White Death (NUMA Files 4)

"It sounds as if your father wasn't afraid of ghosts." "He wasn't afraid of any thing."

"What do these caves have to do with the fish farm?" "It's a way to go in. One cave joins others that lead to the old har- bor. My father said there are paintings on the walls. Wait, I'll show you.

She went to a bookcase and took out an old family album. Tucked between pages of photos was a sheet of paper, which she unfolded and spread on the table. Drawn on the paper were rough sketches of bison and deer. More interesting to Austin were depictions of long graceful boats powered by sail and oar.

"These are very old drawings," Austin said, although he was un- able to place them in time. "Did your father show them to anyone else?"

"Not outside the family. He wanted the caves kept a secret be- cause he was afraid they would get ruined if people knew about them."

"Then the caves can't be entered from the land side?"

"There was a way, but it was blocked with boulders. My father said it would be no problem to move them. He wanted to get some sci- entists in from the university so it would be done right, but he died in a storm."

I'm sorry.

Pia smiled. "Like I said, he wasn't afraid of anything. Anyhow, after he died, my mother moved the family away to live with rela- tives. I came back here with my husband. I was too busy raising kids to worry about the caves. Then the fish company bought the land and the old whaling station, and no one could get out there."

"Are there more pictures?"

She shook her head. "Poppa tried to make a map of the caves, but I don't know what happened to it. He said the people who made the paintings were smart. They used pictures offish and birds like signs. As long as you follow the right fish, you won't get lost. Some of the caves lead to blind alleys."

They talked into the night. Austin finally looked at his watch and said that he had to go. Pia wouldn't let him leave until he agreed to return for dinner the next evening. He drove along the deserted road in the dusky light that passes for night in northern climes.

A light was on at the main house, but he saw no sign ofJepsen, and guessed he had gone to bed. The rain had ended. He went out on the porch and stood there awhile, looking down on the quiet village and harbor, then went back inside the cottage and got ready to sack out. Although the remote village seemed peaceful, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Skaalshavn was a place of dark secrets. Before he turned in, he made sure that the door and windows were locked.

11

PAUL TROUT THREADED the wide-beamed Humvee through the heavy Washington traffic like a runner going for a touchdown at the Super Bowl. Although he and Gamay often took the Hummer on four-wheeling family trips in the Virginia country- side, nothing they encountered off-road could compare with the chal- lenges of driving in the nation's capital. They made good time, though, as Gamay called out openings in the traffic and Paul spun the wheel over without looking. Their ability to work together like a well-oiled machine had been crucial on countless NUMA assign- ments and was a tribute to the acumen of Admiral Sandecker, who had hired them together.

Paul turned down a narrow Georgetown street and tucked the Humvee into the parking space behind their brick town house, and they bolted for the door. Minutes later, they were jumping into a taxi, their hastily packed overnight bags in hand. The NUMA exec- utive jet was waiting at the airport with its engines warming up. The pilot, who was flying a contingent of scientists to Boston, knew the Trouts from past missions with the Special Assignments Team. She had gotten the okay from NUMA to add the extra leg to her trip and filed a new flight plan.

After dropping off the scientists at Logan Airport, the plane con- tinued up the Atlantic coast. With a cruising speed of nearly five hundred miles an hour, the Cessna Citation had the Trouts in Hali- fax, Nova Scoria, in time for a late dinner. They stayed overnight at a hotel near the airport and caught an Air Canada flight to Cape Breton early the next morning, then rented a car at the Sydney air- port and drove out of the city up the rocky coast to look for the pro- cessing plant that Oceanus had acquired. Gamay had picked up a travel guide at the airport. The travel writer who'd written the sec- tion describing this part of the remote coast must have been desper- ate, because he had listed the fish-processing plant as a tourist attraction.

After not seeing any signs of civilization for many miles, they came upon a combination general store, coffee shop and service station. Gamay, who was taking her turn at the wheel, pulled alongside the battered pickup trucks lined up in front of the ramshackle false-front building.

Paul looked up from the map he was stud

ying. "Charming, but we've got another few miles before we get to the center of town."

"We have to stop for gas anyhow," Gamay said, tapping the fuel gauge. "While you pump the pump, I'll pump the locals for gossip."

Tucking the guidebook under her arm, Gamay stepped over the mangy black Labrador retriever stretched out in a deathlike sleep on the rickety front porch and pushed the door open. Her nostrils were greeted by a pleasant fragrance of pipe tobacco, bacon and coffee. The store, which occupied one half of the room, was crammed with every sort of item, from beef jerky to rifle ammunition. The coffee shop took up the other side of the store.

A dozen or so men and women sat at round Formica-and-chrome tables. All eyes turned to Gamay. At five-ten and a hundred-thirty- five pounds, Gamay's slim-hipped figure and unusual red hair would have attracted attention at a Malibu beach party. The curious stares followed her every move as she poured two plastic cups full of cof- fee from a self-service dispenser.

Gamay went to pay, and the plump young woman at the cash reg- ister greeted her with a friendly smile. "Passing through?" she said, as if she couldn't imagine any traveler staying in town longer than it took to fill a coffee cup.

Gamay nodded. "My husband and I are taking a drive along the coast."

"Don't blame you for not staying," the woman said with resigna- tion. "Not much to see around here."

Despite her striking sophistication, Gamay's midwestern roots had given her a down-home earthiness that was hard to resist. "We think it's beautiful country," she said, with an engaging smile. "We'd stay longer if we had time." She opened the guidebook to the folded-over page. "It says here that there's a pretty little fishing harbor and a fish- processing plant nearby."

"It does?" the cashier said with disbelief.

The other people in the room had been listening to every word. A spindly white-haired woman cackled like a hen. "Fishing ain't what it used to be. Plant sold out. Some big outfit bought the business. Fired all the folks working there. Nobody knows what they're doing. People who work there never come into town. Sometimes we see the Eskimos driving around in their big black trucks."

Gamay glanced into the guidebook, looking for something she missed. "Did you say Eskimos•? I didn't think we were that far north."