Graham shrugged.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here."
"No one ever accused me of lacking a backbone."
"Maybe not. But ethics are a different story."
"Are you still hung up on that? Good lord. That was over forty years ago."
My eyes flitted between the two of them. "What's this all about?"
"Nothing," Graham said. "Let's go, Cy. The shuttle's waiting."
"Forget the shuttle," the man replied. "You're coming with me."
"And why would we do that?"
"Because I'm Fitzgerald Station's Area Director. In other words, this is my show. Hell, I'm the damn poster child for this region."
"Poster child?" Graham said. "I hope you're talking figuratively."
The man's face twisted with anger.
"How do you two know each other?" I asked.
"Remember how I told you I spent a few summers at McMurdo?" Graham nodded at the man. "Well, he was there too."
"I'm glad to see you guys still get along." I chuckled and offered my hand to the man. "Cy Reed."
He didn't shake it. "I know."
"His name is Pat Baxter," Graham said.
Slowly, I lowered my hand. "Quite a place you've got here."
Baxter smiled. "Enjoy it while you've got it."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Graham asked.
"Just this." Baxter poked a finger into Graham's chest. "The next flight out of here leaves tomorrow. And the two of you are going to be on it."
Chapter 4
"I've got a spot in the brig all picked out for you." Baxter turned the ignition. The engine sputtered to life. The odor of diesel exhaust permeated the cabin. "I think you'll find it nice and comfy."
"Forget it." Graham slung his backpack into the cargo area. It thumped as it landed on top of my duffel bag. "You've got no authority over us."
Baxter spun the steering wheel, directing the vehicle to the southwest. "Actually, I do. I've been deputized by the U.S. Marshals Service."
"Yeah? Where's your badge? Still in the cereal box?"
"In my room. Along with my gun." He eyed Graham. "Yes, I have a gun. It's the only one allowed at Fitzgerald Station."
"Damn it, Pat. This is stupid."
"No, you coming here was stupid." Baxter flicked a switch. The tiniest fraction of warm air blew out of the vents. But a distinct chill remained in the cab.
"What's this all about anyway?" I asked.
Their heads swiveled toward me. I sensed their annoyance, their resentment. But I didn't care. Old grudges were like old wounds. Left untended, they festered. And in this particular case, gangrene had settled in long ago.
Baxter grunted. "Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"Just forget it."
I glanced at Graham. "Well?"
"A girl," he finally said. "It's about a girl."
I wasn't surprised. I knew what it was like to pine after someone. To think about her, to dream about her. To want her so badly it hurt inside. And I knew what it felt like to lose that person. It wasn't easy. But you had to suck it up and move on, find something else to live for.
An image popped into my head. I saw her tanned facial features and her wavy chestnut brown hair. I gazed at her hourglass-shaped body, her sexy curves, and her long, shapely legs. Her dazzling violet eyes blinked enticingly at me.
Beverly Ginger was a classic beauty. But she was far more than the sum of her physical features. She possessed something unique, something intangible. She had that rare ability to turn heads, to leave both men and women tongue-tied in her wake. But not me.
Not anymore.
Harsh static burst out of the radio. "You there, Pat?"
Baxter pushed a button on the dashboard. "Sure am."
"Jim Peterson is here from Kirby. He needs to talk to you."
"About what?"
The voice hesitated. "They had a power outage."
Baxter clenched the steering wheel. "Another one?"
"I guess so."
"I'll see him when I get back. Thanks Cindy."
I waited for the static to dissipate. "What was that about?"
"None of your business," he replied.
"I just—"
The air rumbled.
The ground trembled.
The sound of screeching metal filled my ears.
I twisted my neck to the north. A blinding fireball appeared on the horizon. It expanded and rose into the sky. Thick columns of smoke trailed after it. "What the hell was that?"
"Damned if I know," Baxter said numbly. "There's nothing in that direction. Just ocean. Ocean and …”
"And what?"
His face turned white. "And the docks."
Chapter 5
Baxter swung the wheel. In less than a minute, we were motoring toward the fireball.
"How many ships are anchored there?" I asked.
"Just one," he replied. "The Desolation. It's a cargo ship. It comes here every quarter."
"How large is the crew?"
"I don't know for sure. Maybe twenty people?"
With a loud boom, the fireball tore itself apart in mid-air. Embers dropped from the sky. More black smoke appeared.
Graham shielded his eyes. "You put them up at Fitzgerald right? Please tell me they're not living on that ship."
Baxter didn't answer. Instead, he leaned closer to the window.
And pressed down on the accelerator.
Chapter 6
Beverly Ginger didn't believe in ghosts. She believed in miracles and horrible twists of fate. She believed in the goodness of mankind as well as the existence of evil. She was even able to square dual beliefs in destiny and free will. But she didn't believe in ghosts.
The ground quaked again. As she fell to her knees, a howl rang out in the distance. She knew it was just wind. But it sounded disturbingly lifelike.
She grabbed the plastic floor mats and closed the door. Then she shoved the mats under the tires.
She hurried over to a small snow bank. "How're you feeling?" she asked.
Jeff Morin's lips trembled. He was tough. But those wounds in his stomach didn't look good. Without shelter and proper care, he wouldn't last long.
Beverly trudged to the top of the hill. She leaned her back against her vehicle's rear end and started to push.
She could scarcely believe everything that had happened to her in the last hour. The mysterious excavation. The sudden gunfire. Morin's screams. Racing across the icy tundra.
She'd shaken their pursuers after a short chase. But her luck didn't improve. Instead, the ground had rumbled, causing her vehicle to sail up a small hill. Seconds later, the front tires crashed back to the snow. The rear tires stuck fast on the hill, leaving her Sno-Cat positioned at an awkward angle.
Beverly pushed harder. The Sno-Cat started to move. She dug her boots into the ice and pushed with all her strength.
The vehicle inched forward. The rear tires slipped off the hill and crashed into the snow. The vehicle jolted and slid a short distance away from her.
Another howl, closer this time, filled the air. Beverly looked over her shoulder. But she saw nothing.
She climbed down the hill and made her way to the vehicle. Its heater wasn't all that powerful. Prior to the crash, the temperature inside the cabin had hovered around ten degrees Fahrenheit. But it was far better than the alternative. Holding her breath, she turned the ignition.
The engine didn't even sputter. Beverly cursed silently. Lifting a gloved finger, she pushed a button on the dashboard.
The transponder, a large orange beacon, didn't light up. She pushed the button again. Again, the transponder remained unlit.
Beverly slapped her hands against the wheel. Then she exited the cab and trudged over toward Morin.