She sat at the table with Marc Kimball and Emmy, who ate her food without looking up.
Marc kept talking. He would say something about himself, and then ask about her. It seemed that he had taken Dating 101 or some such class because he didn’t monopolize the conversation, he was polite, he tried to be funny and was now and then, and seemed to be the perfect gentleman.
She just didn’t like him. She felt that even his easy table conversation had been plotted out the same way he would attack a business proposition.
After a while, she begged to be excused to take a nap, yawning and apologizing.
“Of course, of course!” Marc said. “You had such a trying day yesterday, and you were off with those FBI men this morning...”
If he wanted her to explain why she had gone with them, he was doomed to disappointment.
“Yes, I’ll probably just lie down for a bit, but I do need to close my eyes. Thank you again for your incredible hospitality, and forgive me,” she said. “Emmy, nice to spend time with you.”
“What? Sorry?” Emmy said, looking up from her bowl at last.
“It was nice to spend some time with you,” Clara repeated.
“Oh, yes, lovely, of course!” Emmy said.
Clara smiled—and escaped as quickly as she could, hurrying down the hall.
That day, there was only one man from the state police in the hut. He was more relaxed; seated on a chair in the living room, he had a newspaper in his hands. It was a national paper. The headline screamed Murder in the Arctic; Horror Show in Alaska.
The officer stood as she walked by, quickly hiding the paper and assuring her he was on duty.
She thanked him and went on to her room.
She didn’t want to close the door; if she did so, the officer wouldn’t seem to be in easy reach.
But if she didn’t, Marc Kimball might come by and feel that he should reassure her.
She wondered for a moment if she was more afraid of the living—or the dead.
She stood there debating for a while and then heard Kimball’s voice.
She closed the door. Walking to the window, she threw open the drapes. The sun was pounding down hard. The windows filled the room with light.
The sunlight seemed to beat off the snow and create a dazzling display of brilliance. Glad of it, Clara lay down. Before she knew it, she was asleep.
She woke to the soft sound of tapping at her door. For a moment, she was afraid to open her eyes.
Then she did. The light was streaming in. No ghosts stood at the foot of her bed.
With a soft sigh of relief, she stood and hurried to the door, throwing it open.
An arctic freeze seemed to settle over her. She could see—with peripheral vision—that the cop was still sitting on the sofa. He was idly drumming his fingers on the occasional table at his side, and gazing at the television.
He hadn’t noted that she’d opened her door.
Or that a scream was caught in her throat.
Amelia Carson stood at her door, her expression anguished.
“Please!”
For a moment, Clara couldn’t snap out of it. Then she heard Kimball’s voice from somewhere and reached out to draw Amelia into the room. Of course, her fingers went through air. But Amelia came on in; to her own amazement, Clara shut the door.
“I didn’t want to be rude,” Amelia said. “Or startle or scare you and start you screaming...”
If what Clara had heard was true, Amelia didn’t mind so much being rude. The woman had been very pleasant when they’d met, but Clara had heard that she could be something of a diva.
The past didn’t matter much; Clara realized that she had drawn a ghost into her room and closed the door.
She stared at Amelia. “Why? Why are you coming to me?” she whispered, her voice sounding desperate. “Two FBI agents here will be able to see you—if you go to them, you’ll be all right.”
Amelia walked into the room, heading to look through the windows out to the bright afternoon beyond. “Yes, the tall Nordic-looking guy. I figured he could see me. I get the feeling that his one friend could, too. I was afraid. Am afraid,” Amelia said. She turned and looked at Clara. “Dead, I am dead, and I know I am dead, and I am still so afraid. I don’t know—can they still hurt you after you’re dead?”
Clara stared back at her. She knew that if she were to describe this encounter to most people, they would assume the events on the Destiny had been too much for her and that she needed some serious rehab.
She shook her head. “Amelia, I don’t know,” she said. “But, if you know anything...”
“I know I’m dead,” Amelia said bitterly. “And I never thought...oh!” she cried, sinking to the foot of the bed. “And I saw myself! He cut me in half! Right in half. How horrible, he couldn’t even let me be as I was...” She paused and looked at Clara again. “And I heard... I’ve heard the talk. He cut off Natalie’s head!”
Clara sat in the center of the bed, looking at Amelia. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. But, Amelia, do you know who did this to you? They can be arrested. They can pay.”