“What about the blood?” he asked. “That you found caked on the vault splinters?”

“We’ve been too busy analyzing the ice to check it yet.”

Another silence fell over the lab.

“Well, you’ve been busy,” Marshall said after a moment. “But this still begs two questions. If these unusual forms of ice require great pressure, or extreme temperature, how did they form here in the first place?”

Faraday took off his glasses, polished them on his tie, replaced them. “I don’t know,” he replied.

The three of them looked at one another a moment. “You said you had two questions,” said Chen.

“Yes. If your speculations are right, and the creature is still alive-and on the loose-where is it now?”

The question hung in the air. And this time the lab remained silent.

29

As news of Peters’s death spread through Fear Base, people-almost unconsciously-began leaving their quarters, gathering in the larger spaces of B Level, seeking consolation in the company of others. They sat around the tables of the officers’ mess, speaking in low tones, sharing affectionate anecdotes: outrageous things he’d done or said, dumb technical mistakes he’d made. Others hung out in the Operations Center, drinking tepid coffee, speculating on when the blizzard would lift, promising darkly to assemble a hunting team and seek out the polar bear that mauled the production assistant. The sorrowful atmosphere only exacerbated the sensation of being marooned in an icy wasteland, cut off from all the reassuring comforts of civilization. As the evening lengthened and conversations began to falter, the groups nevertheless remained where they were, reluctant to return to their bunks and the private, unsettling silence of their own thoughts.

Ashleigh Davis did not share these sentiments. She sat disconsolately at a table in the officers’ mess, elegantly coiffed head lolling on her hands, staring at the wall clock in its metal grill. This, she decided, was a living hell. Worse than a living hell. The place stank. The food was beyond vile. It was a million miles from the nearest spa. You couldn’t get a decent cup of bergamot-infused espresso to save your life. And worst of all, it was a prison. Until the storm lifted, she was stuck here, twiddling her thumbs, her glorious career on hold. There was no way out except to walk. And if she had to stay here much longer, she thought morosely, she’d probably be driven to do just that: walk out into the snow and the dark, like that guy on Scott’s antarctic expedition…she’d narrated a documentary on the subject but couldn’t summon the energy to remember the poor chump’s name.

And the time crawled by so slowly! The afternoon had lasted an eternity. She’d bullied the makeup staff into giving her a makeshift facial, doing her fingernails and toenails; she’d had her hair done; she’d run the costume girl half dead, bringing first one, then another, then still another outfit for her to try on while deciding what to wear to dinner. Dinner. That was too kind a word for it. “Slop” was more accurate, or maybe “pig swill.” And the company at dinner, never entertaining to begin with, had tonight been absolutely cadaverous. Just because this idiot Peters was stupid enough to bump into a bear, everybody was acting like it was the end of the world. They’d forgotten they had a star in their midst. It was pathetic, truly pathetic; she was utterly wasted on this bunch.

She sighed with irritation, pulled a cigarette from her Hermès handbag, lit it with a snap of her platinum lighter.

“There’s no smoking on the base, Ashleigh,” came Conti’s voice. “Military rules.”

Davis gave an exasperated snort, plucked the cigarette from her mouth, stared at it, replaced it between her lips, took a deep drag, then stubbed it out in a dish of congealing tapioca. Blowing smoke through her nose, she looked across the table at the producer. She’d spent the better part of the last hour trying to beg, blackmail, or bluster an emergency airlift out of this horrible place and back to New York -all to no avail. It was impossible, he’d said; all flights, public or private, were suspended indefinitely. Nothing she said had budged him. In fact, he’d barely taken notice of her; he seemed to be preoccupied about something. She slumped in her chair, pouting. Even Emilio was taking her for granted. Unbelievable.

She pushed her chair back, stood up. “I’m headed for my trailer,” she announced. “Thanks for a delightful evening.”

Conti-who had looked down again at the notes he’d been scribbling-glanced up once more. “If you run into Ken Toussaint,” he said, “please send him to me. I’ll either be here or in my quarters.”

Davis placed her coat over her shoulders, not deigning to reply. Brianna, her personal assistant, picked up her own coat and rose from the table. She’d been silent throughout dinner, knowing better than to speak when Davis was in a black mood.

“Are you sure you want to return to your trailer?” Conti asked. “I could get accommodations fixed up for you here.”

“Accommodations? As in, share a bathroom, bivouac on some army cot? Emilio, darling, I can only hope you’re joking.” And she turned away with a contemptuous sweep of ermine.

“But-” he began to protest.

“I’ll see you in the morning. And I expect a helicopter ready and waiting by then.”

As she walked briskly toward the doorway, she became aware of someone approaching. It was the man who had trucked her trailer to the site. She glanced at him briefly. He wasn’t bad-looking, with the tanned, lean body of a surfer. But his outrageously pastel Hawaiian shirt was in the worst possible taste. He was chewing, cudlike, on an enormous wad of gum.

“Ma’am.” He smiled at her, nodded at Brianna. “We’ve never been formally introduced.”

I’ve never been formally introduced to my chauffer, either, she thought with a frown.

“The name’s Carradine, in case you hadn’t heard. I’m heading back to my cab, too, so I’ll walk with you ladies-if you don’t object.”

Davis looked toward her assistant, as if to ask: Am I to be spared nothing?

“You know,” the trucker said as they made their way toward the main stairwell, “I’ve been hoping to talk with you, Ms. Davis. When I heard it was your trailer I’d be ferrying up here, when I realized I might just get the opportunity to speak to someone in your position…well, it was like the kind of a happy accident you read about sometimes. Like Orson Welles meeting William Randolph Hearst.”

Davis looked at him. “William Randolph Hearst?”

“Didn’t I get that right? Anyway, I hope you don’t mind if I take just a minute of your time.”

You already have, Davis thought.

“See, I’m not just a trucker. The season’s pretty short, you know-four months, I’m not usually up here this early, the lake ice isn’t thick enough yet-so I have plenty of time to do other things. Oh, not like I’m busy all the time-life moves kind of slowly down in Cape Coral. But I’ve certainly kept busy with something.”

He seemed to want her to ask what it was. Davis climbed the stairwell in resolute silence.

“I’m a screenwriter,” he said.

Davis glanced back at him, unable to conceal her surprise.

“That is to say, I’ve written a screenplay. See, I listen to books on tape while I’m driving-helps keep your mind off the ice-and I sort of got into the plays of William Shakespeare. The tragedies, anyway, with all that blood and fighting. My favorite’s Macbeth. And that’s the screenplay: my version of Macbeth. Only it’s not the story of a king, it’s the story of an ice-road trucker.”

Davis walked quickly across the entrance plaza, trying to distance herself from Carradine. The man hurried to keep up. “The king of ice-road truckers, see. Except there’s this other trucker that’s jealous of him and his fame among the rest. Wants his girl, too. So he sabotages the king’s route, fractures it, fractures the ice, know what I mean?”