Trotter, on the other hand, had talked way too much. He'd spent the last few hours quizzing Peterson on every aspect of the region.
At first Peterson had enjoyed the questions. But after a few hours, he found himself wishing for headphones.
Only Jenner had kept the trip from being a complete waste. He'd entertained them with amusing stories about his previous trips to Antarctica. And he'd patiently listened to Peterson's own stories. All in all, he'd proven to be good company.
Peterson passed through the main entrance. Warm air engulfed him immediately. He wiggled his fingers and curled his toes. Ever so slowly, the chill melted from his body.
Trotter looked around. "Where is everyone?"
"Asleep, I imagine. It might look like noon outside, but it's about three o'clock in the morning." Peterson gave him an odd look. "I thought you said you'd worked in Antarctica before."
"Sorry, I got my inner clock mixed up. How many people live here again?"
"Including me, we've got seven full-timers."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"This place is pretty big for seven people."
Peterson shrugged. "The U.S. Antarctic Program expected a lot of demand to work in this region. So far, that hasn't happened."
"Maybe that's changing."
"Oh?"
"We met two guys on the plane. Cy Reed and Dutch Graham. They're staying here too."
"Oh, I met them. I think they're part of a geomorphology team. Jeff Morin — he's a fixture around these parts — is guiding them. Honestly, I doubt you'll see them much. Well, I need to do a few things before bed." Peterson nodded at a bulletin board. "Your room assignments are posted there. Settle in, get some sleep."
Peterson walked down the Work hallway toward his workshop. As he gained some distance from Trotter and Ayers, his chest started to ease. He was glad to get some time to himself.
Up ahead, he saw two heavy metal doors. They led into the Whitlow laboratory. He slowed as he approached them. His earlier conversation with Reed and Graham replayed in the back of his mind. What did the Whitlows do with their crates? And why were they so secretive? It was just a lab.
Wasn't it?
He reached for the knob but pulled back at the last second. He'd visited the laboratory on numerous occasions, but the Whitlows had always been present. Then again, they were probably asleep. And it wasn't like he wanted to steal anything.
He placed his ear next to the door. Cautiously, he knocked. Hearing nothing, Peterson twisted the knob. The door cracked open. It was dark inside the lab. "Hello?"
No one responded.
He flipped a switch. Bright light filled the room. It appeared empty. "Anyone here?"
Heart racing, he closed the door behind him. He couldn't believe his good luck. The Whitlows were usually religious about locking up their facilities.
Slowly, he walked around the room. He kept his eyes peeled for the crate Rupert had received at Fitzgerald. But he didn't see it anywhere.
He stopped in front of a large cabinet. He took another look to make sure no one was watching him. Then he searched the cabinet. He worked cautiously at first, making sure to place articles exactly where he'd found them. But as time went on, he grew careless.
He moved to another cabinet. But he found nothing other than office supplies and stacks of scholarly journals.
For the next ten minutes, he searched every nook and cranny in the room. But the crate eluded him. Why did the Whitlows receive so many crates anyway? What was in them? And where did they store the stuff they received?
The floor creaked.
Peterson frowned. He retraced his steps.
The floor creaked again.
Kneeling down, he examined the wood slats. They looked slightly different than the rest of the floor. He felt around the area. His finger touched something metallic.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He lowered his head to the ground. A tiny metal ring was embedded into the slats. It was barely visible, even from inches away.
He grasped the ring and pulled. A panel lifted into the air. A bit of wind touched his body. Dust particles flew into his face.
He looked into a gaping hole. A ladder ran down one side of it. It led to a dimly lit space.
His curiosity surged. What were the Whitlows doing with a secret room? How had they built it without his knowledge? And most importantly, what purpose did it serve?
Turning around, he lowered his legs into the hole. Then he descended into the abyss.
At the bottom, Peterson stepped off the ladder. He twisted around. A variety of images bombarded his eyes. Numerous computers. New, shiny machinery. Old, rusty machinery. Instruments that looked more fitting for a doctor's office than a laboratory. And strangest of all, large cylindrical tubes. They were mounted on end and pushed up against the walls. Cables connected them to various machines and computers.
Peterson felt an odd electric buzz in the air. It bothered him. The whole room bothered him. There was something wrong with it, something he couldn't quite figure out.
"You shouldn't have come here."
Peterson spun to the side.
Holly stood several feet away, hands on hips.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"It's a laboratory." She smiled sweetly. "A private laboratory."
Out of the corner of his eye, Peterson saw a brass plate. It was bolted to the front of one of the cylindrical containers. His heart pounded against his chest. "Does that say—?"
The blow crushed his skull. Pain ripped through his body. He tried to cry out but his mouth wouldn't work. Slowly, he sank to the ground.
A pair of boots appeared. "What should I do with him?" Rupert asked.
Peterson fought to hold onto his consciousness.
"We can't let him leave," Holly replied. "So, we might as well prep him."
Blackness swirled around Peterson. Reality drifted away.
Then his worst nightmares began.
Chapter 21
"Relax, will ya?" Dutch Graham slipped a silver key into the lock and twisted it. The oak doors yawned open, revealing a massive void. "You're making me nervous."
My pulse raced as I inhaled the odors of wood, fine leather, and brass polish. Gently, I pulled the cuffs of my shirt and straightened my coat. I never wore suits. Never. But today, I was willing to making an exception. "How the hell am I supposed to relax? I don't even know why I'm here."
"Fair point."
He pushed a dimmer switch. Tiny electric fires burst forth from the darkness. Soft light stole across the room, illuminating all four corners of the cavernous space.
My jaw dropped. For years, I'd wondered what lay beyond the oak doors. I'd imagined hundreds of things, arranged in hundreds of different ways. But this … well, this was beyond even my wildest dreams.
A giant carpet, ancient and exquisite, covered much of the hardwood floor. It featured a richly detailed landmass, surrounded by ocean. It was Pangaea, the supercontinent from which all modern continents originated.
Dark wood walls, textured and paneled, rose up from the floor. They soared high into the air where they greeted the ceiling. But this was no ordinary ceiling. Instead, it was the bottom of a giant sphere, sculpted and painted to resemble the globe. It rotated slowly and noiselessly, providing an ever-changing view of the Earth.
"So, this is it." My voice echoed in the vast space. "This is where the magic happens."
He shrugged. "If you say so."
"I can't believe the Board of Directors gets this all to itself."
"Lucky us."