I heard no snoring. They had to be gone.
Indigo light draped across the room. A bloated moon ogled the glittering landscape.
Wyatt’s specimen fridge opened with a soft popping sound. I slid out the first few racks. Ran shaking fingers across the slides and tubes: mosses, pollens, shellfish, seaweeds, each with its Latin name and—on the reverse—the date the sample was taken.
Gynaephora groenlandica. I remembered this one: the Greenlandic moth. Two slides: BLOOD, STOMACH. Flipped it over, read: 2/5/23.
Tenebrionidae, “dark beetle.” Two slides: BLOOD, STOMACH. Date: 2/9/23.
Cladonia borealis, a kind of lichen. One slide, 2/11/23.
Vulpes lagopus, “Arctic fox,” a test tube and two slides: BLOOD, MUSCLE, STOMACH, 2/13/23.
Carefully I replaced each slide and tube where I’d found it, but this was all going too slowly. I had to move. I had to find the date I’d seen—unless I’d imagined it—when Wyatt was dissecting Odin. Forced myself to concentrate. Scanned every specimen—dozens of them—from February 2023 right through March…
Listened for the snowmobile. Silence roared in my head.
All the dates meaningless.
Until I saw them.
Two test tubes, one filled only halfway: BLOOD. Two slides: MUSCLE, STOMACH. All marked: 3/21/23.
The date of Andy’s death.
I flipped over the slides, turned the test tubes. Read: Dilectus meus discipulus.
“My beloved student.”
I picked up the full test tube of blood, terribly cold in my warm hand. As if rejecting the knowledge of what they held, my fingers opened. The vial dropped from my hand, shattering against the sharp corner of the metal desk. Shards of glass exploded, blood spattering everywhere—the specimens, the rug, my shirt, Wyatt’s keyboard.
The next few minutes are fuzzy. I know I went to the kitchen—hands slick with my brother’s blood. Drained what was left of the box of red wine into a tall glass and drank it. Slid down onto the tile floor, tipped over onto my side, and curled into a quivering ball for who knows how long. I remember the heavy iron tang of Andy’s blood in my nostrils as I pressed my knuckles to my mouth to keep from screaming. What did he do to you I will kill you Wyatt. Began to hyperventilate. Repeated Sigrid’s words for emotions: Contempt, fear, sadness, disgust, anger; contempt, fear, sadness, disgust, anger, until the distant but unmistakable buzz of the snowmobile entered my consciousness.
Heart thumping, I forced myself upright, jumped to my feet. Flipped on the overhead lights. Spatters of red on tile, cupboards, sink, faucet! How could just one test tube of blood end up everywhere? Terrorized, I frantically got to work, even as I knew it would be impossible to clean every stain.
thirty-two
Minutes later, heavy boots clattered on the roof. Above us, Jeanne’s and Wyatt’s unintelligible shouts. I rested my fingers on Sigrid’s forehead. Too hot. Her pulse pounded in her velvet temples, her breath shallow and fast.
Fully suited up, I bent down to her. “Come on, Sigrid, you have to get up.”
She spun away, tunneling into the sleeping bag.
“Let’s go watch Seal Man and Nora look for ice eels. Sahndaluuk.”
With a moan, she rolled toward me. “Bahl,” she said, eyes still closed. “Stahndala.” Fear.
“I know you’re afraid, Sigrid.”
She patted her forehead, said, “Pain, pain.”
“And your head hurts, but I need you to wake up—”
“No, Bahl,” she groaned. Said, “Ionanut.”
“What did you say?”
“Ionanut!”
The Inuit word for It cannot be helped.
“No, we’re going to get you ice eels, no ionanut!”
“Sigrid dead. Sorry.”
“No, no, Sigrid alive.” I gently but firmly pulled her to a seated position, the sleeping bag falling away as she hugged her pillow tight. “Seal Man. Ice eels. Sigrid alive, come on, now.”
Head lolling forward, she mumbled nonsense words as I hurriedly dressed her.
Above us, the whir of an electric drill.
“Sigrid, can you walk?” I lifted her off the bed and set her down. She wobbled, pitching forward and landing on her hands and knees as if I’d set her on a steep hill.
“You can’t. It’s okay.” I scooped her up, sat her back on the bed, and turned away from her. Crouching down, I said, “Climb on my back, okay? I’ll give you a ride. It’ll be fun.” She lay her cheek against my back and might have dozed off, but I grabbed her arms, looped them around my neck, and stood. She wrapped her legs around me, and I huffed her up a bit higher on my back. She barely weighed anything. As I passed Wyatt’s desk, I stole one of his syringes, zipping it into an inner pocket of my parka.