James Cobb - The Arctic Event

The graduate student half rose from the bunk, straining at the nylon bands around his wrists. “I tell you, I have killed no one!”

Randi’s hand covered the grip of the MP-5. The muzzle traversed half an inch, indexing in line with Kropodkin’s chest. “Sit down.”

He stiffened and subsided into the bunk.

Trowbridge stood watching the developing tableau, a totally blasted expression on his face. The revelation about Kayla Brown’s corpse had been another of those things that shouldn’t happen in his existence, another boulder in the accelerating avalanche that was sweeping his life and carefully ordered career into scandal and chaos. His only escape lay in denial. “You have no proof that any of the expedition members are responsible for any of this,” he protested hoarsely.

“I’m afraid I do.” Leaning back in her chair, Randi caught up the model 12 Winchester Kropodkin had been carrying, the camp’s polar bear deterrent. “This shotgun has a three-round magazine capacity. It’s a safe assumption that there were three shells in it when it left this camp.”

She jacked the model 12’s pump action repeatedly, but only a single round of magnum-load buckshot ejected to clatter on the tabletop. “Three shells in the gun when it left the camp, three men with this gun when it left the camp. One of each came back. Do the math.”

“I fired those shells as a signal, Doctor, out on the ice pack! Will you make this woman listen?”

“The boy is right,” Trowbridge protested with growing vehemence. “At least he has the right to be heard.”

Randi’s cold stare never left Kropodkin’s face. “All right. That’s fine with me. Let’s hear him. Where’s he been? What happened to the others?”

“Yes, Stefan,” Trowbridge interjected almost eagerly. “Tell us what happened.”

“I have been trapped out on the damned pack ice for two nights, and I have been wondering what happened to the others!” He took a deep, shuddering breath, bringing himself under control. “Dr. Creston, Ian, and I were looking for Dr. Gupta and Dr. Hasegawa. We thought maybe they had gone out onto the pack after a specimen or to get around the ice jam along the shore. Somehow, when we went out onto the pack, I became separated from the others. The ice near the island is very broken, with many hummocks and pressure ridges.

“Then the wind shifted and a lead opened in the ice. I was cut off from the island! I couldn’t get back to shore. I called for help! I fired shots. Nobody came!” Kropodkin’s eyes closed, and his head sank onto his chest. “I had no food. I have not eaten for two days. No heat. No shelter but the ice. I thought I was going to die out there.”

Randi was unimpressed. She picked the single shotgun shell up from the table. “The standard firearm distress signal is three shots fired into the air.”

Kropodkin’s head snapped up. “We found signs of a polar bear out there! I kept the one shell for him! I didn’t want to be devoured on top of dead!”

“And how did you get back?” Randi kept her words emotionless.

“Tonight the lead in the ice closed. The wind must have changed, and I managed to get back to the shore. Then I came straight back to the camp. All I wanted was to get warm again!”

“That’s odd,” Randi said. “I was out there tonight, too, and the wind seemed to be holding steady from the north, just as it’s been all along.”

“Then it must have been the tide, the current, the Holy Virgin-God knows I prayed enough! I don’t know! All I know is that when I finally get back to camp, someone pushes a machine gun in my face and accuses me of murdering my friends.” Awkwardly Kropodkin twisted in the bunk, looking to Trowbridge once again. “Damn it to hell, Professor! You know me! I have taken classes with you. You were on my selection committee. Are you a party to this insanity as well?”

“I…” Trowbridge stammered for an instant; then his sleep-puffy features tightened in resolve. He could not have been so totally wrong. “No, I am not! Ms. Russell! I must protest. This man has obviously undergone a serious ordeal! Could you at least put off this inquisition until after he’s had a chance to rest and have a hot meal?”

Randi’s eyes still didn’t shift from Kropodkin, and her slight smile held the chill of the polar katabatics. “That’s an excellent idea, Doctor. He should have something to eat.”

Standing, she removed a paratrooper’s knife from the slit pocket of her ski pants and thumbed the button that snapped out the hook-shaped shroud cutter. “Turn him loose, Doctor.” She set the open knife in the center of the table. “He can fix himself a meal.”

Trowbridge picked up the knife. “I’ll do it for him,” he said, self-righteousness trembling in his voice.

“I said he fixes his own meal, Doctor!” Randi snapped, catching up the MP-5. “Just cut off the cuffs and don’t block my line of fire. Then go to your bunk, put on your pants, and stay out of the way.”

Wordlessly, but red-faced with anger, Trowbridge cut the disposacuffs from Kropodkin’s wrists. Keeping the student covered, Randi reclaimed her knife and pulled her chair to the farthest corner of the bunk room. With her back to the wall, she settled down once more, the stock of the MP-5 tucked under her arm, and the barrel leveled.

“Okay, Mr. Kropodkin, you can stand up and fix yourself something to eat now. But don’t get funny. It would be a very bad idea.”

The room went quiet beyond the wind moan and the clatter of pans and cutlery. Kropodkin heated a can of stew and a kettle of water on the bunkhouse’s primus cooker. Occasionally he cast his eyes in Randi’s direction, but every time he found the barrel of the submachine gun tracking him as if guided by radar fire control. Something hovered in the air of the room…expectancy, but her glittering jet eyes were totally unreadable and unrevealing.

“May I pick up a knife to cut myself a slice of bread?” he asked with biting politeness.

“If you make a move I don’t like, you’ll find out about it.”

In the far corner of the bunkroom Trowbridge finished dressing, regaining his pomposity along with his trousers. “I think, Ms. Russell, that it is time for us to clarify a few things…”

“And I think, Doctor, that you had better shut up.”

The academic’s voice started to lift. “I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Trowbridge had no choice but to subside.

Kropodkin set his dishes on the mess table and wolfed into his tea, stew, and bread, eating rapidly and glancing between Trowbridge and the woman silently covering him.

Randi let him get half the meal down before she spoke. “Okay, let’s get this finished. Your name is Stefan Kropodkin, you are a Slovakian citizen of Yugoslav descent, and you’re attending McGill University on a scholarship and student visa.”

“The doctor must have told you that,” Kropodkin said around a mouthful of bread and margarine.

“He did. He also said you were a top-flight student and a very capable individual. That’s how you got the posting to this expedition.” Randi leaned forward in her chair. “Now, let’s get on to what you say. You say you were on a science party with two other members of your expedition, the doctors Gupta and Hasegawa, when suddenly the two of them disappeared. You came back here and reported their disappearance. Then you went out on the search party with Dr. Creston and Ian Rutherford. You went out onto the pack ice while searching; then Creston and Rutherford vanished as well. You were trapped on the ice by an opening water lead. You just happened to be the man with the shotgun, and you just happened to fire two shots from it.