And apart from all the obvious difficulties that the journey alone presented, how could he care for someone in her unheard-of condition? How far, he wondered, was the nearest blood bank in Tacoma?
A half a mile or so ahead, Michael could see the black clutter of smokestacks, warehouses, and sheds and, high on the hill in the distance, the steeple of the church. He was glad to see Murphy and Franklin, as planned, steer their snowmobiles off to the right, toward the beach of bleached bones and the wreck of the Albatros. If Sinclair was here at the whaling station-and what would they do with him if they did find him alive? Would they shutter him away in the infirmary as well? — there was a good chance he was barricaded in the church, in the room behind the altar, and Michael wanted to be the one to find him first. To calm his fears and reason with him. If he was alive, he would be wary, suspicious, even hostile; from his perspective, he had every reason to be.
That was why Michael would need to be alone with him if and when he was found.
Once Lawson had pulled to a stop in the flensing yard, where the iron tracks for the skip wagons threatened to destroy the snowmobile's treads, Michael pulled up alongside and cut his own engine. The sudden silence was awesome. Michael raised the visor on his helmet, and the cold air felt like a slap in the face.
“What now?” Lawson said, and Michael, just to be free of him, said, “Why don't you start looking around these yards and outbuildings? I'll start from the top of the hill and work my way down.”
Lawson, toting his speargun, nodded. He hung his helmet on the handlebar of his snowmobile and trudged off. Michael stowed his own helmet and set off for the church. From here, he could see the teetering tombstones and, soon, the doors-both of which were now closed. An interesting sign, since one of them had been propped open by a snowbank before. Somebody might be home.
As he mounted the steps, his shadow, cut short by the solstice sun directly overhead, fell straight onto the wood between his feet, and he heard from within a scrambling, then a bark. He put his shoulder against the creaking frame, pushed the door open, and was greeted by a mad rush of sled dogs. He knelt and let them lick his face and gloves and dance in wild circles all around him, while his eyes swept the empty chamber. There was a pile of supplies and gear gathered by the door, as if someone had been planning to leave shortly.
On the altar, he could see a candlestick and a black wine bottle.
He didn't know if he should shout to announce his presence or creep in quietly and hope to surprise his quarry.
But then, was he there to rescue Sinclair… or capture him?
He moved cautiously up the aisle, past the ancient pews, then around the altar to the room beyond. The door was ajar, and when he pushed it open the rest of the way, he saw that the bed had been slept in but the fire in the grate had gone out. There was a smell of cold ashes and damp wool, but through the open window-flung wide, the shutters banging-he glimpsed a furtive figure scrambling through the gravestones, picking its way around the back of the church.
And it wasn't anyone from the search party.
He was wearing a red down coat, open, with a white cross on the back-Michael recognized it as one of the many coats that hung on the kennel clothes rack-and his head was bare. He had dark blond hair, and a moustache of the same color.
So this was Sinclair… Eleanor's beloved. Alive, after all.
Michael felt a strange pang, gone almost before he'd noticed it.
He ran back out of the room, his boots clomping and sliding on the stone floor, the dogs leaping and gamboling in his way.
“Not now!” he cried, pushing their furry heads aside.
By the time he got to the doors, Sinclair was well down the slope, sometimes running, sometimes sliding with his arms outspread. Under the open down coat, Michael saw the glint of gold braid on a uniform jacket and a scabbard clattering at the man's side; he was making for the factory floors, where the evisceration and rendering of the whales was once done. Then he disappeared into a narrow alleyway that ran between two of the vast ramshackle buildings, but Michael, trying to run with a speargun in hand, had to make his way more carefully down the frozen hillside. He was also trying to think where Sinclair might be heading. He might have heard the approach of the snowmobiles, or he might have been caught off guard. The gear stacked at the door suggested he'd been planning a mission of his own. But if he'd simply wanted to hide, why hadn't he done so? There must be something in the yards and warehouses that he wanted.
And the only thing that Michael could think of was weaponry.
There was a flash of red far ahead, darting between two sheds, and Michael followed it. Lawson, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen-the last thing Michael wanted was any interference-and he could hear the distant rumbling of Murphy's and Franklin's snowmobiles down along the waterfront. If he could catch him, Michael would have Sinclair all to himself, at least for a while.
Then he remembered the rack of rusty harpoons in what had probably once been the blacksmith's shop. But where was it? Michael stopped for a second to catch his breath and get his bearings. He had seen the place when he'd been here before. It was far ahead, and somewhere on his left, but he felt sure he could find it again; an enormous rusted anchor had leaned beside the door.
Michael trotted along with the speargun down at his side, afraid that if he tripped and fell, the damn thing would go off. He passed one vacant building after another, giving each a quick glance inside- he saw hanging chains and frozen pulleys, long, scarred worktables, hacksaws, and enormous cauldrons squatting on stubby iron legs. He began to understand that, as random and scattered as the buildings appeared, there was an underlying plan to the way they were laid out. You could see it in the crisscrossing of the railroad ties that the skip-wagons ran on; everything was organized like a primitive assembly line-or disassembly line, to be more precise-to carve up and process the carcass of the whale, from skin to gristle. Their bones and teeth, even petrified eyes the size of medicine balls, still lay scattered here and there, blown into haphazard piles against the walls.
He came to an intersection, with footpaths or alleys leading off in many directions, and he had to re-create his first entry into the town. He had come in from the southwest, which meant he probably had traveled along the windswept concourse veering off to his right. He followed along it, until, to his relief, he saw the anchor next to a low and darkened doorway.
He slowed down as he approached, but there was absolutely no sight, or sound, of life within. Perhaps his guess had been mistaken. Lowering his head to duck inside, he had just looked up again- there was another open doorway at the rear, partly blocked by a bunch of hooped barrels-when something whizzed past his cheek and pierced the wall a foot away. The harpoon stuck fast in the wood, the shaft still thrumming beside his ear.
“Don't take another step,” Michael heard, though in the dim confines of the cluttered shop, he still couldn't see his adversary.
“And drop your weapon.”
Michael let the speargun clatter to the brick floor.
There was a huge, freestanding chimneystack made of red bricks-no doubt the forge-and a black iron anvil just in front of it. A figure emerged from behind the chimney. He had doffed the overcoat, and was wearing only a scarlet cavalry uniform, with the sword hanging down at his side and another harpoon already in his hand.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Michael. Michael Wilde.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I've come to find you.”
There was an uneasy pause, filled only by the moaning of the wind that had found its way down the chimney and into the cold forge. There was a faint scent of old, dead coals.
“You must be Lieutenant Copley,” Michael said.
The man looked taken aback but quickly recovered.
“If you know that, then you must have Eleanor.”
“Yes. We do. And she's safe,” Michael assured him. “We're taking good care of her.”
An angry spark lighted in Sinclair's eye, and Michael immediately regretted his choice of words. Surely Sinclair thought no one but he should be charged with that duty.
“She's at the camp,” Michael went on, “at Point Adelie.”
“That's what you call it?”
Sinclair looked, and certainly sounded, like a British aristocrat-someone Michael might have seen in a movie- but there was also a patently mad and unpredictable gleam in his eye. Not that it should have come as such a
