Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

She waved him toward her. “There are six eggs gone.”

“What, did the skuas strike it rich?”

“I don’t think so. Both eggs are missing from three nests, all in a tight cluster.”

Nat pondered this as he closed the distance between them, stepping over the fence as he came. It was typical for the penguins to lose eggs to the skuas. There were always a few of the predatory, gull-like birds in attendance. But they tended to get one egg here or there but rarely both, and he had never seen them get eggs from each of three adjacent nests. “Have you found the discarded eggshells?”

“No. And that’s another thing that’s weird.”

He stood beside her, seeing what she had seen. Three disconsolate male penguins stood sentinel over empty nests, waiting for their brides to return from feeding. “It’s going to be a sad homecoming for those guys.”

“Truly. But why the strange pattern of predation?”

“Here comes Nigel. Maybe he saw what happened.” One of the archaeologists was walking quickly toward them from the direction of Shackleton’s hut. “Hey, there, were you here the past few days?”

Nigel said, “Some artifacts have gone missing. Some bottles and a biscuit tin.”

“That’s odd.”

“You didn’t see anyone dodging about from your helo, did you? Somebody took those, we’ll nail their right and left testicles to the hut here, leave them as a warning.”

Nat raised his eyebrows. “No. So you were gone during the storm, too?”

“Right. Saw it coming, so we went out to Scott Base for a little respite rather than riding it out here. We just got back. Didn’t cross paths with anyone coming up the route, so I suppose we’re just getting daft from being out here too long. What’s up with your birds?”

“It’s almost like someone walked in here and helped himself to half a dozen penguin eggs. But who’d do that?”

The archaeologist took off his watch cap and scratched his head. “I don’t know, mate. Maybe the same kind of idiot who’d steal Sir Ernest’s tinned biscuits?”

CUPCAKE ADJUSTED THE BINDINGS OF HER SKATE SKIS with a focused fury. Steve was dead. Eight seasons she had spent on the ice, and risk of injury and death had always ridden beside her like a passenger who never speaks until it is too late, but this death had “wrong” written all over it. She had been in McMurdo during the helicopter crash of 2003, and that was bad enough, even though no one died. And then there was that pestilent journalist a year ago. Hardly anyone knew him, but still his death had cut everyone to the quick. But a coworker? Dying like that? And through malice?

Who in hell’s name killed Steve? The question rattled in her brain, jabbing at her, bashing her, whipping her into a rage.

“Dorothy?”

She turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Sucking herself up into the hardened exterior she preferred to present to the world, she said, “What spider hole did you just crawl in out of, Padre?”

The man slowly closed his eyes and opened them again. “The name is Jim.”

“Whatever. Come on, asshole, give a woman a hug.” She grabbed hold of him and crushed him against her body. “So how’s it hanging?”

Disentangling himself gently but firmly, he said, “A little respect for my vocation if you will, madame.”

“Okay, stick to your vows if you must, but it’s a waste.”

He gave her a tired but patient look. “I want you to tell me about that tractor driver.”

“Steve.”

“You found him. You and a man named Dave.”

“That’s right. Me and Dave Fitzgerald. Why do you need to know?”

“Because I can’t help but wonder if it has some connection with the other death.”

“Last year. The journalist. Why, because of Dave?”

Skehan kept his face impassive, showing little of what he was thinking or feeling.

Cupcake said, “Yeah, it was the same Dave who was at Emmett’s camp last year. And the official story about this year is that Steve slipped on the bottom step of his tractor and hit his head, but that’s bullshit.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“I am entirely sure. Or, like you scientists say, as sure as I can be without having seen it happen myself.”

Skehan curled one side of his mouth in an ironic smile. “You’re a quick student.”

“You’re a good teacher. Of course, I’d prefer a different subject.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Killjoy.”

Skehan shook his head. “I understand that you are grieving, but does nothing slow you down?”

“I even have designs on the Grim Reaper. Imagine what a score that would be.”

Skehan closed his eyes. “Steve,” he said. “A man’s been killed. Two men.”

Cupcake looked away. “All I know is that Steve was out at the ice runway during the worst of the whiteout. The Boss sent him out there with one of the Challengers. He was supposed to be hanging out in the kitchen, but someone counted heads and noticed that he wasn’t there. Next thing we know, he’s out past Hut Point on the Cape Evans route, kissing something hard and on his way down. His tractor was back near the runway. You tell me how he got there.”

“Did you see any tracks when you found him? Anything strange?”

Cupcake shook her head. “It was still blowing, kicking up fresh snow, and all we had in mind was getting him to safety. Fat lot of good that did him.”

“Has anyone been back out there to take a look?”

“I don’t know.”

“I stopped by Science Support Center on the way over here and checked out a snow machine. How about you show me the spot?”

Cupcake thought a moment, then nodded. “Just let me put away these tools. But there’s one thing I’ve got to tell you. Something that’s bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

Cupcake turned and looked at the scientist. “You’re right, it was Dave who was with me when I found him. Aw hell, Dave found him, not me. I was all but along for the ride. He…”

“Spit it out, Dorothy. Time’s wasting, and you would not believe how much is riding on this.”

Cupcake’s usual tough-girl expression twisted with concern, then anger, then fear. Finally, she stared at the floor. “I do not like to rat out my coworkers, but…well, it was spooky. I’m not making any accusations, but Dave just drove right out there—it was miles—and—” She snapped her fingers. “There he was.”

Skehan nodded, encouraging her to say the rest.

Cupcake said, “It was like he knew exactly where to look.”

VALENA FELT THE COLD SLICE THROUGH HER. SHE wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, trying to squeeze away the cold. “The man I’m replacing died?”

“Oh, yes,” Hilario said. “Didn’t even make it to Christchurch. Died on the plane. You’ll excuse us, it’s going to be a while before we’re going to feel like driving anywhere.”

Edith lifted her head and shoved a leather glove across her nose, sniffling. “No, I say we get going. There’s nothing like a job to do to get things off your mind, and we can honor Steve by doing that job well. I’ll take the first shift on his—the Challenger.” She headed for the rig. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder. “We’re falling behind schedule.”

Hilario turned toward Valena and gestured toward the door to the Delta.

Taking hold of the grab handle mounted on the side of the cab between the two doors, Valena climbed back up into the cab and settled herself in the right front seat, which featured torn olive drab plastic upholstery over a brick of foam rubber. She felt oddly shaky. She hadn’t known the man who had died, but she was walking in his shoes.

“Mierde,” Hilario said, rubbing his hands together to warm them as he settled himself into the driver’s seat. “The man had a family, you know? And he had us.”