He turned left through another corridor that led to a second archway that had been added to replace the old garage. Inside was the station's motor pool, such as it was: two aging D-6 bulldozers whose rust had been arrested only by the arid polar air, two tracked exploration vehicles called Sprytes, and four beat-up snowmobiles, including the one he'd tried. It was becoming too cold to use the machines routinely and the main doors had been shut against the growing dimness outside. Blowing snow had made a small drift through the crack where the barn doors joined.
The garage was more brightly lit than the gym but still had a dungeon feel. Chains hung from overhead tracks used to hoist engine blocks, the red paint of their steel hooks flaked and faded into a semblance of dried blood. Metal racks built against the walls of the arch held a shadowy armory of spare and abandoned metal parts, intricate and mysterious. Pegboard above workbenches held racks of tools, heavy and sharp. A steel mesh floor laid across the snow was slick with dripping oil. The air stank of fuel fumes. A blowing heater kept its temperature barely above freezing.
A thousand places to hide a rock.
There was a screeching rasp and shower of sparks behind one of the parked Sprytes and Lewis made his way in that direction. He had no better plan of approach than with Nancy Hodge. Gee, Tyson, you got the meteorite? You being so disliked and all.
"Hey, Buck!"
Tyson glanced up from the spinning grinder with impatient annoyance and reluctantly turned, bracing himself against the likelihood of another work request. As he took his foot off the grinder pedal, its whir died away.
"Yeah?" It was a grunt.
"How's it going?"
Tyson squinted. "It's going."
Lewis looked at what the mechanic had in his hand. Flat metal, shiny and sharp. It was an opening. "I heard you made knives."
Tyson glanced around. "So?"
"As a hobby? You sell them back in North Dakota?"
"So?"
Maybe this was the wrong time to draw him out. The mechanic was on shift, and obviously not working on whatever he was supposed to be working on. He was probably afraid Lewis would tell Cameron. Lewis cast about for a revealing question. "Where do you get the material?"
"What?"
"For the knives? Where do you get the metal?"
The mechanic looked at him as if he were blind. "We've got enough scrap to build a fucking battleship. Every bit of useless junk you can think of except what we really need."
At least he was answering. And he took things. "What do you use for handles?"
Tyson considered his visitor. What was this about? He had no illusions about people who came into his garage. They all wanted something, and screw them. Still, he answered. "Metal. Wood. Bone. Hard rubber. Plastic. Why?"
"I'm thinking of buying one."
The mechanic looked wary.
"For Christmas presents. We'll be home by then."
Tyson waited for more.
"How much?" Lewis asked.
"What?"
"How much for a knife?"
The mechanic considered. "Hundred bucks."
"For a knife!"
"Handmade and engraved at the Pole." He deliberately huffed out a cloud of vapor, a plume like cigarette smoke. "I put up with a lot of shit to make these."
"Would you consider fifty?"
That baleful look again. "No." Then he reconsidered. "Maybe seventy-five."
"I'm on a budget, Buck."
"So am I."
There was a long silence, each watching the other. Tyson didn't act like an imminent millionaire. Another dead end. "When will they be finished?"
"Long before you get home." He grinned at that.
Lewis smiled falsely. "You got some I could look at?"
The persistent interest softened Tyson slightly. He shrugged. "In my locker in my room. Maybe I could show you later."
"My dad might want one, too."
"I don't care who wants them."
"He likes crafted stuff."
"Show me some cash. Then we'll get serious." Tyson turned back to the grinder.
Lewis glanced around again, spotting nothing of interest. The mechanic might be a grouch but there was none of the evasion expected of a thief. Lewis turned to go, thinking he might try Abby next and worrying she'd be more annoyed than helpful.
He was no investigator. This entire fiasco was a waste of time…
"Tyson!"
Rod Cameron was stalking into the garage toward both of them, looking sleepless and angry.
"Jesus fuck…" The mechanic turned, stiffening. The mechanic's grip on the blade tightened and Lewis could see the knuckles whitening. He looked at Lewis accusingly, as if he'd led the station manager here, and Lewis shook his head in denial. What the hell was this about?
Cameron strode up and stopped, rocking slightly on his ankles, his mood stormy. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked Lewis.
"Talking with Buck while my computer defrags." He raised his eyebrows, trying to prod Cameron's memory. The investigation.
"Oh." He looked at Lewis curiously and Lewis shrugged again. Nothing. "Well, go poke around somewhere else, Lewis. I need to have it out with Tyson." The manager's eyes darted back to the mechanic. He was gathering himself for a fight.
"Sure." Lewis took a step back.
"You don't have to leave, fingie," Tyson said quietly. "No secrets here."
Lewis hesitated. He was curious. Cameron glanced at him, waiting for him to go, but Lewis thought Tyson might let something useful slip. "Maybe I can help."
Cameron blinked. It might help to have a witness. "Okay. No secrets." He turned to Tyson. "What're you doing, Buck?"
Tyson looked sourly at his boss. "Stuff."
"You get this Spryte fixed?"
"The machine's a piece of shit."
"We need it anyway."
"It's fucking dangerous if it breaks down."
"It's fucking all we've got. And I thought you were a good mechanic."
Tyson looked from Cameron to Lewis, wondering how belligerent he could afford to be, and spat, deliberately, the spittle hitting the floor. "I'm working on it."
Cameron looked at the big man's fist. "What's that, then?"
Tyson looked at the metal in his hand with apparent surprise and then held it up, the sharpness glinting in the light. "Piston rod," he said, deadpan.
Cameron looked at the hoisted knife and then back at Tyson. "I looked at the water budget this morning. Do you know the daily ration is off fifty gallons?"
"Why no, boss, I don't."
"It's because of your damn showers, isn't it?"
"Beats me."
"I do. I've been timing you."
"Then you've got more time than I do."
"You're using as much water as six other people!"
"So melt some more."
"You know the Rodriguez Well is slow!"
"Two months ago you were complaining I was too dirty."
"That's because you stank every time you came to meals! You'd clear an entire table, like some goddamn wino! Are you insane, or what?"
"Don't you wish you'd sent me home?" Tyson smiled.
"You know I couldn't find a replacement, you goddamn butthead!"
Tyson pointed at Lewis. "Sparco did. You could, too. There's still time to get a plane in here, maybe. For an emergency. I feel appendicitis coming on."
"I'm warning you, Buck…"
"Because I wish you'd send me home." The mechanic tossed the knife aside onto the metal workbench, where it rang like a bell. He raised his big hands. "You want to compare hands, Rod?"
"Don't you threaten me."
"You want to compare those soft, white, thin-fingered paws of yours, which hardly ever get out of your warm fucking office, with mine, which get so hard I gotta soak 'em in Vaseline and wear gloves to bed? You want to spend a day under this Spryte or the Cats, where the metal's either so hot from the stinking engine, spewing carbon monoxide, that I burn my hands, or so cold that I burn 'em again? You want to work on shit so brittle that it shatters like glass, and string extension cords so stiff they snap like a twig?" He glowered as he spoke, like a looming thunderhead. "Don't talk to me about your fucking precious water! It's the only damn thing keeping me sane!" His volume had grown to a roar.