Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

Pondering these questions, Valena turned on the word-processing program, opened a blank document, and began to write, making notes of the conversations she had had with the people who had been in Emmett’s camp:

Emmett Vanderzee—arrested

Bob Schwartz—stayed in tent, doesn’t want to talk about it, argued with deceased?

Manuel Roig—saddened by events, was in cook tent, cook is alibi

Sheila Tuttle—Roig her alibi

Willy?—seems unmotivated and slow-witted, but crafty?

Mischievous? Could he be stupid enough to get into trouble?

Calvin Hart—says he helped EV, but did he? Where was he?

Dave Fitzgerald—

She could not bring herself to make an entry next to the last name, so instead she added Ted’s, just in case he had some previously undisclosed connection to the deceased.

It was getting late. Valena turned off the computer and once again hid it inside her closet. She rolled her bath kit and pajamas into her towel, stuffed them under her arm, and headed down the hallway toward the showers, where she crammed herself into one of the tight, worn-out shower stalls with the plastic curtains too narrow to fill the gaps they were meant to cover.

The water became hot very quickly. Abstractedly, she thought of Peter the energy efficiency engineer. Had he fitted the system with a recirculating hot water system so that people wouldn’t have to run the water long to get it hot? It’s all resources , she thought. Antarctica is all about the resources. So if that’s so, what resource came into play at Emmett’s high camp?

She was at last beginning to relax a little, enjoying the sensation of hot water coursing over her body, when she heard a familiar voice call her name. It was Cupcake. Oh, good, I can ask her Ted’s full name , she thought, as she turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain across her body. “Hey, what’s—”

“Just looking for you, darling.” Cupcake wobbled a little, the effect of several stiff drinks. “You know, I’m good. Real good.”

“Aw, come on, Dorothy! I’m in the shower!” Valena pulled the scanty curtain closed as far as it would go and turned the water back on.

“I can see that, not that you’re showing me much.”

Valena’s blood began to boil, an old habit of getting mad so she wouldn’t have to know that she was scared. “Get out of here! I mean now !”

Cupcake began to back away. “Don’t get so touchy. Wha’ happened at the rest of that meeting? ‘At’s why I’m here. I jus’ wanna know what’s up…”

“I said go away!”

Another woman came into the bathroom. “Hey there, Cakes, wassup?”

“Oh, I’m just having a little chat with my friend here, tryin’ ta calm her down. She’s sort of upset.”

Valena stuck her head out again. “Upset? You want to see upset? Just push it an inch farther!”

The third woman grabbed Cupcake by the arm. “Come on, Dorothy, you know better than to screw with a grantee.”

Cupcake yanked her arm loose. “Screw with her? Hell, I came in here to warn her about her new boyfriend!”

The woman grabbed Cupcake by both arms now and hauled her out the door. “You’re drunk! Come on , Dorothy!”

As the door swung shut, Valena heard Cupcake yell, “He looks real sweet, but it’s just a candy coating! You don’t want to know what’s hiding inside!”

Valena huddled against the back wall of the shower. Adrenaline coursed through her naked body. She began to tremble, shivering with cold even under the hot water, and she wondered if she was going to throw up. She tried to think, to get herself under control. It’s just been a hard few days , she told herself firmly. Get a grip. Yeah, there’s bad shit happening around here, people getting killed, but I’ve got that under control now. I’m leaving for Cape Royds in the morning, and I’ll be safe where I’m going. Okay, maybe it’s not smart to go to that field camp where Lindemann is, but what’s he going to do to me? Screw up his doctoral position? Not hardly.

The water began to warm her skin, but deep inside she still felt cold. She turned off the water and pulled her towel inside. Tried to rub herself dry. Her skin felt like it was crawling around on her body.

Cautiously, she stepped out of the shower, dressed, and headed down the hallway, glancing both ways to make sure Cupcake wasn’t waiting for her there.

Back in her room, she climbed into her bunk, pulled the blankets and comforter up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Slowly, by inches, she admitted to herself that she was scared, not angry, and that what had scared her most was the chance that Cupcake might be right about Dave Fitzgerald.

VALENA ONCE AGAIN AWOKE EARLY. SHE DRESSED quickly and, leaving her gear in the room, slipped out the door and across the way toward the building where the Airlift Wing had its offices. There she left a note with Master Sergeant John Lansing, with instructions to give it to Larry. It read:

One of the men at Emmett’s camp may have been using an alias. Sweeny may have been looking for someone named Edgar Hallowell.

She wrote her e-mail address across the bottom of the page.

This task dispatched, she jogged back across to Building 155 and headed down the hallway in search of a hearty breakfast. Glancing neither left at the flight manifests, nor right at the monitors mounted near the galley door, she grabbed a tray and headed into the food lines, steering a course directly toward the omelet man. “Good morning,” she said, awarding him her best smile.

“Good morning to you,” he said. “What can I get for you today?”

“I want three fresh eggs with tomatoes, black olives, mushrooms, green peppers, and jack cheese,” she said.

“It’s yours,” he said, cracking the eggs onto the griddle. He chopped the yolks expertly with the edge of his spatula and started adding the toppings.

“I wonder if I could ask you kind of a personal question,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“The other day, how did you know I needed privacy?”

The omelet man continued to stir and fold the eggs, indicating not a flicker of change in the tenor of the conversation. “I’m in the room next to your friend Matt in the dorms,” he replied. “There was a discussion out in the TV lounge.” He turned the eggs, flicking a runaway bit of cheese onto the heap. “It had been quite a day for news, as you’ll recall.”

“I’m not used to this place yet. I don’t know how people do business.”

He scooped the eggs onto his spatula and slid them onto the plate. “There’s good folks down here, by and large,” he commented. “Everybody’s got their reason for being here and not somewhere else, but once they get here, they usually find a place here. Those that don’t, you seldom see. They hide.”

They hide , thought Valena. “Thanks for the omelet,” she said. Completing the circuit of the service area, she poured two glasses of water and one of orange juice, grabbed a muffin, and headed toward a table under the windows.

She was four forkfuls of egg into her meal when a woman with gray hair and gentle blue eyes appeared with a tray at the opposite side of the table. “May I join you?” she inquired.

“Certainly.”

“You’re Valena Walker, am I right?” She settled into a chair and arranged her breakfast in front of her. She moved methodically, removing each item from the tray and laying it out as Emily Post might have done.

“Yes,” she said, “Emmett Vanderzee’s student.” She tried to sound cheery as she added, “Why, am I wearing a sign on my back?”

“No, it’s on your big red parka,” said the woman. “It’s my job to know who all the grantees are.” She extended a hand. “And how rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Nancy Saylor. I’m in charge of Berg Field Center.”