At that moment there was a knock at the door. Cabrillo motioned for Campbell to remain seated and walked over to the door. An Inuit dressed in a one-piece snowsuit stood with a sack in his hand.
“That the whiskey?” Cabrillo asked.
The man nodded. Cabrillo reached in his pocket and retrieved a money clip. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he handed it to the man, who handed over the bottle.
“I don’t have change,” the Inuit said.
“Is that enough to pay for this and another to be delivered,” Cabrillo asked, “and some extra for your trouble?”
“Yes,” the Inuit said, “but the owner will only allow me to deliver Woodman one bottle per day.”
“Bring the other tomorrow and keep the change,” Cabrillo said.
The Inuit nodded and Cabrillo closed the door. Carrying the sack with the whiskey inside, he walked over to Campbell and handed it to him. Campbell took the bottle out of the sack, wadded up the paper and tossed it toward a trash can and missed, then cracked the seal and filled his cup.
“Appreciate it,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” Cabrillo told him. “You should give it up.”
“I can’t,” Campbell said, eyeing the bottle. “I’ve tried.”
“Bullshit. I’ve worked with guys with a worse problem than yours—they’re straight today.”
Campbell sat quietly. “Well, Mr. CIA,” he said at last, “you figure a way to dry me out and the snowcat is yours. I haven’t used it in months—I can’t leave the house.”
“You served in the army,” Cabrillo said.
“Who the hell are you?” Campbell said. “No one in Greenland knows that.”
“I run a specialized company that does intelligence and security work—a private corporation. We can find out anything.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Cabrillo said. “What was your job in the service? I didn’t bother to ask my people that.”
“Green Berets, then the Phoenix Project.”
“So you worked for the Company, too?”
“Indirectly,” Campbell admitted, “but they turned their back on me. They trained me, brained me, and cast me away. I came home with nothing but a heroin problem I managed to kick on my own and a host of bad memories.”
“I hear you,” Cabrillo said. “Now where is the snowcat?”
“Out back,” Campbell said, pointing to a door leading out the rear of the house.
“I’m going to check it out,” Cabrillo said, starting for the door. “You sit here and figure out if you really want to quit. If you do, and the snowcat checks out, then I have an idea we can discuss. If not, then we can discuss me paying you enough money to keep you in Jack until your liver fails. Fair enough?”
Campbell nodded as Cabrillo walked out.
Surprisingly enough, the snowcat was in perfect shape. A 1970 Thiokol model 1202B-4 wide-track Spryte. Powered by a Ford 200-cubic-inch six-cylinder with a four-speed transmission, it was bodied like a pickup truck with a flatbed on the rear. A light bar was mounted on the roof, an extra fuel tank on the rear bed, and the treads looked almost new. Cabrillo opened the door. Inside was a metal hump between the seats where the strangely angled gearshift resided, as well as a pair of levers in front of the driver’s seat that controlled the tanklike steering. Cabrillo knew that with a flick of the levers the Thiokol could spin on its treads in a circle. The dashboard was metal, with a cluster of gauges in front of the driver and heater vents down lower. Mounted behind the seat, hung on racks on each side of the rear window, was a large-caliber rifle. There were emergency flares, a tool kit with spares, and detailed waterproof maps.
Everything was freshly painted, oiled and maintained.
Cabrillo finished his inspection and walked back inside. He stopped just inside the door and knocked the snow off his boots, then walked back into the living room.
“What’s the range?” he asked Campbell.
“With the extra fuel tank and some jerry cans, it’ll get you to Mount Forel and back, with an extra hundred miles or so in case of trouble or snow slides,” Campbell said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to make a trip anywhere in her— she’s never let me down.”
Cabrillo walked over near a fuel-oil stove. “Ball’s in your court.”
Campbell was silent. He stared at the bottle, looked up at the ceiling, then looked down at the floor and thought for a moment. At this pace, he had maybe one more summer. Then his body would start shutting down—or he’d make a drunken mistake in a land where mistakes are not forgiven. He was fifty-seven years old and he felt like he was a hundred. He had reached his end.
“I’m done,” Campbell said.
“It’s not that easy,” Cabrillo said. “You have a tough battle ahead.”
“I’m ready to try,” Campbell said.
“We’ll get you out of here and into detox in return for the snowcat. Do you have any living family?”
“Two brothers and a sister in Colorado,” Campbell admitted, “but I haven’t spoken to them in years.”
