For once, Harley did as he was told.
Driving on into the night, Charlie turned the radio to the local weather station and heard that the storm was only going to get worse. Welcome to Alaska. He pushed the accelerator lever forward, locking in the cruise control at a steady forty-five—any faster than that and he’d spin out for sure—and focused on the road. His headlights illuminated only a narrow slice right down the middle, but he could sense, all around him, the low frozen hills pressing in on him—lonely and empty and dark. A darkness, as Exodus and the Reverend Abercrombie had so aptly put it, that could be felt.
Chapter 50
As the helicopter swept in over the harbor of Port Orlov, Slater could see the Coast Guard vessels bobbing offshore, their spotlights sweeping back and forth across the docks, making sure that nothing came in or went out. Not that it was likely on a night like this. The town itself was largely dark, the snowy streets scoured by the punishing wind.
Dr. Lantos was barely clinging to life, her face beneath the oxygen mask a deep purple, and in Slater’s mind there could no longer be any question about what was wrong. She had a hacking cough, mounting pulmonary problems, and a high fever.
She had come down with the flu.
Which meant it was possible that Nika, pierced by the needle, might have become infected, too. But it wasn’t certain, there were still too many questions. Was it transmissible that way? Had the needle been infected, and more to the point, had it been infected before the puncture wound occurred? Slater clung to the possibility that it had not, even as he tended to Lantos. The last time he had found himself in a position like this, administering to an endangered patient in the bay of a helicopter, the outcome had been bad indeed, but right now, he had to put those fears, and those terrible memories from Afghanistan, aside. This time, he lectured himself, the patient would survive; this time she would get the care she needed before it was too late; this time he would get full cooperation instead of delays and impediments.
As the chopper descended, it skimmed the tops of the evergreen trees, and made for the bright white lights of the hockey rink. It had no sooner settled on the center of the ice, its rotors still winding to a halt, than a refueling truck rumbled toward it. The nearest biohazard-containment facility was hundreds of miles away in the state capital. “Eva,” Slater said, laying a hand on her shoulder, “I’ll see you in Juneau.”
But she did not reply, or show any sign of even having heard him.
The bay doors were thrown open by a medical officer in full hazmat ensemble, and Slater leapt out. He held up a hand to help Nika to disembark but she was already jumping out on her own.
She called out “Ray!” to a man wearing a police parka and a sheriff’s badge a few yards away, but her face mask made it impossible to be heard. Pulling it away for a second, she called out again, “Ray! Did you find them?”
Standing on the ice with legs spread wide apart to keep his balance, he called back, “Not yet.” As instructed, he was wearing his own mask and gloves, too. “I went out to the Vane house, but Charlie said they weren’t there.”
“We both know that Charlie Vane couldn’t tell the truth if he tried.”
“I hear ya, Mayor. But I haven’t got a warrant to search the place, and nobody’s seen Harley, or Eddie for that matter, for the past few days.” Gesturing at the oil truck deployed from the company that employed Russell, he said, “And Russell hasn’t shown up for his job, either.”
“He won’t be,” Nika said, soberly. “He’s dead.”
“What did you say?”
She pointed to the cargo bay, where two Coast Guardsmen, also suited up, were removing the body bag.
“He was found on the island. The wolves got him.”
The sheriff, even from half a dozen yards away, was plainly pole-axed.
“Keep him on ice, and keep the bag sealed,” Slater interjected, before turning back to Nika and saying, in a low voice, “Maybe we should take that drive now.”
“Sure,” she said, knowing full well what he meant. Taking care not to slip on the ice, and under the puzzled eye of the sheriff and his deputy, Nika led Slater over to the municipal garage at one end of the rink; the last time she’d been in here she’d been parking the Zamboni. Now she went right past it, along with the snowplows and the garbage truck, and stopped beside Port Orlov’s one and only all-terrain ambulance.
“Get in,” she said, sliding into the driver’s seat, as he raced around to the passenger side. “Where to first?”
“Harley’s place.”
“Buckle up,” she replied, rolling down her window and putting the car into gear.