Lincoln Child - Terminal Freeze

“I’m not telling. I appreciate your speaking from the heart.”

He shrugged. “Actually, it’s pretty ironic. In the short term I benefit from the glacial melt. But once the glacier is gone, all the evidence I need for my research will be gone with it. Everything will be washed into the ocean. This is my one best chance to study the glacier, collect specimens.”

“Hence your burning the midnight oil. Sorry to barge in.”

“You kidding? I appreciate the visit. Anyway, I’m not the only one who’s busy. Look at you: asking questions, doing the legwork, making the star look good. A star who, by the way, doesn’t seem particularly grateful for all your hard work.”

She made a face but refused to be drawn into the line of chat. “We field producers have our crosses to bear, just like you do.” She glanced over. “You play?” And she pointed at a MIDI keyboard that was leaning against the far wall.

Marshall nodded. “Blues and jazz, mostly.”

“Are you any good?”

He laughed. “Good enough, I guess. Couldn’t make a living at it, but I play in the house band for a club back in Woburn. Mostly I love tweaking synthesizers. These days, of course, you don’t have to anymore-the sounds are all pre-rolled, you just select the waveform you want from a computer menu-but growing up I loved manipulating oscillators and filters. Built my own from scratch.”

“You’ll have to play for us sometime.” She motioned to the door. “Guess I’d better get back outside. I set up a segment about the northern lights a little while ago, and Emilio’s probably filming it by now.”

Marshall rose. “I’ll come along, if that’s all right.”

Up in the weather chamber, Marshall noticed the thermometer read twenty-eight degrees. He shrugged into his lightweight parka, then followed Ekberg through the staging area, out of the base, and into a scene of controlled pandemonium. Despite the late hour, the apron was alive with sound and light. Grips were arranging camera stands and moving large trusses into position around the vault, preparing for the next day’s shooting. Not far from Davis ’s trailer, a gaffer was setting up a sun gun to add light to the impending segment. The soundman was in animated conference with Fortnum. Wolff, the network liaison, stood motionless in the shadow of the Sno-Cat, hands in pockets, observing the scene silently. And a dozen others were just hanging around in small groups, staring up at the night sky.

Marshall looked upward, following their gaze. What he saw took his breath away. He’d assumed that the bright illumination around him was all artificial: instead, he saw it came from the most bizarre and spectacular display of aurora borealis he’d ever witnessed. The entire sky was ablaze with layers of undulating light. It seemed to have corporeal form, a viscous, mercurylike glow that crawled slowly across the heavens. It hung so low over his head that Marshall felt a crazy urge to duck. It was a color that he found hard to describe: an incredibly rich, dark crimson with a haunting, faintly radioactive glow.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

Ekberg looked at him. “I’d have thought you’d be jaded by now.”

“These are no ordinary northern lights. Usually you see shifting bands of color. But tonight, there’s only one. Look how intense it is.”

“Yes. Like wine, maybe. Or perhaps blood. It’s creepy.” She glanced at him, her face spectral in the reflected glow. “You’ve never seen these kind of northern lights before?”

“Only once: the night before we discovered the tiger.” He paused. “But tonight the effect must be twice as strong. And it’s so low in the sky you can almost touch it.”

“Is it my imagination, or is it making sounds?” Ekberg had cocked her head to one side, as if listening. Marshall found himself doing the same. It was impossible, he knew. And yet, over the clank of equipment and the drone of generators, he could hear something. One minute it crackled like distant thunder; the next it was moaning, like a woman in pain-and always in time to the ebb and flow of the lights. He remembered the old shaman’s words: The ancient ones are angry…Their wrath paints the sky with blood. The heavens cry out with the pain, like a woman in labor…

Marshall shook his head. He’d heard stories of the northern lights groaning and crying, but he’d always ascribed them to legend. Perhaps, because the lights were much closer to the ground tonight than normal, there was some kind of associated auditory phenomenon. He was about to step back inside to alert his colleagues when he caught sight of Faraday. The biologist was standing between two temporary sheds, magnetometer in one hand and digital camera in the other, both pointed heavenward. He’d obviously noticed it, as well.

There was movement to one side and Marshall turned to see the ice-road trucker and his passenger approaching. Despite the chill, the trucker was still dressed in a gaudy floral shirt. “Hell of a sight, isn’t it?” he said.

Marshall simply shook his head.

“I’ve seen my share of northern lights,” the man went on, “but this beats all.”

“The Inuit believe they’re the spirits of the dead,” Marshall replied.

“That’s true,” said the passenger with the trim beard. “And not particularly friendly spirits, either: they use the sky to play football with human skulls. Legend has it that if you whistle when the northern lights are out, those spirits might come down and retrieve your head, too.”

Ekberg shuddered. “Then please-nobody whistle.”

Marshall looked curiously at the new arrival. “I never knew that.”

“I didn’t either, until my layover in Yellowknife.” The man nodded at the trucker. “That’s when this fellow kindly offered me a lift.”

Marshall laughed. “You didn’t look too happy about it getting out of the truck.”

The bearded man smiled thinly. He’d recovered his composure after what had clearly been a harrowing trip. “It seemed a good idea at the time.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Logan.”

The trucker did the same. “And I’m Carradine.”

Marshall introduced himself and Ekberg. “Something tells me you’re not from around here,” he told the trucker.

“Something tells you right. Cape Coral, Florida. The pay up here’s great, but otherwise Alaska ’s got plenty of nothing I need.”

“And is what you don’t need anything you can talk about?” Ekberg asked.

“Snow. Ice. And men. Especially men in red flannel shirts.”

“Men,” Ekberg repeated.

“Yep. Far too many of them. Up here, the ratio of men to women is ten to one. They say that if a woman’s interested, the odds are good but the goods are odd.”

They laughed.

“I’ve got to return to the base,” Logan said. “Seems my letters of introduction didn’t get here in time, and the good Sergeant Gonzalez needs an explanation for my presence. A pleasure to meet you two.” He nodded at them in turn, then headed for the main entrance.

They watched him leave. “I don’t recognize him,” Ekberg said to the trucker. “Is he part of Ashleigh’s retinue?”

“He’s on his own,” Carradine replied.

“What’s he doing here, then?”

Carradine shrugged. “He told me he’s a professor-called himself an enigmalogist.”

“A what?” Marshall asked.

“An enigmalogist.”

“So he’s with you?” Ekberg asked, turning to Marshall.

“Nope,” Marshall replied. “He’s a mystery to me.”

He glanced around again. There was a palpable excitement in the air that even the bizarre display of light couldn’t fully explain. Despite the anthill-like frenzy, everything appeared to be running on schedule. Already, the carefully calculated thawing of the ice block had begun: he could see the occasional bead of meltwater dropping from the vault floor. Tomorrow at 4:00 PM-coinciding with prime time on the East Coast-the cameras would roll and the live documentary would begin. Ultimately, the vault would be opened. And then- Marshall realized quite abruptly-the crew would pack up, calm would descend once more over Mount Fear, and it would be business as usual for the remaining two weeks of their stay.