Michael felt like he'd played the scene too many times before, trying to convince Murphy that the impossible was possible, that the unthinkable had occurred�a woman had been found frozen in the ice, that Danzig had been killed by one of his dogs, or that, after
murdering Ackerley, he had returned once more to attack Darryl in the dive hut. The only advantage was that Murphy had by then become so accustomed to these strange conferences that he had stopped questioning Michael's veracity, or his sanity. Sitting behind his desk now, he simply combed his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair�more salt, Michael thought, by the day�and asked his questions in a resigned, almost perfunctory manner.
�But you're sure you got him this time, with the speargun?� he asked Michael.
�Yes,� Michael said. �He's gone, for good.� But was he really as sure as he'd just sounded?
�Either way,� Murphy said, �nobody goes to the dive hut until further notice. Make sure Mr. Hirsch gets that message loud and clear.�
There was a burst of static from the radio behind his chair. �Wind speed, one hundred twenty, north, northeast,� a faint voice reported. �Temperatures ranging from forty to sixty below, Fahrenheit, anticipated to rise to �� There was further interference, then the voice returned, saying, �� high-pressure front, moving southwest, from Chilean peninsula toward Ross Sea.�
�Sounds like we might get a break tomorrow,� he said, swiveling in his chair and flicking it off. �About fucking time.� Then he turned back toward Michael with a printout in his hand. �Dr. Barnes's report,� he said, slipping on a pair of glasses to read aloud. � �The patient, Ms. Eleanor Ames, by her own declaration an English citizen, of approximately twenty years of age��� he stopped, glancing at Michael over the rim of his glasses�� �is in stable condition, with all vital signs now holding steady. There are still signs of recurring hypotension and heart arrhythmias, coupled with extreme anemia, which we will aggressively address once the blood work is complete.� � He lowered the paper and asked, �Got any idea when Hirsch will be done with that?�
�Nope.�
�Don't be too obvious, but give him a nudge.�
�Wouldn't it be better coming from you?�
�I don't want to arouse his suspicions any more than they might be already,� Murphy said. �For all he knows, he's just got another ordinary blood sample�let's keep it that way. And in case you
hadn't noticed, he doesn't do well with authority figures.� He sat back, still brandishing the paper. �So this paper is the first official document, date-and time-stamped, confirming the existence of Sleeping Beauty.�
�Eleanor Ames,� Michael corrected him.
�Yeah, you're right. She's real enough now.� He conspicuously slipped the sheet into a blue plastic folder. �And as a result, everything from now on either has to go by the book,� he said, �or else it has to be left temporarily undocumented�and absolutely uncirculated. No paper trail, in other words, or loose lips. You do catch my drift?�
Michael nodded.
�The last thing we need here�the last thing in the whole fucking world�is any more scrutiny than we're already going to get, from the NSF and just about every other agency we deal with. I've got two years until I qualify for a full pension. I don't want to spend them filling out forms and giving depositions.� He gestured at a teetering stack of official-looking papers and forms in a desk tray. �See that? That's just the routine shit. Imagine if the latest headlines get out.�
Michael could well imagine. Already he was wondering what he would say�or not say�to Gillespie the next time they talked.
�So that's why I'm going to ask you, for the time being, to keep whatever you can under your hat. And while you're at it, do me one more favor.�
�I'll do whatever I can.�
�I want you to be the liaison, or whatever you want to call it, to Ms. Ames. Help Charlotte out, and keep me informed of what's up�how the patient's doing, what she's doing, what you think we need to address. I don't need to tell you, nothing that looks like this has ever happened before�anyplace or anytime�and I don't particularly want to broadcast that she's here to anybody who doesn't already know about it. I want to take that nice and slow.�
�But do you plan to keep her completely confined to the infirmary?� Michael asked. �Because she could go stir-crazy in there. I know I would.�
�We'll figure that out as we go, and as we get the info back from Darryl and Charlotte.�
�And what about her companion,� Michael pressed, �the man
she calls Sinclair? If the forecast's right, can we go back to Stromviken to find him?�
�Tomorrow, if the weather does improve. Maybe then we can do a search party.� He sounded as if he'd just as soon not; Michael suspected he was hoping that this Sinclair�just another huge problem, from Murphy's point of view�would simply disappear.
�I mean, one thing at a time,� Murphy resumed. �Assuming that she is who she says she is, and what she says she is��
�I'd be hard-pressed,� Michael interjected, �to come up with another explanation for all this. And believe me, I've tried.�
�Yeah, well, keep trying,� the chief replied. �But granting, simply for argument's sake, that you're right, what if she was to catch something from somebody here, something that she has no immunity against?�
Michael hadn't thought of that and let out a �huh.�
�See?� Murphy said, throwing up his hands. �That's the kind of stuff I've got to consider. I mean, I'm no doctor. Hell, if I were, I might know what to do about Ackerley�
Michael had been wondering about that, too. No announcement of his death had been made, and it was only a matter of time before somebody noticed that even the notoriously elusive Spook hadn't been seen in a while.
�What did you do with his body?� Michael asked.
�Cold storage,� Murphy replied. �I've notified his mother�he lives with her, back in Wilmington�but frankly, she didn't seem all there. I haven't put in the official report yet, because the second I do�coming so close on the heels of what happened to Danzig�I'll be lucky not to have a goddamned FBI delegation sent down here to investigate.� A sudden gust of wind shook the whole module on its cinder blocks. �And I asked Lawson to go in and clean up the botany lab, maybe try to preserve whatever he was working on.�
That seemed like a good, and laudable, decision, but Michael wondered if anyone would know how to keep all the plants alive, especially the orchids on their long and delicate stems. Everything in the Antarctic seemed to conspire against survival, against life, and as he got up to go, he thought of the one thing, the one person, that the eternal cold had actually protected and taken to its bosom.
�And don't forget what I said about the Ames woman,� Murphy called out. �Treat her with kid gloves, all the way.�
On the chance that she might be awake and alert, Michael stopped off at the infirmary. He didn't want to look like the importunate suitor, but at the same time he was desperately eager to begin getting her story. In his backpack, he was carrying his reporter's pads, his pens, and a palm-sized tape recorder; he'd debated bringing his camera, but there was something too intrusive about it. He was afraid of discomfiting her. The pictures, he decided, could wait.
But he sensed his timing wasn't great. He knocked on the closed door�the infirmary was generally left wide open�and he could hear Charlotte bustling about inside. �Yes?� she said. �Who's there?�
He identified himself, and the door opened enough for him to slip in. Charlotte, in her green hospital scrubs, looked harried, and Eleanor was out of sight, inside the sick bay.
�She awake?�
Charlotte sighed but nodded.
�Everything all right?�
Charlotte cocked her head to one side and said in a low voice, �We're having what you might call some technical difficulties.�
�Meaning?�
�Psychological. Emotional. Adjustment problems.�
He heard a sob from the sick bay.
�I mean, it's not exactly a shock,� Charlotte said, �given the circumstances. I've just given her another mild sedative. It should help.�
�You think it's okay for me to go in and talk to her before it takes effect?� Michael whispered.
Charlotte shrugged. �Who knows�maybe the distraction will help.� But as he started for the sick bay, she warned, �As long as you don't say anything to upset her.�
How, Michael wondered, could you talk to Eleanor Ames
without
saying something that might upset her?
When he entered the sick bay, he found Eleanor standing in a fluffy white robe and staring out through the narrow panel window; much of its glass was covered with blowing snow and only admitted the palest simulacrum of sunlight. Her head turned quickly when he came in�scared, skittish, and plainly a bit ashamed at being seen in such bedroom attire. She hastily pulled the lapels of the robe closed, then went back to gazing out the window.
�Not much to see today,� Michael said.
�He's out there.�
Michael did not have to ask whom she was talking about.
�He's out there, and he's all alone.�
A largely untouched meal sat on a tray on the bedside table.
�And he doesn't even know that I left him unwillingly.� Eleanor paced back and forth in a pair of white slippers, her tearful eyes still riveted on the window. The transformation was strange; when Michael had first seen her, in the ice and later on in the church, she had looked so alien, so out of time and so out of place. It was never in doubt that he was talking to someone from whom he was unquestionably separated by an immeasurable gap of time and experience.
But now, with the collar of the white robe gathered up about her face, her freshly washed hair hanging down, and the slip-ons scuffing along the linoleum floor, she looked like any other beautiful young woman newly emerged from the treatment room at a posh spa.
�He's survived so much,� Michael said, choosing his words carefully. �I'm sure he can survive this storm, too.�
�That was before.�
�Before what?�
�Before I abandoned him.� She had a clump of tissues wadded in her hand, and she used them to dry her tears.
�You had no choice,� Michael said. �How long could you have gone on like that? Eating dog food and burning prayer books to keep warm?�
Had he spoken too precipitously? He was trying to comfort her, but her green eyes flashed in warning.
�We have been through worse than that together. Worse things than you could ever know. Worse than you could ever imagine.� She turned away, her frail shoulders heaving beneath the terry-cloth robe.
Michael put his backpack on the floor and sat down on the plastic chair in the corner. Part of him said that the sensible thing was simply to leave and come back later when she was calmer, but something else�was it wishful thinking?�told him that, despite her grief and confusion, she did not really want him to go � that she could still derive some solace from his being there. In the artificial
environment in which she had been placed, he might actually provide a note of familiarity.
�The doctor tells me I'm not to leave here,� Eleanor said, in a more tranquil tone.
�Certainly not to go out into that storm,� Michael joshed.
�This room.�
Michael knew that that was what she'd meant. �Only for the time being,� he assured her. �We don't want to expose you to anything�germs, bacteria�that you might not have any natural defenses against.�
Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. �I have nursed soldiers through malaria, dysentery, cholera, and the Crimean fever, which I myself contracted.� She breathed deeply. �As you can see, I have survived them all.� Then she turned toward him, and said, more brightly, �But Miss Nightingale, of course, has been making great strides in that realm. We have begun to air the hospital wards, even at night, in order to dissipate the miasma that forms. With improvements in hygiene and nutrition, I believe that countless lives can be saved. It is just a matter of persuading the proper authorities.�
It was the longest speech he had ever heard her make, and she must have been surprised at her own volubility, too, because she suddenly stopped herself, and a faint flush came into her cheek. It was clear to Michael, though he would have guessed as much, that she had taken her duties as a nurse quite seriously.
�What am I saying?� she mumbled. �Miss Nightingale is long dead. And everything I have just said has no doubt sounded foolish. The world has gone on, and here I am telling you things that you must know have been proven right, or utterly wrong, years ago. I'm sorry�I forget myself.�
�Florence Nightingale was right,� Michael said, �and so are you.� He paused. �And you will not be confined to these quarters for long. I'll see what we can do.�
