Michael tried to follow in the tracks laid down by the others, but it wasn’t always easy to see them. There was a steady glare off the snow, and an occasional sharp stab of light off a slab of wind-polished ice. He hunkered down on the seat in order to let the windshield cut the blast of frigid air coming at him. The helmet helped, too; padded at the cheek and chin, it had a wraparound neck roll that muffled the engine noise, along with vents that sucked the heat and moisture out of the face shield. It reminded Michael of the deep-sea diving gear he’d worn when freeing Eleanor from the glacier.
Eleanor…Sleeping Beauty…who’d metamorphosed, in his companions’ minds, into the Bride of Dracula. How long her living presence could be kept a secret at Point Adélie was an open question…and how long she could be kept there at all was an even more daunting one. Michael’s NSF pass had only nine days left to run, and he knew that as soon as the next supply plane landed—it was scheduled for New Year’s Eve—he was going to have to go back on it. But what would happen to Eleanor then? Who would look out for her? Who would she tell her story to? Who, above all, would she trust? Michael had every confidence in Charlotte, but Charlotte had a job to do—she was the medical officer for the whole base, and she couldn’t be expected to be a nursemaid. And Darryl—well, Darryl wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who would dote on her, especially if there were fish to be dissected and hematology studies to be done. And what if Sinclair Copley never turned up? Lawson had made it sound pretty unlikely. More and more, Michael thought, Eleanor would again be abandoned, isolated and lonely in a prison not much bigger than that block of ice.
Unless…
The snowmobile hit a mogul, soaring above the ground, then thumping back, its rear briefly fishtailing.
Concentrate, he told himself, or you’ll break your neck and all bets will be off. He shook his helmet to loosen some snow from the visor and gripped the handlebars more tightly. But his thoughts went right back where they’d been…to the coming day, not far off, when he would have to leave the Point…and Eleanor.
But what if—and he marveled that he hadn’t considered the idea before (or had he?)—what if she were to go back with him? What if she, too, were to board that supply plane? The thought was so crazy he could barely believe he was entertaining it. But Murphy, if it came to that, would be nothing but relieved to see her go—and, as chief of operations, he could use his considerable leverage over the few others on the base who knew about her at all to buy their silence; he could make their life there as easy, or as difficult, as he liked. Still…how could Michael engineer such a thing? How could he get someone like Eleanor—and had there ever been anyone else like Eleanor?—all the way back to the States? Someone who had never seen an airplane, or an automobile, or for that matter a CD player? Who had no citizenship—unless Queen Victoria was around to confirm it—and certainly no passport to prove it?
And apart from all the obvious difficulties that the journey alone presented, how could he care for someone in her unheard-of condition? How far, he wondered, was the nearest blood bank in Tacoma?
A half a mile or so ahead, Michael could see the black clutter of smokestacks, warehouses, and sheds and, high on the hill in the distance, the steeple of the church. He was glad to see Murphy and Franklin, as planned, steer their snowmobiles off to the right, toward the beach of bleached bones and the wreck of the Albatros. If Sinclair was here at the whaling station—and what would they do with him if they did find him alive? Would they shutter him away in the infirmary as well?—there was a good chance he was barricaded in the church, in the room behind the altar, and Michael wanted to be the one to find him first. To calm his fears and reason with him. If he was alive, he would be wary, suspicious, even hostile; from his perspective, he had every reason to be.
That was why Michael would need to be alone with him if and when he was found.
Once Lawson had pulled to a stop in the flensing yard, where the iron tracks for the skip wagons threatened to destroy the snowmobile’s treads, Michael pulled up alongside and cut his own engine. The sudden silence was awesome. Michael raised the visor on his helmet, and the cold air felt like a slap in the face.
“What now?” Lawson said, and Michael, just to be free of him, said, “Why don’t you start looking around these yards and out-buildings? I’ll start from the top of the hill and work my way down.”
Lawson, toting his speargun, nodded. He hung his helmet on the handlebar of his snowmobile and trudged off. Michael stowed his own helmet and set off for the church. From here, he could see the teetering tombstones and, soon, the doors—both of which were now closed. An interesting sign, since one of them had been propped open by a snowbank before. Somebody might be home.
As he mounted the steps, his shadow, cut short by the solstice sun directly overhead, fell straight onto the wood between his feet, and he heard from within a scrambling, then a bark. He put his shoulder against the creaking frame, pushed the door open, and was greeted by a mad rush of sled dogs. He knelt and let them lick his face and gloves and dance in wild circles all around him, while his eyes swept the empty chamber. There was a pile of supplies and gear gathered by the door, as if someone had been planning to leave shortly.