Polar Shift (NUMA Files 6)

"Have you figured out how the mammoths managed to survive?"

"Sheer adaptability. As the food source diminished, they became smaller to adjust to the change in environment. They seem to have the capability to hibernate during the coldest part of the year."

"What about the city's inhabitants? Who were they?"

"An enigma. It could take decades of research before we figure out who they were and what happened to them."

"How are the little woollies doing?"

"The mammoths? Just fine. They seem content in the corral we built for them as long as we feed them. Maria Arbatov is in charge. The hardest part will be protecting them from the outside world. We're getting lots of press attention as you can imagine, and we're trying to control it."

He swept the island with his eyes. "I hope this all survives our aggressive inquiry."

"I think it will. These seem to be purer research endeavors than trying to clone mammoths."

"What next?"

"I'll spend a few weeks here, and then head back to see Uncle Karl in Montana. I'll be coming to Washington next month to give a speech at the Smithsonian."

"That's good news. When you get to Washington, how about getting together for cocktails, dinner and whatever?"

The smoky gray eyes gazed over the glass. "I'm particularly intrigued over the whatever!''

"Then it's a date. I think it's time to propose a toast. Ladies first."

She only had to think about it for a second.

"To Uncle Karl. If he hadn't saved my grandfather, none of this would have been possible."

"I'll drink to that. Without Uncle Karl, you would not have been possible."

She gave Austin a smile full of promise. Then, in the light of the arctic dusk, they raised their glasses high and toasted each other.

Although death had been a close companion for much of his life, Schroeder couldn't remember the last time he had gone to a funeral. He wanted to bury Schatsky in fine style. The little dachshund who'd been killed by one of Gant's gunmen had been a great companion. Luckily, the temperature at his mountain log cabin had stayed low so Schatsky's body had been preserved while he'd been away.

He took the stiff little body, washed the blood away as best he could and wrapped the dog in its favorite blanket. Using the dog's bed as its casket, he carried it out to the woods behind his house. He dug a deep hole, wrapped the dog and its bed in a canvas, and then buried it with a box of dog bones and Schatsky's favorite chew toys.

Schroeder marked the grave with a boulder. He went back into the cabin and lugged a wooden crate back to the woods and dug another hole not far from the dog's grave. He dumped the load of automatic and semi-automatic weapons into the hole and covered them up. He had kept a shotgun back at the cabin, just in case, but he no longer needed the deadly weapons he had kept hidden under his floor.

It was his way of marking an end to one chapter of his life. There was always a chance that something unpleasant from out of the past would catch up with him, but that would become less likely as he grew older. Karla would be coming to visit soon, and he had plenty of work to do getting kayaks and canoes ready for his guide business. But without the little dog padding around after him the cabin seemed very lonely.

He got into his pickup truck and drove off the mountain to his usual watering hole. It was still early in the day, and the bar was relatively quiet. Without some of the regulars to greet him, he felt even lonelier.

What the hell. He sat at the near-empty bar and ordered a beer. Then another. He was feeling sorry for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw a woman, probably in her sixties, standing behind him. She had long, silvery hair, large brown eyes, and her tanned skin was barely wrinkled.

She introduced herself as an artist who had moved to Montana from New York. She had a bright smile and infectious laugh and a keen sense of humor, which she displayed in describing the cultural differences between the two places. Schroeder was so taken with her that he forgot to introduce himself.

"I detect a slight accent," she said.

Schroeder was about to go into his usual reply, that he was a Swede named Arne Svensen, but he stopped himself. There would have to come a time when he began to trust other human beings, and it might as well be now. "You have a good ear. I am Austrian. My name is Karl Schroeder."

"Nice to meet you, Karl," she said with a demure smile. "I'd like to go trout fishing, but I don't know where. Could you recommend a reliable guide?"

Schroeder gave her a big-toothed grin.

"Yes," he said. "I know just the man for you."