Charlotte stepped to the bedside and took her pulse. “It's a bit fast,” she reported, “but strong.” Then she slipped a blood-pressure cuff around Eleanor's upper arm, inflated it, and watched as the LED numbers flashed. Eventually, they settled at 185 over 120, which even Michael knew was too high.
“We'll have to bring that down, if it doesn't come down on its own,” she said, putting the stethoscope to Eleanor's chest and checking her heartbeat. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Light-headed,” Eleanor said.
Charlotte nodded, pursing her lips. “Just try to relax,” she said, removing the blood-pressure cuff. “And rest.”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice already fading, “Dr. Barnes.”
“Call me Charlotte. I think we're on a first-name basis by now, honey.” Slipping a call button under her hand, she said, “If you need me, just press this. I'll be right next door.”
Charlotte took the tray from the bed and herded them all from the room. Michael took one look back and saw Eleanor, the white compress draped across her eyes, her long brown hair brushing the rim of the ivory brooch.
“Come on,” Charlotte murmured. “I'm sure she'll be all right.”
But Michael detected a certain lack of conviction.
“Maybe I should keep watch,” he suggested.
“You've got packing to do. Get to it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
December 26, 12:45 p.m.
For Michael, packing was easy. All his clothes just went straight from the dresser drawer into the duffel bag, where they were mashed down as compactly as possible. It was the camera gear that took time. He had learned, from bitter experience, that unless every lens and filter and strap went back in its proper case, he might not be able to lay his hand on it when the perfect photo op presented itself. Writing was about deliberation; photography was about serendipity.
All he left out was one tripod and his trusty old Canon S80. He didn't want to leave the base without a few last shots of Ollie, enjoying whatever snack he could bring him from the holiday buffet. And the weather, for a change, was perfectly still-sunny and bright. The calm, Michael knew, before the storm due the next afternoon.
Clearing the top of the dresser, he picked up Danzig's walrus-tooth necklace and slipped it around his own neck. He didn't plan to take it off again until he could hand it to Erik's widow in person.
In Miami.
Where he'd be, with a whole lot of luck, in a couple of days.
He found himself standing stock-still by his bunk, simply contemplating the enormity of everything that lay before him. Everything that had to be done. From inoculating Sinclair, to convincing them both that this was their only way out of Antarctica-sealed in bags, transported on an airplane-a flying machine yet! — over thousands of miles in a matter of hours. And where to? A country where neither of them had ever set foot, in a century they barely knew. There were so many parts of the plan that they would find impossible to believe, he didn't even know where to start. And so many parts that he himself could barely accept-was he truly going to chaperone the two into the modern-day world? — that a kind of mental paralysis threatened to descend. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, he reminded himself. Confronted by so many variables, all he could do was attend to the small things, one at a time.
When the door opened and Darryl came in, he was tucking a camera case into the bulging duffel.
“Any word about Eleanor?” Darryl asked, plunking himself down in the desk chair.
“Not since we left.”
Darryl was eating a mammoth eclair. “You should check out the commons. Lots of leftover Christmas pastry. The hot punch is still going, too.”
“Yeah, maybe I will, before we head over to the meat locker.”
Darryl nodded, licking the yellow cream off his fingertips. “You told Eleanor yet about the rest of the plan?”
Michael shook his head. “I'm still looking for a better way to say body bag.”
“If you think that's going to be hard, try airplane.”
“I'm way ahead of you there.”
“Charlotte's got a nice supply of tranquilizers in her medicine chest. I'm sure she could arrange for them both to get a heavy dose.”
Michael could certainly subscribe to that. His only hope was that Sinclair's belligerence would evaporate once he understood that this was the only way he and Eleanor could be rescued from their immediate plight.
And would he trust Michael enough to go along?
Darryl kicked off his boots, got up, and crawled into his lower bunk. “Eating makes me sleepy,” he said, stretching out his legs. “Come wake me whenever you want to go over to see Prince Charming.”
“Will do.”
Darryl stretched his legs out. “By the way,” he added, “you do know that what you're doing is crazy, right?”
Michael nodded, while yanking the zipper halfway up the duffel.
“Glad to hear it. ‘Cause if you didn't, I'd have to start worrying about you.”
Eleanor awoke with a start, the picture of Miss Nightingale's reproachful face still before her. She had never overcome the sense of guilt at betraying the great lady-and the profession itself-by absconding with Sinclair, and she often dreamt of making amends somehow.
Her limbs felt cold and dead, even under the blanket, and she rubbed her arms vigorously to get the blood circulating. Sitting up, she gave herself a second to get her bearings, then pushed the blanket aside and stood up beside the bed. She was about to stamp her feet on the floor, too, but then thought better of it-the sound might bring Dr. Barnes running from the next room, and she didn't want company, much less medical attention, just yet.
Had she been cured? And if she had, would she feel the way she did-slightly numbed, a trifle chilly-forever? Was that the price?
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, she stepped to the window and drew back the black curtains. It was preternaturally still outside, and it occurred to her that this might be the calm before the storm. The snow on the ground glinted in the sharp, cold rays of the sun. She had to step back and shield her eyes from the glare.
And then something crossed her field of vision, a flash of red- and she stepped closer again.
It came again, moving swiftly, surreptitiously, down the snowy concourse, looking this way and that. She put her face closer to the window and peered out… and the figure stopped, raised a hand to shield its own eyes, and peered back.
It was Sinclair, the red coat with the white cross billowing out over his cavalry uniform.
Before she could even raise a hand to signal him, he had run across the snow, skidding and nearly falling several times, and she could hear the door to the building flying open down the hall. She hurried on tiptoe to the infirmary entry, and when he saw her she put a finger to her lips and waved for him to follow her inside.
Once there, she closed the door to the hall, and had no sooner turned around again than he had clasped her in his arms.
“I knew I would find you!” he whispered. He quickly surveyed the room, taking in the cabinets filled with medical supplies and said, “This is the field hospital?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And this is where they've been keeping you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, gently trying to extricate herself from his too-eager grasp. “But how did you get here?”
He brushed the question aside, and said, “We have to go.”
