“Jesus,” he murmured.

Ekberg looked at him. “I’d have thought you’d be jaded by now.”

“These are no ordinary northern lights. Usually you see shifting bands of color. But tonight, there’s only one. Look how intense it is.”

“Yes. Like wine, maybe. Or perhaps blood. It’s creepy.” She glanced at him, her face spectral in the reflected glow. “You’ve never seen these kind of northern lights before?”

“Only once: the night before we discovered the tiger.” He paused. “But tonight the effect must be twice as strong. And it’s so low in the sky you can almost touch it.”

“Is it my imagination, or is it making sounds?” Ekberg had cocked her head to one side, as if listening. Marshall found himself doing the same. It was impossible, he knew. And yet, over the clank of equipment and the drone of generators, he could hear something. One minute it crackled like distant thunder; the next it was moaning, like a woman in pain-and always in time to the ebb and flow of the lights. He remembered the old shaman’s words: The ancient ones are angry…Their wrath paints the sky with blood. The heavens cry out with the pain, like a woman in labor…

Marshall shook his head. He’d heard stories of the northern lights groaning and crying, but he’d always ascribed them to legend. Perhaps, because the lights were much closer to the ground tonight than normal, there was some kind of associated auditory phenomenon. He was about to step back inside to alert his colleagues when he caught sight of Faraday. The biologist was standing between two temporary sheds, magnetometer in one hand and digital camera in the other, both pointed heavenward. He’d obviously noticed it, as well.

There was movement to one side and Marshall turned to see the ice-road trucker and his passenger approaching. Despite the chill, the trucker was still dressed in a gaudy floral shirt. “Hell of a sight, isn’t it?” he said.

Marshall simply shook his head.

“I’ve seen my share of northern lights,” the man went on, “but this beats all.”

“The Inuit believe they’re the spirits of the dead,” Marshall replied.

“That’s true,” said the passenger with the trim beard. “And not particularly friendly spirits, either: they use the sky to play football with human skulls. Legend has it that if you whistle when the northern lights are out, those spirits might come down and retrieve your head, too.”

Ekberg shuddered. “Then please-nobody whistle.”

Marshall looked curiously at the new arrival. “I never knew that.”

“I didn’t either, until my layover in Yellowknife.” The man nodded at the trucker. “That’s when this fellow kindly offered me a lift.”

Marshall laughed. “You didn’t look too happy about it getting out of the truck.”

The bearded man smiled thinly. He’d recovered his composure after what had clearly been a harrowing trip. “It seemed a good idea at the time.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Logan.”

The trucker did the same. “And I’m Carradine.”

Marshall introduced himself and Ekberg. “Something tells me you’re not from around here,” he told the trucker.

“Something tells you right. Cape Coral, Florida. The pay up here’s great, but otherwise Alaska ’s got plenty of nothing I need.”

“And is what you don’t need anything you can talk about?” Ekberg asked.

“Snow. Ice. And men. Especially men in red flannel shirts.”

“Men,” Ekberg repeated.

“Yep. Far too many of them. Up here, the ratio of men to women is ten to one. They say that if a woman’s interested, the odds are good but the goods are odd.”

They laughed.

“I’ve got to return to the base,” Logan said. “Seems my letters of introduction didn’t get here in time, and the good Sergeant Gonzalez needs an explanation for my presence. A pleasure to meet you two.” He nodded at them in turn, then headed for the main entrance.

They watched him leave. “I don’t recognize him,” Ekberg said to the trucker. “Is he part of Ashleigh’s retinue?”

“He’s on his own,” Carradine replied.

“What’s he doing here, then?”

Carradine shrugged. “He told me he’s a professor-called himself an enigmalogist.”

“A what?” Marshall asked.

“An enigmalogist.”

“So he’s with you?” Ekberg asked, turning to Marshall.

“Nope,” Marshall replied. “He’s a mystery to me.”

He glanced around again. There was a palpable excitement in the air that even the bizarre display of light couldn’t fully explain. Despite the anthill-like frenzy, everything appeared to be running on schedule. Already, the carefully calculated thawing of the ice block had begun: he could see the occasional bead of meltwater dropping from the vault floor. Tomorrow at 4:00 PM-coinciding with prime time on the East Coast-the cameras would roll and the live documentary would begin. Ultimately, the vault would be opened. And then- Marshall realized quite abruptly-the crew would pack up, calm would descend once more over Mount Fear, and it would be business as usual for the remaining two weeks of their stay.

Marshall was very eager for that calm to return. Even so, he couldn’t deny there was something special about this night, something unique and exciting that he felt absurdly pleased to be part of.

Now Davis stepped out of her trailer, accompanied by Conti, the personal assistant, and a publicity flack. They headed toward a small clearing near the old security checkpoint, where Fortnum, Toussaint, the gaffer, and the key grip were waiting. “You’re sure you’re warm enough?” Marshall heard Conti ask fawningly as they walked by.

“I’ll be fine, darling,” said Davis in a martyr’s tone of heroic resignation. She had exchanged her expensive fur for a stylish Marmot down jacket.

“The shoot shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, tops,” Conti said. “We’ve already gotten the process shots and the backgrounds.” They didn’t glance toward Marshall or Ekberg as they sailed past.

“Well, I’d better make myself useful,” Ekberg said. “I’ll catch up with you later.” And she joined the flack at the rear of the small procession.

Carradine grinned and shook his head. He was chewing a massive wad of gum that swelled one cheek like a hamster’s. “What say you? Shall we stick around and watch this dog and pony show?”

“If you can stand the cold,” Marshall replied, nodding at the trucker’s flimsy shirt.

“Hell, this isn’t cold. Come on, let’s get us a pair of front-row seats.” And the man grabbed two wooden packing crates, set them down in the snow, sat on one, and gestured Marshall toward the other with a flourish.

There was a final commotion by the security checkpoint; the lights came up, Ekberg gave the teleprompter a dry run; the sound check was wrapped; Davis ’s nose was given a last powdering before she shooed the makeup girl away with a curse. Then there was the snap of a clapstick; Conti cried “Action!” and the cameras rolled. Instantly, the fretful scowl left Davis ’s face, replaced by a dazzling smile, her expression somehow becoming excited and dramatic and alluring all at the same time.

“It’s almost time now,” she said breathlessly to the cameras, just as if she’d been with them in the trenches for the last week. “In less than twenty-four hours the vault will be opened, the primordial mystery will be solved. And as if nature itself understands the gravity of this moment, we’ve been treated to a most unusual display of northern lights that is second to none in its allure and grandeur…”