Girl in Ice(28)

“Raj, come on,” Nora said, cleaning up the detritus from the specimen bucket. “Wyatt doesn’t deserve that.”

“Oh, no? Honestly, Nora, you believe him?”

She tilted her head, her opalescent skin reflecting the cool ice floor. “Of course not—”

“He found her wandering on the ice somewhere, her family fallen into a crevasse or through thin ice, or who knows, maybe they’re out there looking for her? Look, we both know he hasn’t written a research piece in years. And have you checked out who’s been assigned to head the new Arctic research base? The one they’re going to build after they tear this place down next year? It’s not him. He’s not even on staff.”

“Andy was being considered for that post, wasn’t he?” I asked.

“He was, Val, but… well, I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“It’s okay, Raj.” I hugged myself, the frigid air suddenly penetrating my every layer.

“Raj,” Nora said, “we’re not here to investigate Wyatt. We need all of our energy, all of our concentration just to get this project done.”

He tossed his goggles and flippers in a pile along with the rest of his diving suit. “Someday I’d like to get a peek at that journal he’s always scribbling in. Or check out those slides he’s got locked away like they’re state secrets.”

“Slides?” I asked.

“The ones he can’t stop staring at. Arranging. Rearranging. Locking up in the spec fridge.”

“Listen, Val,” Nora said. “Maybe it is a good idea we keep this, um, narwhal thing to ourselves. Sound good?”

“Sure. I’m here to learn her language,” I said. “That’s it.” I felt my stomach twist. Another secret to keep from Wyatt. On top of that, I wasn’t exactly being straight with Nora. Of course I wanted to decipher Sigrid’s language, but more than anything I wanted the truth about Andy, and now, Sigrid.

I had to find that journal.



* * *



IT WAS JUST past three in the morning. Swathed in a veil of silver twilight, I hovered in the hallway at Wyatt’s closed door. I felt unreal, vampiric. Inhaling slow, measured breaths, I listened. Just the sound of Wyatt’s snoring, the whine of the wind.

I tiptoed to the kitchen.

A cone of light shone down from the hood of the oven; the rest of the room malingered shadowy and vague, cast in somber blue by the gloaming outside the window. I crept into the main room. Every inch of Wyatt’s desk swam with files and papers, but I knew what Raj had been talking about. A ragged eggplant-colored leather journal, held together by thick black elastic. Centimeter by centimeter—listening for his snoring—I creaked open the top drawer of his desk, then all the ones below. Old calendars, batteries, rusted razors, junk. No journal.

I was about to slink back to bed, defeated, when I noticed that the spec fridge, just a small cube plugged in behind his PC, was unlocked. Slides… locked away like they’re state secrets… I froze, every cell on high alert. Still he rumbled on.

The fridge opened with a little pop of suction.

On the left side, a dozen metal rings held test tubes filled with what looked like blood, each vial and its corresponding ring labeled in Wyatt’s slanted scrawl. One metal ring was empty. On the right side, several dozen slides were stacked in wire racks. Each was labeled, but there wasn’t enough light to read them. Slowly I turned the little fridge toward the garish light from the window. With trembling hands, I removed a stack of slides.

The first one read ODIN, MUSCLE.

Then: ODIN, BLOOD.

Three more slides were labeled ODIN, STOMACH.

The sixth one said Gynaephora groenlandica. Latin for Arctic woolly bear moth. Again: MUSCLE, BLOOD, STOMACH.

The next label read Tenebrionidae, which roughly translated as “dark beetle.” MUSCLE, BLOOD, STOMACH.

I reached for the next slide and froze. What am I doing here? I didn’t even know what I was looking for. Blood like a rush of wind in my ears.

The tinkling of an alarm, distant.

The snoring stopped.

My hand shook.

I stopped breathing.

Listened.

Just the buzz of the light over the stove, the malevolent silence from the boundless waste outside the window.

Head pounding, sweating in the chilly room, I put the slides back in reverse order, praying I’d gotten it right. My hand hovered over the test tubes of blood—That empty ring—I couldn’t quite think straight—had I removed a test tube and put it somewhere?

Closing my eyes, I mentally sequenced what I’d just done, praying it was right. Shut the fridge. Padded down the hall, pausing in the shadow of Wyatt’s door. Caught in a triangle of light cast by his lamp, wearing a ragged T-shirt and sweats, Wyatt sat on his bed facing his window, one arm tied off with a length of rubber cord. Poised at the crook of his elbow, he held a needle, plunger at the ready. Perhaps he sensed me there, because his leonine head had begun to turn just as I slipped away and out of sight.





eleven


Sparks flew between Jeanne’s hands as she welded two pieces of metal shelving together, unaware I had come in until the wintry blast from the open door of the Shed hit her. She cut the power and flipped back the face guard of her helmet. She didn’t smile.