Hive (37 page)

A month after the death of the LaHune-thing, Hayes and Sharkey were actually beginning to relax. They sat in her bed, drinking cognac and still trying to sort it all out. Whatever came out of all this, they knew, they would always have each other.

“After this is wound-up,” Sharkey said, a tangle of red hair falling over one pale shoulder, “they'll start again, you know. Even if they can't dig down to Gates' ruins, they'll be hot to get down to that lake again.”

Hayes knew it. He sipped his cognac, listening to the lonesome voice of the wind that no longer sounded haunted. “I know. Those things are still down there and as long as they are, they won't stop until they bring their scheme to an end. Not after all this time. They might be as patient as bricks in a wall, but they're going to want payback.”

Sharkey looked over at him. “If it comes down to it, if they push us into a corner, we better tell the truth. I have Gates' notes, his laptop. Gundry's notes. A lot of evidence . . . whether they want to believe it or not is another thing.”

They set their glasses aside and hunkered down into the warmth of the bed. “We'll do what we have to do,” Hayes said. “I keep thinking about that global warming business. If these caps ever melt all the way, the world is going to have much bigger problems than flooded cities.”

“One day at a time,” Sharkey said.

And in each other's arms, they did not feel the loneliness and solitude. They only felt each other and in the endless polar winter of the South Pole, that was enough.