A few moments passed. The floor creaked inside the room. Faint shuffling noises moved toward us.
The door opened wide. Holly appeared. Her eyes were unfocused. Her face appeared flushed. Her hair was a mess. "What's wrong?"
Baxter jerked his thumb at Beverly. "She's been outside for a long time. She took refuge under some space blankets but she was exposed to a lot of cold air."
Holly's eyes widened. "We need to get her to Fitzgerald."
"We can't risk the drive. Like it or not, your lab is the closest thing we've got to a clinic."
Holly blinked. Her eyes focused. Her confused, helpless demeanor melted away. "Right. Bring her inside."
She glided over to a long table. Quickly, she swept her arm across the surface, pushing small instruments, books, notepads, and other items to one end. "Set her down here."
Gently, I placed Beverly on the table. She didn't stir. Instead, her head drooped to the side. Her cheeks seem to sink further into her face. She continued to breathe, but her breaths were eerily soft.
"Her name is Beverly Ginger, right?"
I nodded.
"Are you aware of any medical conditions or allergies?"
I shook my head.
Holly touched Beverly's forehead. "What happened to her?"
"I don't know for sure. She was unconscious when we found her." I took a deep breath. "But there was evidence of an animal attack."
"Fenrir?"
I nodded. "It spared her but killed Jeff Morin."
Holly's eyes grew wide. She started to ask me a question. But thinking better of it, she shifted her focus to Beverly. "Do you know how long she was exposed to the elements?"
"Almost forty-eight hours."
Holly shifted her hands, gently touching Beverly's body in various places. "Did you see any injuries?"
"She has some scratches and cuts on her torso. A few on her legs too."
"I'm not a doctor. But she's clearly suffering from hypothermia. It happens from time to time out here. Basically, her body can't generate enough heat to make up for the heat she's already lost."
"How do we treat her?"
Holly glanced at Baxter. "Go to my room. Get clothes and blankets."
He frowned.
"Now."
With a quick nod, Baxter disappeared.
"What can I do?" Graham asked. He looked lost, out of sorts. I knew exactly how he felt.
"Nothing yet." Holly pulled off the wet space blankets enveloping Beverly's body. "How's the storm?"
I took the blankets and tossed them onto another table. "Bad going on worse."
She unzipped Beverly's parka and pulled it off. Then she picked up a pair of scissors. "I guess Pat's right. We're on our own."
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"We've got to warm her up. She's inside now, away from the cold temperature and the wind. That's a good start, but it's not enough."
"So, you're cutting off her clothing?"
"Not all at once. I'm going to cut off a piece at a time and replace it with dry cloth. Meanwhile, I'll use fresh blankets to keep her warm." She inhaled a worried breath. "I'll have to get some water into her body too. She looks dehydrated."
Baxter ran into the laboratory. Blankets and clothes were piled high in his arms. "Where do you want this stuff?"
"Over here," Holly called out.
Baxter dumped the pile on the far end of the table.
Reaching into it, I grabbed a shirt. "We're ready," I said. "Start cutting."
"Get out," Holly replied. "All of you."
"But—”
"No boys allowed." Holly took the shirt from me. "She deserves her modesty. Anyway I can handle it from here."
I took a deep breath. "Is she going to be …?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
Graham grabbed my arm. "Come on."
My heart felt heavy as I walked to the door. Just before I left, I took one last look over my shoulder.
Beverly lay on the table. She was so stiff, so quiet.
I left the room, closing the door behind me. There was nothing more I could do.
It was up to Beverly now.
Chapter 57
Why?
I clenched my knees to my chest. Lowered my head. Shut my eyes. Silently, I replayed the last two days in my head.
Why didn't you look for her earlier?
I opened my eyes. Slowly, I straightened my back until it was pressed up against the wall. I sat in the hallway, directly across from the Whitlow laboratory. I'd occupied the space ever since Holly had ordered us to leave, over two hours in total. I kept waiting for her to open one of the doors, to extend her head into the hallway, to give me news. I dreaded it and desired it at the same time. But so far, I'd heard nothing.
Voices drifted into my ears. They came from the direction of the common room. It was Baxter and Graham, still arguing over the merits of charity. I felt a surge of anger. How could they talk about something so trivial after everything that had happened over the last forty-eight hours? The Desolation had exploded. Johnny Richards had died. Jim Peterson had disappeared. Ted Ayers and Jeff Morin had perished. And now, Beverly was hovering between life and death.
I fought hard to suppress my anger. People reacted differently to life-or-death situations. Some people cried. Others wanted solitude. And still others preferred to distract themselves with endless conversation.
"And here's another difference," Baxter's tone suggested frustration. "Welfare is forced. But charity comes from the heart."
"Bullshit," Graham retorted. "People donate out of guilt or to feel good about themselves. They don't care one bit about the people they're supposedly helping."
"What about charities geared toward healthcare?" Baxter said. "Say I want to end the Muck, our local version of the flu. So, I collect money and buy drugs for the residents. What's wrong with that?"
"You'd be treating the symptoms rather than the root cause."
"And what's the root cause?"
"You."
Baxter's tone turned angry. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're in charge of Fitzgerald, right? Well, have you seen its kitchen facilities lately? Specifically, the dishwashers?"
"No, but —"
"They're beyond nasty. I saw dried food particles and even some mold around their edges. Plus, I touched a few of them while they were running their cycles. They were ice cold. How do you expect to get rid of germs without hot water?" Graham snorted. "Forget about starting a charity. Just get some dishwashers that work."
"I'm on a very tight budget," Baxter said stiffly.
No doubt. After all, you've got to keep paying the tab for Fitzgerald's nightclub."
They continued to fight, throwing out arguments and counter-arguments at a furious pace. It was enough to make my head hurt.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of disinfectant. My throat felt parched. My stomach growled. But I still didn't leave my vigil.
My guilt surged again. I should've gone looking for Beverly the moment I'd arrived in Antarctica. Instead, I'd stalled, hoping to delay the inevitable. It wasn't that I didn't want to see her again. I just wasn't sure how to handle our reunion.
After all, our relationship wasn't exactly an easy one. We'd fought together under New York's busy streets and yet she'd stolen a gigantic treasure from me less than a week later. She'd vanished without saying goodbye and yet she'd left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow. All in all, her actions confused the hell out of me.
Graham lifted his voice a couple of notches. Baxter's voice got louder in response. I tried to ignore them. But I found myself distracted by Graham's words. Not the words themselves but rather, how he said them. He spoke with passion, conviction. He didn't seem overly concerned with winning the debate. I got the feeling he just enjoyed being a part of it.