When he got to the wooden trellis in front of the door, he had to hang on until a particularly powerful gust of wind had pa.s.sed, then he swung himself up the ramp and into the lab. Ackerley had rigged up a double sheet of thick plastic to stop the drafts from the door, and once Darryl had parted the curtains, he found himself in the familiar heat, humidity, and bright light of the lab. I should come here more often, he thought-it's like a vacation to the South Seas.

"Hey, Ackerley," he called, while stomping his feet on the rubber mats. "I need some salad fixings!"

But the voice that answered him wasn't Ackerley's-it was Law-son's-and it came from behind some metal part.i.tions. Darryl shrugged off his parka and hat and gloves and goggles, draping them on a rickety coatrack fashioned from a whale's bone, and went in search of Lawson.

He found him on a stepstool, tending to a cl.u.s.ter of ripe red strawberries hanging from a latticework of misting pipes. All around his head there were other clumps of gleaming wet fruit, and on tables there were clear containers holding a veritable jungle of other plants-tomatoes, radishes, Bibb lettuce, roses, and, most wonderful of all, orchids. The orchids came in a dozen different colors, from white to fuchsia to golden yellow. They rose up on strangely tilting stalks that looked like the legs of cranes.

"What are you doing here?" Darryl asked. "Isn't that Ackerley's job?"

"Just helping out," Lawson said, noncommittally "It's like Hawaii in here," Darryl said, putting his face up to the bright, warming lights that were mounted in the ceiling above the pipes. "No wonder Ackerley hates to leave." Darryl eyed a particularly succulent-looking strawberry and said, "You think he'd mind if I tried one?"

Lawson glanced down from the stool. "No. Go ahead."

Darryl reached up and plucked the lowest of the hanging berries, then popped it into his mouth. Uncle Barney turned out a lot of good food from the commons galley, but there was nothing to beat the flavor of a strawberry fresh from the vine.

"Where is he, by the way?"

Lawson shrugged. "Ask Murphy."

That seemed odd to Darryl. Why would Murphy know? And it was also odd that anyone else was there when Ackerley wasn't; he was a lot like Darryl in that way-he didn't like strangers roaming around his lab when he wasn't there.

Come to think of it, the place didn't look right, either. Usually it was spic-and-span. But off to one side, Darryl could see a clumsy path where a couple of cabinets had been overturned, spilling dirt and lichens and moss samples onto the floor. A broom and dustpan leaned up against one of the racks, along with a black plastic garbage bag that appeared to be full of refuse. What's going on? Has Lawson been appointed the new a.s.sistant gardener?

Darryl tried a couple more conversational gambits, but he got the distinct impression that Lawson wanted him out of the lab. Normally, the guy was pretty friendly-even, at times, positively gregarious-but not today. Maybe he wasn't happy about his new duty and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Darryl thanked him for the strawberry and put all his gear back on. Sometimes it felt like he spent half his time at pole just taking off and putting on the same layers of clothing.

Leaving the botany lab, he slogged toward the main quadrant, holding tight again to the guide ropes. The snow was so thick in the air it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead, but when he approached the administration module, he saw Murphy and Michael, their own heads down, forging their way across the concourse and toward some of the storage buildings. He'd have called out to them, but he knew his voice would be obliterated by the wind. Instead, he just followed in their path. They were heading for one of the ramshackle sheds, where they unfastened the padlock on the corrugated steel doors, then slipped inside.

Darryl's curiosity was aroused. Never, he thought, present a scientist with a mystery that you don't then expect him to try to solve.

Darryl sidled into the shed, and after whipping off his snowy goggles, looked around. He was in a kind of anteroom, but even it was filled with crates of kitchen and camp supplies. There was another pair of steel doors just beyond, and they were open, too- leading into what Darryl guessed had once served as a huge meat locker and storeroom.

He stepped inside, then stopped dead when he saw Murphy whirl around on him, with a gun extended. Michael was armed, too, with a speargun.

"Mother of G.o.d, what the f.u.c.k are you doing here?" Murphy said in an urgent whisper.

Darryl was still too shocked by the weaponry to reply.

Michael lowered the spear, and said, "Okay, what's done is done. Just stay back and be quiet."

"Why?"

"You'll know in a minute."

With Murphy cautiously leading the way, they moved down an aisle stacked ten feet high with boxes and crates until they rounded a corner and Darryl saw a long wooden crate marked MIXED CONDIMENTS: HEINZ and, above it, inexplicably hanging from a thick pipe, a b.l.o.o.d.y handcuff.

"s.h.i.t," Murphy muttered. "s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t."

What the h.e.l.l were they looking for, Darryl wondered? What had they been expecting to find? For a second, he wondered if Danzig had returned. Hadn't the speargun through the chest sent him safely to the bottom of the sea?

"Ackerley" Murphy said, in a slightly raised voice. "You in here?"

Ackerley? That was who they were looking for? In there, of all places? If so, what the h.e.l.l were they so afraid of? The man was as harmless as one of his cabbages.

There was a scratching sound, like a pen on paper, and they crept toward the next aisle. It, too, was empty, but the scratching sound grew louder. Murphy, the gun out in front, moved to the next aisle, and there they saw Ackerley-or a close facsimile of him. He was gaunter than ever, his ponytail loose and hanging down like a dead squirrel on the back of his neck. Draped around his shoulders, he wore a shredded plastic garbage bag. He was sitting on a crate of Coca-Cola, and all around his feet there were empty soda cans and various papers-printed invoices, ripped from the boxes-that he had been scrawling on. With a clipboard on his lap, he was scribbling on the back of another one even then, working with the concentration of a physicist straightening out an especially complex equation.

"Ackerley," Murphy said, and Ackerley, his little round spectacles creeping down his nose, said, "Not now," without looking up.

Murphy and Michael exchanged a look, as if to say What next? while Darryl simply looked on, aghast. What had happened to Ackerley? His throat, partially revealed under the plastic bag, looked ravaged, and the wrist of his left hand, which limply supported the clipboard, appeared broken and bruised. Flakes of blood crusted the skin.

"What are you doing?" Michael asked, in a deliberately innocent voice.

"Making notes."

"About what?"

Ackerley kept writing.

"What are you writing about?" Murphy repeated.

"About dying."

"You don't look dead to me," Darryl said, though it wasn't entirely true.

Ackerley finished a sentence, then slowly raised his eyes. They were red-rimmed, and even the whites were tinged a pale pink.

"Oh, I am," he said. "It just hasn't taken yet." His voice carried a low, gurgling sound. He took a swig from an open can, then just let it drop from his hand.

Murphy had allowed the barrel of the gun to drift toward the floor, and Ackerley gestured at it.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Murphy quickly raised it again, and Ackerley let the last paper waft to the floor to join all the others.

"I've numbered them," he said, "so you'll be able to follow along."

"Follow what?" Michael said.

"What happens," Ackerley replied, "afterwards."

There was silence, and then Ackerley dragged the plastic bag away from his throat; the skin was so mangled that Darryl was surprised that he had been able to speak at all. The vocal cords could be seen pulsating.

"Now," Ackerley said, nodding at the gun, "you'd better use that."

"What are you talking about?" Murphy said. "I'm not gonna shoot you now. We'll figure something out."

"That's right," Michael interjected. "We'll talk to Dr. Barnes. There must be a way to help you."

"Use it," Ackerley said, in a ghastly rasping voice, "and afterwards, just to be on the safe side, cremate my remains." Slowly rising to his feet, he took a faltering step in their direction. "Otherwise, you might wind up like me." All three fell back. "It apparently pa.s.ses from one host to another quite easily."

"What does?" Darryl said, b.u.mping up against a shelf of pots and pans that clanged in their boxes.

"The infection. Either through blood or saliva. Like HIV, it seems to be present, to some degree, in all the bodily fluids." Staggering closer and focusing on the gun, he muttered, "Do it, or I will kill you. I'm not sure I have much choice in the matter." His eyes, behind his gla.s.ses, blinked slowly. His foot knocked one of the empty cans toward them, and it spun in a lazy circle on the concrete.

Michael tried to prod him back with the tip of the speargun, but Ackerley brushed it aside.

"Use the handgun," he said. "Do it right."

He kept on coming, and there was less and less room to retreat. Darryl stepped back, past the kitchen equipment aisle, but at close range he could see the demented, though utterly determined, look in Ackerley's eye. He meant what he said.

"Shoot!" Ackerley cried, a bubble of blood popping from his open throat. "Shoot me!" and with his hands extended he deliberately lunged at Murphy's arm.

The gun went off with a blast, echoing for several seconds in the cold confines of the locker. Ackerley's head snapped back, his gla.s.ses flying off, and he dropped to the concrete floor.

But his eyes were still open, and he was mouthing the word "shoot" one more time before he suddenly grew still, and the last b.l.o.o.d.y bubble rose, then burst, on his throat.

Murphy's arm was shaking, and he lowered it to his side.

Darryl started to kneel by the body, but Michael said, "Hold on."

Darryl held back.

"Yeah," Murphy said, his voice quavering, "give him some room."

"I think," Michael said, solemnly, "we just need to wait a while."

And so they sat, on the wooden crates, their heads down but their eyes on the corpse, huddled around it in a ragged circle. How long they waited, Darryl wasn't sure. But it was Michael who eventually knelt down to feel for a pulse and listen for a heartbeat. He shook his head to indicate there were none.

"But I'm still not going to take any chances," Murphy said, and Darryl knew enough to leave it at that. Murphy would do what Murphy wanted to do, and it was best not to inquire too deeply.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

December 20, 11 p.m.

MICHAEL HAD BEEN PREPARING for the call for months, but when it came, it was still a shock. "It was a blessing," Karen was saying, for at least the third time. "We both know Krissy, and she wouldn't have wanted to go on like that."

The vigil was over. He sat hunched over, as if protecting himself from a punch in the stomach-because that was still how it felt-in the cramped communications bay. The last occupant of the chair had left a partially completed crossword puzzle on the SAT-phone desk.

"When exactly did it happen?"

"Around midnight, on Thursday. I waited till now to call because, as you can imagine, it's been kind of crazy around here."

He tried to cast his mind back to Thursday night, but even such a short time was hard to fix. Everything was so fluid in the Antarctic, it was tricky to remember the day of the week, much less anything from the days before. Where was he, what had he been doing, at precisely that time? Practical and hardheaded as he was, he still felt that he should have known, that he should have had some weird psychic inkling that Kristin was leaving. That she was gone for good.

"Of course, now my mother secretly blames my father; she thinks if he'd left Krissy in the hospital, she'd still be alive, if you want to call it that."

"I would never have called it that."

Karen sighed. "And neither would Krissy."

"What about the funeral?"

"Tomorrow. Very small. I, uh, took the liberty of ordering some sunflowers in your name."

That was a good choice. Sunflowers-with their bold, bright yellow faces-were Kristin's favorite. "They're not namby-pamby flowers," she'd once told him, as they'd hiked through a field of them in Idaho. "They say, hey, look at me, I'm big, I'm yellow, get used to it!"

"Thanks," Michael said. "I owe you."

"They were $9.95. We can let it go."

"You know I meant for everything else ... including this call."

"Yes, well, when you get back to Tacoma, you can buy me the Blue Plate special at that Greek diner you like."

"The Olympic."

There was a pause, filled with the low crackle of static on the line.

"So," Karen said, "when are you coming back?"

"I've got till the end of the month on my NSF pa.s.s."

"Then what? They just chuck you out at the South Pole?"

"Then they stick me on the next supply plane flying out."

"Are you getting what you need? A good story?"

If Michael had been in the mood to laugh, he'd have laughed then. How could he even begin to explain what had been happening?

"Yeah," he said, "let's just say I don't think I'm going to be short of material."

When they hung up, he simply sat there, staring down at the open crossword puzzle. His eye happened to fall on a clue that read "Kinky female photog" Five letters. He picked up the blue pencil the previous guy had left and filled in "Arbus." Then he just continued to sit there, twirling the pencil, lost in thought. Letting the news sink in.

"Say, you done with the phone?" one of the grunts asked, leaning in the doorway.

"Yeah," Michael said, tossing the pencil back on the desk, "all done."

He went back to his room but Darryl had already turned in, and there was no way in the world Michael was going to be able to fall asleep-not without a couple of sleeping pills, and he was trying to cut back on those, anyway, in preparation for his reentry to the real world. He packed up his laptop and a bunch of his papers and, slinging his backpack over his shoulders, braved the last of the storm to head over to the rec room and set up shop. Murphy had said that the weather report indicated a brief but temperate window the next day, which might allow them time to go back to Stromviken in search of the elusive Lieutenant Copley.

Having heard so much about him from Eleanor, Michael was especially curious to make his acquaintance.

He got a cup of coffee from the standing machine and turned off the TV, which was playing a DVD of Notting Hill; Betty and Tina must have been the last ones in there. But the place was blissfully empty. The wall clock indicated it was just past midnight. Michael turned on the CD player instead, and a blast of Beethoven-even he recognized the opening of the Fifth Symphony-came on. It was a compilation CD, and no doubt belonged to one of the beakers. He lowered the volume, plunked himself down at a card table in the back, and spread out his work.

Don't think about Kristin, he told himself, when he realized he'd been sitting there for at least one full movement of the symphony thinking of nothing but. Think about something else. His eyes fell on the work he'd brought-most notably the loose pages Ackerley had been scribbling on in the old meat locker-and he almost laughed. When it came to pleasant distractions, the South Pole was noticeably lacking.

Ackerley's handwriting was a spidery scrawl, reminding Michael of the labels the man had carefully affixed to every drawer of moss and lichen samples in his botany lab. But these pages were especially hard to read, smudged as they were with blood and written on the back of billing invoices and inventory sheets.