Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

He swept one arm in a small but regal bow to indicate that it was hers for the asking. “But you won’t get through, at least not right away.”

“Why not?”

“Some asshole’s switched the dish off.”

“Someone turned off the dish?”

“Yeah. You know, back in the wiring room, where they’ve got that little laptop that controls our universe. Someone’s decided it’s funny to go in there and play God over all of McMurdo. Punched the two keys. We’re incommunicado with the outside world until our techs wake up.”

“Has it been off all night?”

“I suppose so. I found it the last thing, as I was making my rounds before I went to bed.”

“But who would want to do that?”

“Well, I sure didn’t do it, and Sheila wouldn’t, so it was probably one of you idiots, and as you can see, I’m not yet dressed to greet the world, so unless you’d like to sashay over to the bunkhouse and shake sleeping bags until you find the right guy, then we’ll just have to wait. Meanwhile, you can send your messages, but they just won’t reach their targets until we get the system back up.”

Valena sat down in the task chair in front of the computer desk and turned on the machine. It was old and booted slowly. While she waited, she looked again at Cal’s note, and then more closely at the paper on which it had been printed. Some of the holes through which the staples had been punched had been punched twice, slightly widening the holes.

Somebody had read her message and had tried to reclose it without being caught.

Sheila emerged from her room, scowling like she had a headache as she approached the task of making breakfast, but as Valena opened her mouth to speak to her, one of the men who was working with the satellite dish came in from the bunkhouse and spoke first, wishing Sheila a good morning.

“Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” Sheila snarled in return. “All your fault with that cheap New Zealand pinot.”

The man laughed. “No one told you to mix it with whiskey.”

“And now ye’re my father. Ye want breakfast, or are ye thinking maybe ye’d rather a day without food?”

“Eggs over easy,” he said.

“We have no fresh eggs and ye know it. Ye’ll have mummified bacon and waffles like the rest of us mortals.”

The station manager wandered back into the room and addressed the tech. “Oh, so you decided to get up, did you? Well, some bozo turned your system off during the night. Would you mind turning it back on? The lady here is trying to e-mail her pen pals, and I’m sure that little research station down there on Ross Island would like to get back in touch with the real world, too.”

The tech was busy sucking up coffee. He stared at the manager over the mug. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m Mary Poppins. And Sheila, you’ve got to quit showing people how to switch the damned thing off. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to muck with it.”

The tech wandered back toward the wiring room, grumbling.

Valena watched the station manager’s progress toward the coffeepot, hoping that he would leave the room for a while. She wanted desperately to speak to Sheila again, to ask her when she had left the note and who might possibly have opened it. To ask a thousand questions. But she needed privacy, too and that was a scarce quantity here in Antarctica.

She turned and looked at the cook, who was now opening a rasher of precooked bacon that she had left thawing on the kitchen counter the evening before. Feeling Valena’s eyes on her, she looked up. She was not smiling. She lifted a long, sharp knife, the type used to chop large amounts of vegetables, and brought it down with authority.

Valena returned her gaze to the computer, which was finally ready. Hoping that no one would look over her shoulder at what was on the screen, she opened her e-mail to write to Cal but found other messages waiting for her that interested her much more. The first was from Em Hansen:

Valena, I thought I told you to quit. Oh well, if you insist on being as stupid as I am, here’s my next best recommendation: stick with evidence that only you can understand, and gather it in a way that looks like you’re only doing the job you were actually sent there to do. You have your undergraduate degree in geology, right? Well, think Sherlock Holmes. Was there any dirt in the dead man’s shoes? Where did it come from? Where else did he get to? But watch your back. It’s so easy to get all het up with crime being wrong that one forgets that, while the tragedy has already occurred, it’s a gift that can keep on giving. Stay safe (hah), Em

Valena tucked that bit of wisdom into her brain and opened the next message. It was from James Skehan, dated Wednesday evening:

Valena

Thought you might like an update regarding Emmett. He has been formally charged with murdering Sweeny which we both know is a crock. I need to talk with you as soon as you get back here Thursday. I’m going to check out a beeper, so call me on it the moment you get in. I’ll leave the number on your desk in Crary. Meanwhile, watch your back and don’t ask questions while on the trail. You are traveling with two possible suspects.

Valena closed this message immediately. She sat back and tried to think. Should she reply? In her haze of fatigue, she could not sort out what to think about any of the messages or what to write in a return. As she sat still, listening to her heartbeat pounding in her ears, all possibilities jammed on one logistical particular: she did not know when she would be arriving back in McMurdo. She was not in charge of that schedule. No one is in charge of anything in Antarctica. The continent itself is in charge!

“How’d you sleep?” Edith asked as she sat down at the table. She looked fresh as the proverbial daisy.

Valena squeezed her eyes shut. “Fine.”

“Nothing like a day of good physical work to tucker you out.”

“Right.”

“Go get your gear together out of the bunkhouse and then come and have breakfast. We’ll be loading up the empties to take back to Mac Town and be getting on the road ASAP. There’s another storm coming, and I want to be in Gallagher’s with a pool cue in my hands when it hits.”

“Check.” Valena logged off the computer and headed for the bunkhouse. Outside, she could see what Edith was talking about. The southern horizon was studded with clouds, and the wind was again rising.

The other two satellite technicians strode toward her across the yard from the bunkhouse, heads lowered against the blow. She hurried past them to the bunkhouse and pushed open the door, nearly colliding with Wee Willy, who was on his way out, duffel over his shoulder and fake-fur hand warmer dangling in front of the expansive front of his Carhartts. For the briefest of moments, he made eye contact with her. “Thanks again for picking this up,” he said, patting the wad of fuzz.

Valena blinked in surprise. His eyes and voice had been filled with surprise, confusion, shy affection, and… she struggled to evaluate the last ingredient… longing.

Inside the bunkhouse, Hilario and Dave were just stuffing the last bits of personal gear into their duffels. “ Hola, chica!” said Hilario. “Ready for another day of stoop labor?”

“Uh, sure.”

“See you at breakfast, then. Last one gets no bacon.” He brushed by her and left the building.

Suddenly she was alone with Dave. He looked up at her, smiling a sleepy good-morning smile. The low light in the room made his features softer, more intimate, and the fact that he was rolling up a sleeping bag with his large, thick-fingered hands added an entirely tactile aspect to their meeting.

She moved to her bunk and began doing the same. Turned her back to him. Pushed the silky fabric of the sleeping bag into the big duffel in which it had come.