly as the food lines opened. She carried a day pack that held her essential little yellow notebook, her camera, a water bottle, hat, gloves, and a change of skivvies. Everything else needed for the Black Island traverse she already wore on her body, from two layers of polypropylene underwear right out to her blue FDX boots, wind pants, and big red parka. She quickly filled her water bottle with orange juice, then hurried around the room grabbing anything and everything that would fit in her pockets without soaking through them. She did not want to chance running into George Bellamy or anyone else.

The man standing behind the omelet griddle watched her run past. “Hey, what’s the hurry? Can I fry you some eggs this morning?” he inquired.

“Me?” she asked, stuffing a corn muffin into her mouth.

“You look like an owl in a searchlight factory. Going out into the field?”

“How’d you—”

“You’ve got your big red on. People usually leave them on the coat hooks out in the hall.”

“Oh. I’m…” She looked over her shoulder. A few people had come into the lines behind her and were moving slowly past the homemade granola.

The man said, “I know that look. I had a daughter once, and she got to looking like you do each time some boy she didn’t want to meet up with was chasing her. Come here.”

Valena stepped toward the griddle.

Lowering his voice, he said, “You that young thing who’s going to Black Island with Fleet Ops?”

“I—”

“Just tell me what you want on your eggs. Thing is, you don’t want an omelet, because that stuff that’s already whipped up is made from a box. These eggs over here are still in the shell. See? Now, here…” He pointed at a row of small stainless steel bins with his spatula. “These are toppings you can have. What you say is, ‘Give me three fresh eggs with,’ well, whatever you want on them. Then you put this thing on”—he handed her a paper chef’s hat—”and you head through that door into the kitchen. Back beyond that big, gruff guy who’s baking bread—don’t mind him, his face broke like that ten years ago—you’ll find a little office or two, nice and private. Young ladies need good nutrition and a place to sit down so they can hope to digest it. Okay? I’ll make your eggs up and send them along to you. Now, what do you want on it?”

Valena managed a faltering smile. “I’ll take cheese, black olives, and mushrooms, please.”

“Good enough. When you’re done eating, the folks back there will hand you a box of flight lunches to take up the hill to the Boss. Anything else you need?”

“No, sir, I think that’ll do it.”

“Git.”

Valena got.

At a quarter to seven, she left Building 155 by the dock door beyond the kitchen carrying the box of flight lunches. Turning her face away from the sea ice, she climbed the hill that led up to Building 17. The call to adventure rose in her heart, and it was time to get the hell out of McMurdo. The place was making her crazy with its strange mixture of kind people and frontier-town haggardness. And if the Boss had any trouble making his need of her free assistance stick with the NSF, it would be to her advantage—and his—if she could not be located in McMurdo.