Snow crunched.
Footsteps raced toward me.
I started to turn my head.
Something struck the back of my skull. My body flew forward and I collapsed into a snow bank.
I flipped onto my back. Two pairs of boots trudged toward me. Lifting my eyes, I saw Trotter and Ayers staring down at me. Trotter held a knife. Ayers wielded a wrench.
"Who are you? And tell us the truth this time." Trotter knelt down and placed the knife against my neck. "Your life depends on it."
Chapter 44
My fingers inched toward my machete. "I should be asking you that question. Who the hell are you?"
The blade pressed deeper into my neck. "No questions."
"You lied to me on the plane." My breath came out in short gasps. "You're no climatologist."
"Actually, Ted and I work in the Chicago National Weather Service Office. But you're right in a way. We're not trained in paleoclimatology. I wouldn't know an ice core from an ice sculpture."
My fingers closed around my machete. "Then why'd you come here?"
"It's my turn. Let's start simple. What's your name?"
"You already know that." I winced as he increased pressure on the blade. "My name is Cy Reed."
"See?" Trotter hissed into my ear. "That wasn't so hard. Now, tell me about your work. Tell me about your experiments."
"Experiments?"
"Don't act so surprised. We know everything."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tell the truth." His voice quivered with rage. "This isn't your first summer at Kirby. You were here last year. You were performing experiments."
"You're crazy."
"Stop lying. I know you were involved. I've already checked everyone else out." He inhaled sharply. "And why else would you follow us around Fitzgerald? Why else would you attack us?"
"I didn't attack you."
"Then where'd you get that black eye?"
My adrenaline raced. "I heard a crash. I figured I'd lend a hand. Next thing I know, I'm taking a pair of bolt cutters to the face."
"You just happened to be walking down that particular hallway?" He gave me a disdainful look. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"
"I was looking for Pat. He was in the hospital, checking on the survivor from the Desolation."
Trotter's eyes glinted with uncertainty. "Just tell me what you did to him," he said. "Tell me where I can find him. Pete deserves a decent funeral."
"Who's Pete?"
"You know damn well—”
A high-pitched howling noise assaulted my ears. Snow whirled around me. It was so thick it looked like a sheet of paper, fluttering in the wind. The effect lasted three or four seconds. Then silence overtook the area and the snow settled down to normal.
Trotter looked around uneasily. "What was that?"
Ayers shrugged.
"Let me go." I took a deep breath. "I need to find my friend."
"You're not going anywhere." Trotter glanced at Ayers. "Take a quick look around the perimeter. You know, just in case."
Ayers trudged away. The snow closed around him and soon, he was barely visible.
"Hey Ted," Trotter called out softly. "See anything?"
The wind gusted. If Ayers responded, I couldn't hear it.
Quietly, I took my machete out of its sheath. I wasn't sure what to make of Trotter. But he'd attacked me twice already. Now, it was my turn.
I thrust the blade at him. It sank into his thigh.
He screamed.
The pressure on my neck released. Quickly, I snaked out from under his grip and leapt to my feet.
Trotter stood up. Clutching his knife, he stalked toward me.
I swung my machete in a wide arc, aiming the butt at his head.
Lifting his arm, he blocked the blow. Then he lunged at me.
I sidestepped him.
He dug his boots into the snow, tried to stop his momentum.
But before he could get a grip, I'd wrapped my arm around his throat and swung behind him. I stuck my blade against his neck. "Stop moving."
He complied.
"Drop the knife."
He hesitated for a split-second. Then his knife tumbled to the ground, embedding itself deep into the snow. "You can kill me. I don't care. Just tell me one thing. What'd you do to Pete?"
"Who is Pete?"
"Pete Cook. But you already knew that."
I spun him around so he faced me. I stared into his eyes. An old expression came to mind.
Eyes are the windows to the soul.
It sounded good, romantic too. But eyes could be deceiving. I'd known people with dead eyes — serial killer eyes — who would've risked their lives to save complete strangers. And I'd known individuals with bright, hopeful eyes who'd just as soon hack you to pieces as talk to you.
So, I focused on other attributes. His body language for one. The timbre of his voice for another.
I lowered my machete. Then I shoved him. "I've never met your friend."
Trotter staggered backward and fell into the snow. He stared at me for a few seconds. "You're letting me go?"
I shoved the machete back into its sheath. "On one condition."
"What's that?"
"That you start talking."
"What do you want to know?"
I crossed my arms. "Everything."
Chapter 45
"Kirby Station is like an old apple," Trotter said. "It looks fine from the outside. But take one bite and you'll taste the rottenness."
I rolled my eyes. "Forget the metaphors. Just start at the beginning."
"Pete, Ted, and I grew up together. We played together, studied together. We spent every waking moment of our childhood together."
"I get it. You were best friends."
"Yeah, at least until we finished school. Then Ted and I grew up. Pete didn't. He became a roustabout, usually an unemployed one. His proudest achievement was being able to drink beer through his nostrils. Over the years, Ted and I drifted away from him."
I nodded.
"I tried to call him. I urged him to get his shit together. But he didn't see it my way. Eventually, we stopped talking. That's why I didn't notice when he went missing."
"Keep going."
"About a year ago, he called me out of the blue. He was panicked, could barely get his words out. He told me he'd taken a job in Antarctica. But something had gone horribly wrong and people were trying to experiment on him, maybe even kill him."
"And you believed him?"
"Not at first. His words were slurred. You know, like he was drunk. I figured he was playing an angle, trying to squeeze some dough out of me. So, I hung up on him." Trotter's face crumbled. "Can you believe that? My best friend was in trouble and I hung up on him."
I grabbed his shoulder, gave it a hard shake. "Stay focused. What happened next?"
"He didn't call back." Trotter wiped his eyes. "A few weeks passed. Eventually, I started to wonder what had happened to him. When I went back to check the call log, I realized he'd been telling the truth.
"You traced the call here?"
He nodded.
"Did you try calling him back?"
"Several times. It turned out he'd been working for Jim Peterson. But Peterson had no clue what had happened to him. Evidently, Pete just disappeared one day. He left a note behind saying he'd gone home."
"Maybe that's what happened."
"No one remembered seeming him leave. Plus, I got my hands on that so-called note. I don't know who wrote it, but it definitely wasn't Pete. Well, I kept pushing for answers. I spoke to Holly, Roy, some seasonal workers. I even talked to Pat for a few minutes. He treated me like a nutcase."
"That doesn't surprise me."