“How do you feel about the death of that woman . . . Sheryl, was it?”
She stumbled, feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach. “You know about that?”
He smirked. “Mr. Hanratty told me. He figured, rightly, that word would get out sooner or later and that it was better to be transparent about the tragedy now than have it appear later when it would suggest a cover-up. Since Shackleton isn’t under NSF purview anymore, the day-to-day situation isn’t a governmental concern, of course, but there’s still intense public interest in what happens down here.”
“We’ll all miss Sheryl,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But if officials determine her death was an accident, then it’s important to keep the base moving forward.”
“Do you think her death was an accident?” He peered at her as though examining a specimen.
She started. “Of course.”
“Ah. Your answer seemed to suggest . . . well, never mind.”
To forestall another battery of questions, she picked up the pace and within a minute they found themselves at the base of the Beer Can. She would normally point out the cheerful, handwritten message “EARN THAT COOKIE!” some wag had scrawled on the bottom step in permanent marker, but she didn’t spare anyone a break, marching directly up the stairs until Jimmy called for her to stop. Months of high-altitude work at the Pole had paid off; her pulse had barely bumped past normal. Based on the number of aides holding on to railings or bent over, sucking wind, however, they hadn’t enjoyed a similar training. Sikes looked ready to stroke out.
She gave them a minute, then flogged them upstairs to the top level and down the hall to the galley. Most were too tired to take their parkas off before they sank into the plastic chairs in the mess hall. Sikes, ashen-faced, sat at one end of the table, eyes closed and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Cass spoke to the cook to line up coffee and hot chocolate for the group, then stood at the head of their table, her hands folded in front of her, smiling sweetly. “I hope you enjoyed the tour. Do you have any questions for me before I call Deb?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy groaned, rubbing his temples. “What the hell are you people made of?”
“It takes a special breed to want to come here.” And you’re not it. “It’s been a pleasure showing you Shackleton station. Have a safe flight back to McMurdo.”
She turned and left. As she opened the door into the hall, she heard Sikes say, “Gentlemen, there goes the only thing more frigid than the ice this station is built upon.”
The door swung closed on not only the last group of visitors she’d have to guide this season, but maybe her career as a tour guide, as well. After that performance, it seemed doubtful that she’d be asked to reprise the role. In fact, if Sikes had any pull at all, it might be doubtful she’d be allowed to come back to the station. And maybe that was okay.
CHAPTER SIX
The stack of files behind Hanratty’s chair towered like some kind of totem pole, each pale manila folder telling a story, though most were as enigmatic or inscrutable as the carved wooden face of a god or a demon. Each contained enough paper to make the whole stack over a foot and a half high.
He poked his head out of his office door. Deb was at her desk shuffling through activity reports. He cleared his throat. “Would you mind running interference for me if anyone comes in, Deb? If I don’t clear my in-box, my ass is grass.”
She shot him a thumbs-up without raising her head. Hanratty backed into his office and sat down at his desk, spinning in place to address the tower of files. He thumbed the stack, glancing at the names typed in small caps on the tabs at the top. Klimt, Takahashi, Simon, nearly a dozen others. He’d sifted through them so many times that they were no longer in alphabetical order, so he’d fallen into his own classification scheme.
First came the most obvious way to tell them apart: the thickness of the folder. A wad of paper didn’t necessarily mean there was a problem; it just meant a lot had been written on the subject. His next criterion was more illuminating: the swatch of color created by the papers inside. White was innocuous. Splashes of green and pink were concerning. Dark pink bordering on red was what his old buddies at DoD would’ve labeled roundhouse: . Hanratty had managed to visually distinguish the roundhouse folders—four in all—from the others at a glance.