Darryl picked up a pair of tongs, lifted the icefish out by its tail, and laid it on the counter. It was so hard it actually wobbled in place.
“Now I can see why you don’t exactly put out the welcome mat to the lab,” Michael said.
“And why I wanted that lock,” Darryl replied. But then, picking up a scalpel, he plunged right back into his work as if Michael wasn’t even there. A minute or two later, Michael pulled on all his gear and went out into the teeth of the gathering storm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
December 15
THE GALE, rather than passing through, seemed to have settled down over the base, and Murphy’s lockdown order, to Michael’s frustration, was still in effect. No one was leaving the compound for any reason. “Wherever those bodies are, they’re frozen stiff,” Murphy told him, “and the dogs, well, they know how to survive.”
Michael had to take his word on that.
Word of Danzig’s death had of course cast a dismal pall over the base, and the memorial service, held in the rec hall, was crowded. The Ping-Pong table was folded up and pushed out into the corridor, and an assortment of desk chairs was wheeled in to join the sofas, but there still weren’t enough for everyone to sit on. The rest of the grunts and beakers simply sat around on the threadbare wall-to-wall carpeting, their arms wrapped around their knees, as Murphy stood up in front of the blank plasma-screen TV. He was wearing, in acknowledgment of the occasion, a dark necktie over his denim shirt.
“I know a lot of you knew Erik a lot better than I did, so I want to leave time for all of you to say something.”
Michael had almost forgotten that Danzig had a first name; in the fratlike atmosphere of the base, most everyone went by a last name, or a nickname.
“But personally, I never knew a guy who was more up for anything, anytime—except for maybe Lawson.”
There was some low laughter, and Lawson, who was sitting against the wall with Michael and Charlotte and Darryl, smiled shyly.
“And those dogs—man, did he love those dogs.” He lowered his head and shook it sadly. “Whatever went wrong there, whatever happened to make Kodiak go off like that—a brain tumor, a fever—the weird thing is, I know that, even now, Danzig—Erik—would have understood it. Those dogs loved him as much as he loved them.” He ran a hand over his own head. “And that’s why we are going to find the other dogs. I promise you—we’re going to find them for him.”
“When?” one of the grunts called out.
“Soon as it’s safe,” Murphy replied. “And when we know that the other dogs aren’t affected in the same way.”
The threat of contagion hadn’t actually occurred to Michael. What if the other huskies had contracted something from Kodiak? What if they’d all become killers?
Murphy looked down at some notes he had in his hand. “I don’t know how much a lot of you knew about Danzig’s life out in the real world, but for the record he was married to a great woman—Maria—who’s a county coroner.” The immediate irony of that stopped him for a second. “She’s living down in Florida.”
Miami Beach, Michael remembered.
“I’ve spoken to her a couple of times now, and told her everything she needed to know, and she said she wanted me to give her blessing to everyone down here—especially Franklin, Calloway, and Uncle Barney, for all the grits and gravy—and thank you all for your friendship. She said he was never happier than when he was down here, on the back of the sled, with the temperature thirty below.” He glanced nervously at the papers again. “And oh yeah, she wanted me to say a special thanks to Dr. Charlotte Barnes, for trying so hard to save his life—”
All eyes turned toward Charlotte, whose chin was resting atop her folded arms. She gave a small nod.
“—and Michael Wilde.”
Michael was caught off guard.
“Seems he’d been telling her a lot about you, Michael, something about how you were gonna make him famous.”
“I’ll still do my best,” Michael said, just loudly enough for all to hear.
“He told Maria there were going to be photographs of him and the dogs—the last dogs, I don’t need to remind anyone, that you’ll ever see down here—in that magazine of yours, Eco-World.”
It was Eco-Travel, but Michael wasn’t about to correct him. “There will be,” Michael said, appropriating the editor’s prerogative. In fact, he’d try to persuade Gillespie to put a shot of Danzig and the sled dogs on the cover sometime. It was the least he could do.