“That the whiskey?” Cabrillo asked.
The man nodded. Cabrillo reached in his pocket and retrieved a money clip. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the man, who handed over the bottle.
“I don’t have change,” the Inuit said.
“Is that enough to pay for this and another to be delivered,” Cabrillo asked, “and some extra for your trouble?”
“Yes,” the Inuit said, “but the owner will only allow me to deliver Woodman one bottle per day.”
“Bring the other tomorrow and keep the change,” Cabrillo said.
The Inuit nodded and Cabrillo closed the door. Carrying the sack with the whiskey inside, he walked over to Campbell and handed it to him. Campbell took the bottle out of the sack, wadded up the paper and tossed it toward a trash can and missed, then cracked the seal and filled his cup.
“Appreciate it,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” Cabrillo told him. “You should give it up.”
“I can’t,” Campbell said, eyeing the bottle. “I’ve tried.”
“Bullshit. I’ve worked with guys with a worse problem than yours—they’re straight today.”
Campbell sat quietly. “Well, Mr. CIA,” he said at last, “you figure a way to dry me out and the snowcat is yours. I haven’t used it in months—I can’t leave the house.”
“You served in the army,” Cabrillo said.
“Who the hell are you?” Campbell said. “No one in Greenland knows that.”
“I run a specialized company that does intelligence and security work—a private corporation. We can find out anything.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Cabrillo said. “What was your job in the service? I didn’t bother to ask my people that.”
“Green Berets, then the Phoenix Project.”
“So you worked for the Company, too?”
“Indirectly,” Campbell admitted, “but they turned their back on me. They trained me, brained me, and cast me away. I came home with nothing but a heroin problem I managed to kick on my own and a host of bad memories.”
“I hear you,” Cabrillo said. “Now where is the snowcat?”
“Out back,” Campbell said, pointing to a door leading out the rear of the house.
“I’m going to check it out,” Cabrillo said, starting for the door. “You sit here and figure out if you really want to quit. If you do, and the snowcat checks out, then I have an idea we can discuss. If not, then we can discuss me paying you enough money to keep you in Jack until your liver fails. Fair enough?”
Campbell nodded as Cabrillo walked out.
Surprisingly enough, the snowcat was in perfect shape. A 1970 Thiokol model 1202B-4 wide-track Spryte. Powered by a Ford 200-cubic-inch six-cylinder with a four-speed transmission, it was bodied like a pickup truck with a flatbed on the rear. A light bar was mounted on the roof, an extra fuel tank on the rear bed, and the treads looked almost new. Cabrillo opened the door. Inside was a metal hump between the seats where the strangely angled gearshift resided, as well as a pair of levers in front of the driver’s seat that controlled the tanklike steering. Cabrillo knew that with a flick of the levers the Thiokol could spin on its treads in a circle. The dashboard was metal, with a cluster of gauges in front of the driver and heater vents down lower. Mounted behind the seat, hung on racks on each side of the rear window, was a large-caliber rifle. There were emergency flares, a tool kit with spares, and detailed waterproof maps.
Everything was freshly painted, oiled and maintained.
Cabrillo finished his inspection and walked back inside. He stopped just inside the door and knocked the snow off his boots, then walked back into the living room.
“What’s the range?” he asked Campbell.
“With the extra fuel tank and some jerry cans, it’ll get you to Mount Forel and back, with an extra hundred miles or so in case of trouble or snow slides,” Campbell said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to make a trip anywhere in her—she’s never let me down.”
Cabrillo walked over near a fuel-oil stove. “Ball’s in your court.”
Campbell was silent. He stared at the bottle, looked up at the ceiling, then looked down at the floor and thought for a moment. At this pace, he had maybe one more summer. Then his body would start shutting down—or he’d make a drunken mistake in a land where mistakes are not forgiven. He was fifty-seven years old and he felt like he was a hundred. He had reached his end.
“I’m done,” Campbell said.
“It’s not that easy,” Cabrillo said. “You have a tough battle ahead.”
“I’m ready to try,” Campbell said.
“We’ll get you out of here and into detox in return for the snowcat. Do you have any living family?”
“Two brothers and a sister in Colorado,” Campbell admitted, “but I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
“You have a choice,” Cabrillo said, “either go home for treatment—or die here.”
For the first time in years, Campbell smiled. “I think I’ll try home.”
“You’ve got to hold it together for the next few days,” Cabrillo said. “First I need you to show me the route through the mountains here on the maps and help me prepare. Then I’m going to leave you with my spare satellite telephone so I can call you if I run into trouble. Do you think you’ll be able to handle that?”
“I won’t be able to stop cold turkey,” Campbell said honestly. “I’d shake myself to death or go into convulsions.”
“I don’t want or expect you to,” Cabrillo said. “You need medical care. I just want you sober enough to be able to answer the telephone and give me advice if any problems arise I can’t handle.”
“That I can do.”
“Then hold on,” Cabrillo said as he removed his satellite phone and dialed the Oregon,“and let me set it up.”
CAMPBELL SNIFFED AT the wind and stared to the north. The Thiokol was idling smoothly a few feet away. The flatbed was loaded with extra jerry cans of fuel and the boxes of supplies Cabrillo had retrieved from the airport. Cabrillo was placing other boxes with food and items he didn’t want to freeze on top of and below the passenger seat. The door was open and the hot air from the heater was creating clouds of steam.
“There’s a storm coming,” Campbell noted, “but I’d guess it won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon or night at the earliest.”
“Good,” Cabrillo said, finished now and standing upright. “You remember how to use the satellite telephone?”
“I’m a drunk,” Campbell said, “not an idiot.”
Cabrillo stared into the darkness. “How long did you figure the trip will take?”
“You’ll be there by morning,” Campbell said, “ ifyou follow the route I laid out.”
“I have a handheld GPS and I have the compass in the ’cat and the maps you marked. I think I’m set to navigate.”
“Whatever you do,” Campbell said, “you follow that route. You’re going to be skirting the ice cap a lot of the way, but then you’ll need to go up on top. It’s rough up there and constantly changing. If you get into trouble or overturn the ’cat, help will take a long time to reach you—maybe too long.”
Cabrillo nodded then took a step forward and shook hands with Campbell. “You take care of yourself,” he said over the increasing roar of the wind, “and watch the booze until we can get you to a treatment facility.”
“I’m not going to let you down, Mr. Cabrillo,” Campbell said, “and thanks for making the arrangements—for the first time in a long time I feel like there is light at the end of the tunnel. Hope, maybe.”
Cabrillo nodded and then climbed into the cab of the Thiokol. Once inside he closed the door and removed his parka. Revving up the engine, he let it settle back into an idle. Then he engaged the clutch, shifted the gear lever into first and slowly pulled away from the house. The treads of the Thiokol threw snow into the air as he passed.
Campbell waited under the eave of the rear door until the lights from the snowcat faded into the darkness. Then he walked back inside and poured himself a carefully measured ounce of whiskey. He needed to calm the demons that were beginning to show their true colors.