Sinclair’s eyes flashed at the exchange, and moved from one of them to the other. But when they returned to Michael, they burned with a cold fury.
“Perhaps I’ve been blind,” he said, advancing on Michael with the tip of the sword extended.
To Eleanor’s horror, Michael did not retreat, but raised the metal contraption—it had three legs, like an artist’s easel—and held it out like a weapon.
This was madness, she thought, utter madness.
“You can go,” Michael said, standing his ground. “I won’t try to stop you. But Eleanor stays.”
“So that is what this is about.” Sinclair sneered. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Michael said, taking a step closer, “but that’s the deal.”
Sinclair paused, as if mulling it over, then suddenly lunged at Michael, the sword whistling through the air. The blade struck the legs of the tripod, and blue sparks flew into the air. Michael fell back, struggling to hold on to it.
Sinclair advanced, baiting Michael with the end of the sword, twirling it in small circles. Eleanor saw now that the back of her lieutenant’s head had a gash in it, and the blond hair had been cut short, as if someone had tended to the wound.
Michael feinted with the tripod, pushing it back at Sinclair, but Sinclair knocked it to one side and continued to advance on him.
“I’m pressed for time,” Sinclair said, “so this will have to be quick.”
He slashed once, twice, and on the third blow the tripod was wrenched from Michael’s hands and clattered to the hard ground. Michael scrambled after it—he had no other weapon—and as Sinclair swung the gleaming saber back over his left shoulder, ready to deliver the fatal blow, there was a bloodcurdling scream and Charlotte—in a green silk bathrobe, with her braids flying about her head—hurtled down the ramp and shoved Sinclair off-balance. He stumbled forward, barely hanging on to the sword, before whirling around and swinging at his new assailant. The blade caught the doctor’s leg, and she fell, blood spraying onto the snow.
It was Eleanor’s turn to scream, but before she could go to Charlotte’s aid, Sinclair snatched her by the sleeve of her coat again.
“Can you bear to be parted?” he said, seething, and dragged her toward the kennels.
She went willingly, if only to give Michael and Charlotte time to escape.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
December 26, 3 p.m.
KNEELING IN THE SNOW beside Charlotte, Michael tried to ascertain the damage.
“It’s not bad,” Charlotte said, sitting up and wincing. “It’s a flesh wound.”
“I’ll help you back to the infirmary.”
“I can get there myself,” Charlotte said. “Go get Eleanor!”
But when she tried to stand, her knees buckled, and Michael had to sling an arm around her waist to get her back up the ramp and into the infirmary. As he lowered her into a chair, and followed her instructions to bring the antiseptic, antibiotics, and bandages, he heard the jingling of the harness on the dogsled passing by outside. Glancing out the window, he saw Sinclair in his red-and-gold jacket, standing on the runners. He’d pulled a ski mask over his head and goggles covered his eyes; apparently, he’d learned quickly about how to weather the Antarctic. Eleanor was huddled low in the bright orange cargo shell, her head down and her hood drawn tight, as the sled whooshed past.
“Tell me that was Santa Claus heading home,” Charlotte said, saturating a cotton pad in antiseptic.
“He’ll head for the old whaling station,” Michael said. “There’s nowhere else he can go, especially with a storm coming on.”
“Get rolling,” Charlotte urged him again. “But get a gun first from Murphy.” She cringed as she applied the pad to her leg. “And take reinforcements.”
Michael gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, and said, “Anybody ever tell you not to take on a man with a sword?”
“You never worked the night shift in an ER.”
Michael ran back down the hall, but instead of alerting anyone else, he made straight for the garage shed. Gathering a posse could only take time, and a gun could always wind up injuring the wrong party. Besides, he knew he could catch up to them on a snowmobile—the only question was if he could catch up to them before Eleanor was fatally exposed to the ice.
The snowmobile in front was a yellow-and-black Arctic Cat, and he jumped into the saddle, checked the fuel gauge, and revved the engine. The vehicle burst out of the shed, skidding wildly on the slick snow, and Michael was nearly thrown free. He had to slow it down, at least until he’d made it out of the base, but as he came around the corner of the administration module, he nearly ran over Franklin, who jumped out of the way in the nick of time.
“Go to the meat locker!” Michael shouted at him over the roar of the engine. “Check on Lawson!”