I nodded.
"Well, I'll be damned. How come you never found it? You grew up in this building."
"Believe me, I found it. I knew all about it. But it was always off-limits." I shrugged. "Board members only."
"It's just a room."
"Not to me."
I turned in a slow circle. Nature-themed artwork from the likes of Thomas Cole, Asher Brown Durand, and other artists of the Hudson River School adorned the walls. Busts and statues of Captain James Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and Neil Armstrong were positioned around the room. It was a veritable Who's Who of history's greatest explorers and adventurers, illuminated by over a dozen wall-mounted brass lanterns.
Priceless and irreplaceable artifacts—a sled from Roald Amundsen's storied trip to the South Pole, the clothes worn by Sir Edmund Hillary when he reached the top of Mount Everest, and maps drawn by Meriwether Lewis on the epic Corps of Discovery Expedition to name just a few—were secured in airtight display cases and positioned among the statues. There was so much to see, to behold. Far too much for a single visit.
I saw a long table in the middle of the room. It was constructed from solid oak. A dozen leather mahogany chairs surrounded it. They were empty.
For now.
"You're sure you don't know why I'm here?" I asked.
"Why would I?"
"You're the Chairman."
"You think those bastards care about my title? Hell, I'm lucky they let me keep my office."
Three days ago, I'd received a summons, requesting the honor of my presence at a special meeting of the Explorer's Society's Board of Directors. The exact purpose of the meeting was a mystery. But I had an idea. It was just about time for the Board to announce its most prestigious award.
The Explorer of the Year.
Chapter 22
Gasping, I sat up straight. The tip of my forehead crashed into the ceiling. Dizziness overcame me and I slumped back to my pillow.
Memories of the previous day poured into my mind. They were overwhelming, the mental equivalent of a tidal wave. All I could do was wait for them to pass.
After a few minutes, I climbed out of bed. The air was cool. Yet, my body felt slick with perspiration. More memories surged into my brain. It took all my concentration to fight them off.
I looked for Graham. His bed was empty. I quickly dressed and opened the door. Faint voices floated into my ears.
I followed them to the common room. Breakfast was underway. Graham worked the griddle while a guy I didn't know snacked on a breakfast bar. Holly picked at a small plate of fresh fruit while her husband stirred oatmeal. Trotter and Ayers sat by themselves on one of the couches. They shoveled cereal into their mouths at an incredibly slow clip.
Ayers looked up and saw me. Immediately, he elbowed Trotter. Trotter raised his eyes to meet mine.
I studied their faces. I saw no signs of guilt or remorse. I felt an overwhelming urge to cross the room and beat the hell out of them. But I managed to suppress it. I couldn't afford to waste the time or energy. I needed to devote my full attention to finding the Amber Room.
"What happened to your eye?" Trotter asked.
"Fell down," I replied.
"Must've been quite a fall."
"It was."
"You should put some ice on it."
"I'll keep that in mind."
I kept waiting for Ayers to add his two cents. But he stayed silent. I was beginning to think the man was a mute.
"Hi." The guy with the breakfast bar extended his hand. "I'm Aaron Jenner."
"Cy Reed."
"That's quite a shiner you've got there."
"Thanks for noticing."
He laughed. "Sorry. That was rude."
I touched my eye and felt a stinging sensation. "What do you do, Aaron?"
"I'm an evolutionary biologist."
Rupert lifted his head. "Really?"
Jenner nodded.
"What do you study?"
"Invertebrates. Specifically, their evolution, development, and ecology."
"Why here?"
"Well, I'm a bit of a nomad," Jenner replied. "From a biological perspective, Antarctica is like a land out of time. It's almost as if God plucked it straight out of the Paleozoic Era. But it's not all the same. Regional differences exist. So, I travel from base to base studying the development and phylogenetic relationships of invertebrates in each region."
"If you need any help, let us know." Holly said. "We focus on tardigrades but we have a lot of experience with other invertebrates as well."
"Thank you. By the way, I read your paper on the tardigrade colony collapse disorder. Fascinating stuff."
"That's very kind of you."
As their conversation dwindled away, I sidled up to Holly. "I have a quick question for you. What are the rules on using a Sno-Cat?"
"First come, first serve," she replied.
"Where do I get a key?"
"Check the ignition." She grinned. "Car theft isn't much of a problem around here."
"Good point." I cocked my head. "By the way, where's Pat?"
"On one of his mysterious excursions, I imagine."
"Excursions?"
"Whenever he comes here, he takes off by himself first thing in the morning. He's religious about it."
"Where does he go?"
"He refuses to say. I've tried to get it out of him but he's like a vault."
"So, Pat's not here." Graham glanced at me as he slid two fried eggs onto a plate. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Sure am." A grin creased my face. "It looks like we're going to have to chaperone ourselves today."
Chapter 23
The engine choked and coughed. Baxter slammed his hand onto the dashboard. "Come on. Don't quit on me now."
He glanced out the windshield. He could barely make out the horizon through the blowing snow. There were no other markings or signs of life. Just a desert of smooth ice.
He checked his GPS device. He was close, very close. He applied the brakes. The vehicle hit a patch of ice and started to slide. Baxter yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The Sno-Cat spun in a half circle and slid to a halt.
Baxter produced his pistol and checked the ammunition. Then he shoved it back into his pocket. He hated the gun. Most of the time, he was happy to leave it in his wall safe. But when he visited Kirby Station, he never failed to bring it with him.
Opening his door, he stepped out into the snow. He felt older than his years. He always did when visiting this particular section of Antarctica. And yet, he couldn't stay away. It was the closest thing he'd ever had to a life-sucking addiction.
He walked a short distance from his vehicle, heading east. To the casual observer, the area consisted of flat ice. There were no hills or markers, nothing to distinguish one patch of snow from another. But Baxter was no ordinary visitor. Even though the terrain had gone through countless changes in the last thirty years, he still knew every inch of it.
He stopped. Backed up a few inches and closed his eyes. He searched his memory, trying to recall how he'd felt all those years ago. Before the horror, the deaths, the depression.
Before Fenrir.
He opened his eyes. Strode forward a couple of paces. Conflicting feelings of anxiety and wonder stirred in his chest. He recalled his first—and only—vision of the swirling snow. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It had reminded him of a living, breathing dust storm, only with ice instead of sand. He and his friends had stopped briefly to marvel at it.
Baxter took a few more steps forward. Shame and remorse rose from deep within him. This was it. This was the spot where he'd seen the eyes.
The eyes had peered out from within the swirling snow. He and his friends had frozen in their tracks. They'd gawked at the eyes. No vertebrate could survive Antarctica's harsh weather. It was an ironclad rule. And yet, the eyes, shrouded in a cloak of pure white snow, were undeniable.
Someone had shrieked. Before he'd known it, Baxter's pistol was in his hands. He'd lifted it, aimed it at the snow. His finger had clutched the trigger. He'd blinked. But the eyes were gone.
And his friends were dead.
Baxter knelt down and touched the ice. He could almost feel their faces reaching up to him, crying out for retribution.
He recalled yelling at his friends, begging them to wake up. But they were quiet, still. He'd never understood why Fenrir had spared his life.
He'd salvaged some supplies and covered the bodies with snow. For the next two days, he'd wandered the icy tundra. He didn't remember much of that time. It was a blur of snow, ice, and mountains.
Eventually, people came looking for him. They'd questioned him for days on end about his missing friends. Baxter hadn't known what to say. He could scarcely believe what had happened to them. So, he'd made up a story about getting separated during a freak snowstorm.
Later, he went looking for the bodies. But they were gone, presumably dragged and crushed beneath the shifting ice. No remains were ever recovered. Memorial services were held back in the States. Friends and families gave speeches. And life went on for everyone.
Everyone except for Baxter.
The snow picked up speed as Baxter trudged back to his vehicle. Shivering, he clutched his green jacket to his body. He was getting too old to walk around in anything less than a parka.
He saw something out of the corner of his eye. Still deep in thought, he almost ignored it. But something told him to look. He glanced to the south. His heart raced as he stared at something he hadn't seen in three decades.
His hand fumbled for his pistol. It slipped out of his fingers.
The snow swirled faster and faster, gaining substance and weight.
Reaching down, he yanked the gun from the ice and pointed it into the air.
But the swirling snow had already vanished.
His heart pounded as he strode forward, gun in hand. Had he really just seen Fenrir again? Or was it just a figment of his imagination?
He'd only caught glimpses of Fenrir thirty years ago. But those memories continued to haunt him. He recollected every hair on its body, every rippling muscle. He recalled its scowl, its hooded eyes. But most of all he remembered the fear. That horrible, shameful fear he'd felt deep in his gut.
He'd always wondered how he'd react in a life or death situation. He'd imagined all sorts of scenarios. A beautiful woman held at gunpoint. A vicious murderer running through the streets. A stranger, passed out and blue in the face.
In his dreams, he'd always done the right thing. He'd rescue her. He'd catch the criminal. He'd resuscitate the stranger. But when given the chance to be a real-life hero, he'd folded under the pressure.
The falling powder picked up speed, blotting out everything past twenty feet. Baxter stopped just short of where he'd seen the swirling snow. Bending down, he scanned the ground.
He noticed a series of curious impressions. They weren't perfectly formed. But he could see small holes where articulated toes, chunky and pressed close together, had pushed deep into the snow. He could also see a larger imprint that had been made by a big, thick heel. It was definitely a pawprint. A very familiar pawprint.
Fenrir was back.
An icy feeling chilled Baxter's spine. Once upon a time, he'd let his fear get the best of him. It had plagued him for years, always present in the pit of his stomach. It was written in permanent ink, etched in stone. Even dementia's ugly tentacles wouldn't be able to wrench it from his head.
He was sick of the fear. So damn sick of it. It had to end. Nothing else mattered, not even Liza.
It was time. Time to kill the beast.
Time to kill his fear.
Chapter 24
The Sno-Cat bumped over the icy quagmire. The snow fell fast, limiting my visibility to a couple dozen yards. I knew I was heading in the general direction of the Mühlig-Hofmann Mountains. But I sure as hell couldn't see them.
"How are we doing?" I asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Graham replied.
"Check the GPS. I programmed the anomaly's coordinates into it."
Graham picked up the device. He held it at arm's length as if he were afraid it would bite him. "Okay, I see how this works. We're off-track. You're going to want to turn about ten degrees to the right."
I made the correction. "How's that?"
"Much better."
I glanced at Graham. "You never told me what happened between you and Pat."
"It's a long story."
I drove the Sno-Cat over a large bump. We landed with a bone-shaking thud. "It's a long drive."
"It started with a race. Before my accident, I was pretty good on a pair of skis."
"You ended your friendship over a race?"
"It wasn't just any race. It was an epic race. We skied all the way to the South Pole. Craziest damn thing we ever did. We traveled almost five hundred miles, following Roald Amundsen's path. It was hell. I caught pneumonia. Pat got a bad case of frostbite, blisters, the works.
"Who won?"
He grinned. "Who else?"
"So, what's the problem?"
"Pat accused me of cheating."
"Did you?"
"I followed the rules, same as him."
"What were the rules?"
"There weren't any."
I lifted an eyebrow.
"Well, that's not entirely true. We agreed on one rule. We had to use our skis every inch of the way." He shrugged. "Like I said, I was a good skier. But Pat was better. So, a few nights before the race, a buddy and I flew a helicopter out to the area. We planted a snowmobile a few miles from the finish line."
"So, you cheated."
"Not exactly. Pat and I were neck and neck for most of the race. But eventually, he broke away from me. By the time I reached the snowmobile, I was running on fumes." Graham smiled wistfully. "I'd already detached the snowmobile's front skis and adjusted my own skis accordingly. So, it was a simple matter of adding my skis to the snowmobile and riding it to the finish line."