Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

“Interesting.”

“I was reading a book called Mapping Human History while I was flying down here from the States. Then when I was waiting to change planes in Sydney, I looked around at all the faces of the people who were waiting with me. They were from every part of the globe—Asian, European, African, Polynesian, you name it—and we were all standing in line, all facing into the light, and suddenly I saw what was similar about every face, instead of first seeing the differences.”

Valena could think of nothing to say, except, “I’d like to see that, too.”

AT NOON, VALENA PICKED FROM HER BOOTS THE GRIT and other material she had accumulated during her time on Cape Royds. After splitting the sample into two, she put each half into a separate plastic bag, labeled them, signed them with the date, and passed them to Nat and Jeannie to do the same. She then taped the ziplock edges shut and ran staples all along through the tape so that no bag could be opened and reclosed without leaving an obvious path of disruption. She repeated this process with grit from Nat’s boots, and then Jeannie’s, and added to the pile the tiny collection of glass shards lent by the archaeologist.

“Take care of those glass shards,” said Nat. “Conserving all the artifacts in those huts is a mammoth undertaking, being done with private contributions. The Kiwis take the job very seriously, as well they should.”

“I hear you.” Her data-collecting chores done, Valena turned to Jeannie’s laptop, clicked onto the Internet, and brought up Emmett Vanderzee’s Web site. She turned to the pages that would already have been in place the year before, trying to figure out what had caught Morris Sweeny’s interest.

Dan Lindemann had posted a blog of preparations for that year’s deployment to Antarctica. There were two photographs on the page: one of Emmett, Bob Schwartz, and Dan Lindemann giving thumbs-ups in front of a map of Antarctica; and another of Emmett and Cal Hart packing crates to be shipped south from Reno. The picture with Cal in it interested her. Dan had caught him in profile, but he had noticed the camera out of the corner of his eye and was not smiling. In fact, he appeared to be lifting his hand to ward off having his image caught for the Web site.

Valena typed out an e-mail:

Em

Am at Cape Royds penguin colony. Have photographed boot prints of uninvited visitor presumably responsible for illegal removal of six penguin eggs and two artifacts. Suspect seen scramming to McMurdo at edge of storm. Possible—or probable—connection between this suspect and contemporaneous bludgeoning death of tractor driver whom I’ll guess was unlucky enough to witness arrival.

Also have samples of grit that collects in boots here. Visual observation indicates phenocrysts (feldspars?) and lithic fragments of decayed lava from Mount Erebus and penguin guano; also have samples of bottle glass fragments from Sir Ernest Shackleton’s 1907 Nimrod expedition as microscopic fragments might be present in boot samples. Glass was manufactured in England and possibly France (ship’s manifest indicates several cases of champagne).

Emmett Vanderzee still in custody, though evidence builds that others had opportunity to spoil efforts to retrieve key airdrop of medical supplies to his camp last year. Person seen driving snow machine through heavy storm raises question was same person in Emmett’s camp and did he get to airdrop before Emmett could find it?

Come on Em, admit it, you are fascinated by this. Kindly write back with advice on analyses and who to contact with results.

P.S. Don’t worry, I’m out of harm’s way, or just about.

“There,” she said. “We now have a representative sampling of what we might find in the boots of our mystery guest, and samples from which to ID the missing bottles. My colleague back in the States will hopefully tell me how to proceed with the analyses.”

“Who’s your colleague?” asked Jeannie.

“Emily Hansen. She’s cracked a bunch of murder cases using geologic evidence. Technically speaking, the glass here is man-made geology. Em knows people in the FBI lab. The FBI would call this trace evidence.”

“Nicely done,” said Nat. “But I shall admit to having a heavy conscience about asking you to help with this. If you’re right that there’s a connection between the eggs and bottles and the dead Cat driver, then please leave it to the professionals.”

Valena said, “I’m on my way to the Dry Valleys, and I think I’ll be safe there. As soon as I get back to McMurdo, I’ll turn in my evidence, and then everyone will know what I know, and I’ll no longer be a target.”

Jeannie said, “I think I hear your helo.”

Valena cocked an ear. The distant throbbing of helicopter blades had invaded the wilderness of Cape Royds.

They walked outside Nat’s tent to watch the helo approach around the shoulder of Mount Erebus, a tiny dot of machinery suspended in a frozen sky. Its far thudding grew louder as it increased in size, blades a blur of movement, its skids now swinging overhead, the sound concussive and deafening, snow and grit pounding into a wild dance. The machine hovered, slid sideways, chose a landing site, and settled, the blades still spinning.

“Lucky you,” Jeannie said, shouting to be heard over the engine and rotors. “You got the AStar. The sports car of all Antarctic helos.”

The blades continued to whirl. “Looks like he wants to load you hot,” Nat hollered. “You ever done this before?”

“No!” Valena’s heart was hammering in her chest. In survival training, Manuel had told them that although the roar of the helicopter would urge them to hurry, they must keep their heads and not approach the craft unless beckoned by the pilot.

Nat walked a wide arc around the field until he stood fifty feet in front of the helicopter, making eye contact with the pilot. He grabbed the front of his pants with one hand and put the other across his chest, then pointed at Valena.

The blades crooned to a stop.

Valena hefted her duffels and walked over next to Nat. “What did you say to him? Your semaphores, I mean.”

“I told him you’re a virgin.”

Valena started to laugh. Impulsively, she gave Nat a hug, and then she shared a longer, womanly squeeze with Jeannie.

The pilot popped his door open and stepped out. “Where’s mine?” he called, in a crisp British accent.

Jeannie wiggled her eyebrows. “You got Paul. Stand by for major flirtation,” she said. “Underneath that helmet he’s a looker.”

“We’ll put your gear in this external basket with your skis,” said Paul, indicating a pod on the side of the aircraft. He hefted each duffel and checked them for weight tags. “And you, my dear, shall ride up front with me. Discussion of your charms around Mac Town had prepared me for a happy flight, but you far outreach their capacity for description.”

Valena averted her eyes in embarrassment.

“Helmets, your choice of sizes.” He produced two helmets and helped Valena find the one that fit best. Then he showed her how to climb up into her seat, buckle the restraints, and latch the door.

Valena smiled and waved at Nat and Jeannie. I’m in a helicopter! she told herself. I am in Antarctica in a helicopter, and I’m about to fly to the continent!

The helicopter was no larger than a passenger car inside, and the whole front seemed to be made of Plexiglas, even down to a panel of it beneath her feet. Paul restarted the engine, soon bringing its squeal to a screaming pitch. The blade in front of them began to swing, disappearing around behind them to be replaced by its opposite, and again, and faster, and faster, until they formed nothing but a blur. Paul gripped the stick and the collective, twitched them this way and that, and up they went.