It wasn’t his problem anymore.
The debriefing he had been scheduled to undergo that morning had been canceled due to the conflagration, and Colonel Waggoner had asked him only one question.
“Was the fire deliberate, or accidental, Dr. Slater?”
“Accidental,” Slater replied. What use was there in denying it?
The colonel, whose hands were full as it was, told him he could keep his notes and records, and file a full report from Port Orlov, “or anywhere else you go. Personally, I don’t ever want to lay eyes on you again, and trust me on this, they feel the same way at the AFIP offices in Washington.”
Indeed, he’d been right about that. Frank had made one last call to Dr. Levinson, who’d listened coldly as he gave her an edited account of what had happened at the site—omitting any mention of the gems or, God forbid, their owner—and when he’d stopped to take a breath, she had informed him that Rebekah Vane had also succumbed to the Spanish flu, while being treated at the biohazard facility in Juneau.
“I thought she had been stabilized,” he mumbled.
“So did I,” Dr. Levinson said. “We were both wrong.”
He could hear the disappointment, and even dismissal, in her voice.
“Have there been any other breaches,” he asked, dreading the answer, “or casualties?”
“Not so far. We think we got there in time and established a suitable quarantine zone.” There was a pause on the line. “Needless to say, your report will be classified top secret. You, and the remaining members of your team, are under a strict information embargo.”
“Understood.”
“Is it, Dr. Slater? Because nothing else on this mission seems to have been.”
He took the shot. He deserved it.
“I’ll look for your report in one week. And oh,” she said, icily, before abruptly hanging up, “don’t expect any references.”
If it hadn’t been so painful, he might have laughed. But given what his plans were now, he doubted that he would need any.
“So what do you say?” Groves asked him. “Should we drop off our stuff at the community center and head into town for some grub?”
Slater nodded and the three of them trooped wearily off the ice.
Inside the center, they found Geordie holding down the fort all by himself.
“Yeah, I figured that chopper might be bringing you guys back,” he said. “But if you’re looking for the mayor, she’s already at the celebration.”
“What celebration?” Kozak asked.
Even Slater had forgotten that it was scheduled for tonight.
“The rededication of the totem pole,” Geordie said, as if it were world news. “You remember how it was crooked? Some people in town, and some of the stores, have gotten together to have it fixed up again.”
“How come you’re not there then?” Groves asked, and Geordie glanced at the clock on the wall. “City hall officially remains open until six P.M. I’ve got almost a half hour to go.”
The men shared a chuckle, and Slater said, “I admire your work ethic, but if everybody’s at the party, who’s gonna call?”
Geordie mulled it over for a second or two, then grabbing his coat from a chair, said, “Come on—you don’t want to miss this!”
On the way, they passed the Arctic Circle Gun Shoppe, and stopping for a moment to look down the alley, Slater could see Harley Vane’s old trailer. No lavender light was shining through the blinds anymore, and a FOR RENT sign was hanging forlornly from the door handle. What a lot of trouble had come up in his nets that night, Slater thought, and what a lot of lives, including Harley’s own, had been lost as a result.
Front Street was lighted up from stem to stern, and the Yardarm was doing a land-office business. Although the totem pole itself was shrouded in a canvas sail prior to its unveiling, it did appear to be standing erect.
“I wish they had let me do a ground study first,” Kozak muttered, as Groves peeled off toward the busy bar. “If it is not done properly, it will tilt again.”
A flatbed truck was parked between the pole and the harbor docks, and two huge speakers in its bed were blaring the Black-Eyed Peas. Maybe a hundred people were milling around, rubbing their hands together over blazing trash cans, guzzling beer from ice-cold cans or hot cider from steaming mugs, laughing and shouting at each other over the music. A few were dancing to try to keep warm.
Lifting the earmuff on one side of Geordie’s hat, Slater leaned close and said, “Where’s Nika?” and Geordie turned around, pointing at the harbormaster’s shack.