He nodded tersely. “All right.”
Wolff led the way through the doorway into the examining room beyond. There was a plain wooden chair, a sink, a bench containing towels and two military-issue portable medical kits, and several cabinets full of supplies both old and new. Dominating the room was an examining table, fully reclined, on which lay a sheeted figure. The sheet was slick with blood, and rolled towels had been placed around it, like sandbags along a levee, to stanch additional flow.
Marshall swallowed. He had dissected bodies in graduate-level physiology courses. But those bodies had been sanitized: drained, cleaned, anonymous, seemingly more synthetic than human. Josh Peters was none of those things.
He glanced at the others who had silently arranged themselves around the table. Wolff, his expression studiously neutral. Gonzalez, staring at the bloody sheet, jaw working. Sully, looking more uncomfortable than ever. And Conti, eyes darting toward the body, then away, and then back again, with the strangest mix of agitation, hunger, and impatience on his face.
“I’ll need a couple of buckets and a sponge,” Marshall said.
Gonzalez disappeared into a storage closet, returned with two white plastic tubs. Marshall placed one on the floor beside the table, half filled the other with water from the sink. A dusty lab coat hung from a peg on the door and Marshall put it on. Opening one of the portable medical kits, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them over his hands. Then he turned toward Sully.
“Gerry?” he said.
Sully didn’t answer. He was looking at the rolled towel pressed against Peters’s sheeted head. It was so sodden that blood was dripping from it onto the floor.
“Gerry,” Marshall said a little more loudly.
Sully started, looked at him.
“Would you mind taking notes?”
“Huh? Oh. Sure.” And Sully searched his pockets for a pen and a bit of paper.
Marshall took a deep breath. Then he reached for the rolled towels on the near side of the corpse and dropped them into the tub. They made a wet slapping noise as they hit the plastic. Another, deeper breath. Then, grasping the edge of the sheet, he slowly peeled it away from the body.
A collective, involuntary groan issued from the observers. Marshall heard it rise in his own throat. The only person who remained silent was Gonzalez, whose jaw nevertheless worked more quickly.
It was even worse than he’d feared. Peters looked like he’d been through a thresher. His clothes were in tatters and there were cuts over almost all the exposed surfaces of his body, thin straight red lines razored through the pale flesh. There was a huge, vertical slashing wound across his chest, tearing it open, the lower ribs sprung and gaping, ends clean and bare as if a butcher had frenched them. The slash widened as it reached the abdominal region, exposing red-and-gray ropes of viscera. More horrifying was the trauma to the head, an attack that left it barely recognizable: a ruined, broken skull sagging flaccidly from the brain stem, gray matter leaking into the crushed remains of the sinus cavities.
Marshall turned away, blinked several times. Then he took half a dozen of the clean towels from the bench, rolled them tightly, and snugged them up against the body to stop the blood that still trickled from a hundred cuts. Reaching into the medical kit, he removed a metal probe. Then he turned his attention back to Peters.
“The body seems to be completely exsanguinated,” he said. “There appear to be excoriations over almost its entire surface, along with numerous, perhaps hundreds, of narrow wounds with non-ragged margins. I am at a loss to explain how these smaller wounds were created. At least two of the other, larger wounds present could individually have proven fatal. The first of these fractured and exposed the—let’s see—the eighth to the twelfth ribs on the left side, penetrating the pleura and causing massive hemorrhaging, then continued down to the abdominal area where it also penetrated the peritoneal cavity. In the wound channel there are indications of damage to the cardiac ventricles. The second large wound needs little description. Massive damage to the entire region of the neck and head, from the right internal jugular vein to the cerebrum to the parietal lobe to the frontal lobe, along both sides of the longitudinal fissure. Elsewhere, the patella and other bones of the left knee are crushed, the femoral artery pierced.” A pause. “Damage to the clothing corresponds to the injuries noted. Further analysis will have to await toxicological and professional forensic analysis.” He stepped away.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Gonzalez cleared his throat. “It’s like I said. A polar bear attack. Now, can we get him wrapped up and stowed in a meat locker?”
“It could be human,” Wolff replied. His voice was quiet but steady.
“Are you crazy?” Gonzalez said. “Look at the wounds!”
“People high on certain illegal drugs have been known to fall into ferocious, murderous rages. With the right kind of implement—weapon—this kind of damage could be inflicted.” He turned to Marshall. “Isn’t that right?”
Marshall glanced back at the body. “The chest wound is about ten centimeters wide, with a total depth of almost eight centimeters. The amount of pressure to inflict such a wound would be massive, requiring tremendous strength.”
“Such as a polar bear,” said Gonzalez.
“Frankly, I’m surprised even a polar bear could create wounds like that,” Marshall replied.
“A killer could do it,” said Wolff. “If given time to land enough blows.”
“What about this, then?” With the probe, Marshall lifted the left leg at the knee. The foot swung loosely—too loosely—and hung at an odd angle. “It’s bitten almost completely through, hanging by a few tendons.”
“Simulated bite marks,” Wolff replied. “Created to cause fear and unease.”
“For what purpose?” asked Sully.
“To keep the curious away from the site where the cat’s body has been cached.”
Marshall sighed. “So you’re telling us that whoever stole the cat is willing to kill—kill in the most outrageous and savage fashion imaginable—to protect his prize?”
“He or she was willing to come up here, pretend to be one of us,” Wolff countered. “Willing to spend the time and the money, take a terrible risk. Why not?”
Marshall looked speculatively at him. “I don’t see why you refuse to accept the far simpler, far more rational explanation: this man blundered into the path of a polar bear and got killed as a result. Polar bears are ferocious, known man-killers. Why can’t you believe that?”
Wolff’s eyes glinted in the harsh artificial light. “Dr. Marshall, you speak of simple, rational explanations. I can’t accept that a polar bear did this for one very simple, very rational reason: if there is no thief—if a polar bear did this—then where did the cat go…and why is it missing?”
25
Throughout the meeting in the infirmary, Conti had remained silent, preferring to keep his observations to himself. As the group broke up, he stayed behind for a moment, watching Gonzalez and the newly returned Private Phillips carefully wrap the body in preparation for storage. From the soldiers’ chatter he’d learned that, in order to isolate the corpse from the rest of the personnel, a spare meat locker in the south wing would be used. Now he began making his way slowly and thoughtfully back to the central section of the base.
As he reached the entrance plaza, he saw Fortnum and Toussaint approaching.
“Emilio,” Fortnum said. “We heard you wanted to see us?”
Conti glanced around quickly before answering. The plaza was empty, the guard station temporarily unattended. Conti lowered his voice anyway.
“I have some assignments for you,” he told them. “Some special footage I need.”
The two nodded.
“Consider these projects to be under the radar. Surprise segments I’m going to insert for added effect. Don’t take any others along. And nobody is to know—not Kari, not Wolff.”
The cinematographers looked at each other, then nodded aga
in, a little more slowly this time.
“Have you heard the news?”
“What news?” Fortnum replied.
“Josh Peters is dead.”
“Josh?” the two men said in unison.
“How?” asked Toussaint.
“The scientists think a polar bear got him—it happened outside. Wolff thinks it was whoever stole the cat.”
“Christ,” said Fortnum. He’d gone dead white.
“Yes. And we have to capitalize on this while we still can.”
The men looked at him blankly.
“Kari is going around right now, spreading the word of Josh’s death.” He turned to Fortnum. “Allan, I need you to find her. Get reaction shots from the crew. The more extreme, the better. But be subtle about it, try not to clue Kari in on what you’re going for. If you don’t get the reactions you want, wait until Kari has left and then embellish on her descriptions while the camera’s running. I want to see naked fear. Hysterical tears would be even better.”
A puzzled look had spread over Fortnum’s pallid features. “This is our own crew you’re talking about filming—right?”
“Of course. They’re the only ones around who don’t know about Peters yet.” Conti waved an impatient hand. “You need to hurry up, Kari’s out there already, playing Johnny Appleseed with news of the killing.”
Fortnum opened his mouth as if to raise another objection. Then he closed it instead and—with one last curious look at Conti—walked off in the direction of the crews’ quarters.
Conti watched him go. When the DP was out of sight, he turned toward Toussaint. “I have an even more important job for you. The body is currently being held in the infirmary. It’s in the south wing, I’ll sketch out a map for you. They’re going to place it in cold storage, but I heard them saying that some repairs are needed to the unit; it won’t be ready and chilled until tomorrow. That’s our opportunity.”
“Opportunity,” Toussaint repeated a little uncertainly.
“Don’t you understand? Once the body’s in the freezer, it’ll be locked up.” Conti tried to master the almost frantic impatience and frustration that had been building within him since he’d first heard about the missing cat. “It’s like this. Wolff doesn’t want us filming Peters’s corpse.”
“Naturally.” Toussaint’s voice sounded detached, far away.
“But we have to. This is a fluid situation; it’s changing all the time. The documentary has to change with it.” Conti grasped the cameraman’s sleeve. “Our livelihoods, our reputations, are on the line here. We were dealt a rotten hand. That cat was the heart and soul of our show—and now it’s gone. But something new is beginning to happen. What started this morning as just a mystery has become a murder mystery. Do you see? Done right, this could be even bigger than Raising the Tiger. With the publicity that’s already run we’ve got a built-in audience. And we can give them something nobody’s given them before: a ‘closed-box’ documentary that suddenly morphs into something completely different. A crime drama that plays out in real time, among the actual crew.”
Toussaint blinked in reply.
“But you can’t have a murder mystery without a shot of the corpse. That’s where you come in. I want you to wait until dinner. Things will have settled down a little by then. I’ll make sure the soldiers are occupied—nobody will be around. It’ll be quick. Consider it a recon: get in, get the shot, get out. Don’t worry about the lighting or the framing or anything like that. It’s the footage that’s important. Do it in one long take; I can fix it on the DataCine back in New York. Okay?”
Toussaint nodded slowly.
“Good man. And listen—remember not to tell anybody. Not even Fortnum. It’ll be our secret—until the final cut, and the applause of the network execs. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Toussaint in a very quiet voice.
Conti gave a quick, birdlike nod. “Now, prepare your equipment. I’ll make you that map.”
26
The set of rooms was small and stripped as bare as a monk’s cell. Only the skeletal frames of bunk beds and a few sad-looking metal cabinets remained. And yet as he looked around, Logan felt certain this had been the scientists’ quarters.
Locating it had proven a challenge: C Level was cluttered with so much spare junk, it was hard to discern habitat from mere surplus bedding. But there were precisely eight beds here, arranged in attitudes that suggested an actual living arrangement rather than mere storage. There were four bunks in the central room, two above two. A single bunk in a good-sized room to one side—no doubt the chief scientist’s quarters. Two more beds in a room on the other side. And one last bunk in a cramped space off the bathroom barely larger than a closet.
Logan switched on every available light. Then, hands behind his back, he strolled slowly through the suite of rooms, looking around, peering into the empty cabinets, silently cajoling the long-departed ghosts to whisper their secrets to him. He’d hoped to find something: tools, perhaps, or equipment, printouts, photos. But it was clear the quarters had been carefully searched long ago, every item of interest removed and—if standard operating procedure in such classified matters was followed—immediately incinerated. Two hangers hung forlornly in a closet; a button lay on the floor, trailing thread behind it like a kite string. A tube of toothpaste sat on the metal shelf above the bathroom sink, curled and desiccated. It seemed the space had little left to tell.
Logan returned to the central room. He had lived in a similar space himself once, years ago, on an archaeological dig near Masada. The Israeli army had loaned the team of scientists and historians a remote set of barracks to bunk in. Logan shook his head, recalling the aridity and the isolation. It had felt, he remembered, a million miles from anywhere. Just as this place did.
He settled slowly onto the wire springs of the nearest bunk. Empty rooms or not, scientists left trails. Their minds were always busy. They kept journals. They had ideas and observations to collect, and never more so than when away from civilization, far from phones or research assistants. There would be notes to jot down, things to come back to later in the comfort of private labs: ideas for experiments, theories for research papers. His wife had teased him about this very thing more than once, calling him a conceptual pack rat. “Other people hoard dish towels, greeting cards, spare toasters,” she’d said. “You hoard theories.” The scientists here would have been no different.
Except for one thing. They—and their theories—never got out.
He rose from the bed, looked around at the four bunks again. The chummiest guys, the socializers, would have slept in this room, played poker or bridge. He walked slowly through the other rooms, stopping at last in the cramped compartment. This dark and cave-like space would probably have been the least desirable berth. And yet it was the one he would have chosen: private, quiet, the ideal place to concentrate on one’s thoughts.
Or to write a journal.
As he stood there—in the acute and watchful silence—an unexpected but strangely delicious shudder passed through him. All of a sudden he felt intensely alive. Even if I don’t succeed here, he thought, even if this whole wild-goose chase proves a failure, right now is what makes it all worthwhile. There was something indefinably glorious about the hunt itself: here, in this room, three floors beneath the ice, trying to piece together the struggles of those men, fifty years ago; putting himself in their shoes; and maybe—just maybe—finding gold dust.
The room was utterly empty save for the bare bed frame. Kneeling quickly, he looked at it from below. Nothing. He pulled the lone, empty cabinet away from the wall, looked behind it, looked beneath it, pushed it back into place. In the rear of the room was a closet, barely big enough to stand in. He lifted the single metal rod that spanned it, peered into its hollow core, returned it. There was a narrow lip that ran along the closet walls, just below the ceiling; he reached up and drew a finger along it, finding nothing but dust. He stepped back into the room, looking around again: at t
he bare walls and ceiling, at the lone lightbulb.
If I’d been living here, he thought, if I’d been keeping unauthorized notes of my findings—and I would have—where would I have stashed them?
He pulled the bed frame away from the wall. The metal surface behind it was as bare as all the rest, save for an electrical outlet near the floor. With a quiet sigh, he pushed the bed back into position.
Then he paused. Pulling the bed away once again, he knelt beside the wall, retrieved a combination tool and a flashlight from his pocket, unscrewed the outlet plate, and shone the beam of his flashlight inside. What he saw surprised him. The outlet receptacles were disconnected and came away with the cover plate. Behind it was just a dark rectangular hole. Then, looking more closely, he noticed a strand of thick rubber wrapped around the ancient switch box. One end of the length of rubber disappeared down into the blackness behind the wall space. Gently threading it out, Logan found it was tied to a hole punched into the spine of a small notebook: yellowed, tattered, covered with mildew.
As carefully as if he was handling a Fabergé egg, Logan untied the little knot of rubber, wiped the dust from the notebook, and opened the cover. Faded, spidery handwriting covered the first page.
He smiled slightly to himself. “Karen, darling,” he murmured. “I wish you could see this.” But there was no response from beyond the grave—as Logan knew there wouldn’t be.
27
The corridors of the south wing were dimly lit, and shadows striped the drab metal walls. It was 6:00 PM and Fear Base lay cloaked in utter silence. Ken Toussaint walked down the central passage of A Level, portable digital camera in one hand and Conti’s hastily sketched map in the other. He hadn’t seen any of the small detachment of soldiers—Conti had promised to keep them occupied through the dinner hour—but nevertheless he found himself walking almost on tiptoe. Something about the close silence unnerved him.