Still, she had to admit the couple’s nonchalance was a pleasant surprise. Who, us worry? they seemed to be saying. It meant everyone’s favorite primetime villains weren’t in panic mode. Maybe they truly believed they would never die. From what Striker had seen in Holly­wood, copious amounts of money could do that. Yeah, the old lady and her old man were giving Striker permission to treat this as just another inconvenience caused by bad luck and an incompetent butler. Like your luggage getting lost at LaGuardia or a valet bringing you the wrong Mercedes. Okay then, thought Striker. I’m down to ride. Wouldn’t be the first time in her life sarcasm had saved the day.

  “What time’s cocktail hour?” she said.

  La Grande Dame gave her the tiniest of nods, metaphorically tapping a sword on each of her shoulders. Pact sealed. We shall carry on, tallyho, the old gal seemed to say, and treat it all as farce.

  In the back of each of their tandems, the Russian crew member assigned to shuttle the couple around the Weddell Sea were in bad shape. The guy in the Baron’s was dead. Striker could tell from the angle of Alexei’s neck and the stillness of his body. Otherwise he looked fine. No blood, no visible bones. She tried to recall something, anything, just a single human detail about him but she had to admit the guy hadn’t made much of an impression.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Cardiac arrest, I assume,” said la Grande Dame. “Poor beastie took a kayak directly between the shoulder blades at maximum speed.”

  Despite their newly minted agreement, Striker was still surprised by the old lady’s calm. She and her husband seemed totally cool floating around the Southern Ocean with a dead body in tow. Then again, Striker considered the tonal alternative: total hysteria. Yeah, no thank you.

  “He’s weighing down my boat,” complained the Baron. His neoprene hat had blown off, his white hair crazy and tufted around his bald head, a tonsured dandelion.

  “You should be grateful,” said Striker. “The extra weight could’ve been what kept you from tipping.”

  “Well, his services are no longer required.”

  The Baron’s use of the passive voice made Striker shudder. Despite the pact, was it too late for her to turn around and paddle like hell, leaving these two jackals to their own devices?

  “How’d you manage to stay together in all that killer wind?” she asked.

  “What wind?” said the Baron.

  “What do you mean?” said Striker. “The wind that blew us all to kingdom come.”

  The two old people looked at each other. “That is not what we experienced,” the Baron slowly said. His wife gave a small nod. “Now,” he said. “What about me and my weight problem?”

  Striker chalked their weirdness up to shock. It was puzzling. One second they were all watching the leopard seal go to town on the Adélie, and the next Percy’s head had caved in. Once they all got rescued, there’d be plenty of time to sort it out. For now, the very dead Alexei was indeed misbalancing the Baron’s kayak. The Baron himself was riding high up out of the water, but the back of his boat was floating only inches above the waterline, in danger of being swamped.

  “Right now there’s not much we can do about it,” said Striker. “Plus the guy deserves to get back to his people.”

  “Fantastic,” said the Baron.

  “It’s like when you have a bruise and the doctor tells you not to press it,” she said. “Just don’t turn around.”

  “Don’t turn around?” said the Baron incredulously. “I literally have the Grim Reaper sitting over my shoulder.”

  You’re a man in what, your eighties, thought Striker, how’s this any different from everyday life?

  “Forgive my husband,” said la Grande Dame. “He has a hard time staying on point.” The Baron smiled, a naughty child caught red-handed with his grubby paws in the safety-deposit box. “To answer your earlier question, at the start of the festivities—” Striker winced at her use of the word. “Vadim and Alexei grabbed each other’s paddles. They made a brace between our boats.”

  Now Striker could tell what was wrong with Vadim. He was passed out in the back of the Dame’s kayak. The poor guy’s arms looked longer than normal, like something you’d see in a cartoon after a mail-order contraption goes kablooey, both his shoulders dislocated, his arms inert pieces of rubber tubing.

  “So what’s your plan?” she asked.

  “Veronique,” said la Grande Dame wearily, Striker a caterer who had put a tray down on the wrong table. “My husband is eighty years old.”

  She was about to throw a witty riposte back at the old gal—like, so you’re saying he’s had a long life, no heroic measures needed?—but something caught her eye.

  Nestled front and center among the old woman’s bottom teeth were two metal studs. Studs like that were almost always titanium, one of the strongest elements on earth, the two little posts implanted in her gums so that fake teeth could be screwed onto them later. Striker tried not to stare but there was something vampiric about it. A few years back she had watched the long, slow process as a famous director got outfitted with a whole new set of choppers. It didn’t look like a lot of fun. Usually you were tarted up with some temporary teeth you could pop in and out while you waited for your gums to heal. The temporaries kept people from having to stare at your ravaged mouth. Who knew what the Dame’s story was? Maybe the old lady had accidentally swallowed hers in the midst of those lethal winds. Or maybe she just didn’t give a shit what people thought.

  “I’m seventy-nine for four more months,” whined the Baron. “She likes to age me up.”

  Striker shook her head, the spell broken. Whether she liked it or not, she now knew more about these two and their internal dynamics than she cared to. She filed it all away among the million and one details she was jotting down internally. Someday she might need to bust open one of these unimportant nuggets in order to save her own life. Which is why all she said as she paddled over and threw the Baron the rope at the back of her kayak was, “Don’t call me Veronique.”

  Bobbi Sue and Anders were the next to float in. They didn’t even need to paddle. A gentle breeze ushered the pair through the maze of ice toward the small troupe of survivors. Bobbi Sue’s skin gleamed white as if she were made out of cartilage, her lips the same blue as any growler.

  “My baby,” she moaned on repeat, periodically correcting herself and whimpering, “my babies.” She was shivering in a way that went down deep beyond the bone, her whole skeleton rattling. Just looking at her made Striker’s own body temperature plummet several degrees, the woman translucent as skim milk.

  “Don’t worry. We were only supposed to be gone an hour,” groused la Grande Dame. “Someone must be looking for us by now.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Striker. She checked her watch, frowned, then rummaged through her dry bag and pulled out her phone. Just like her watch, it read 12:14 p.m. Shizer. What did she expect? The two were synched. The crazy winds had messed up her devices. “The Yegorov’s probably used to groups coming in late because of folks snapping too many selfies.”

  “Remind me never to book a trip with you,” said la Grande Dame.

  “My babies,” Bobbi Sue repeated.

  “Mom,” said Anders. Though they didn’t say it, the teen’s tone implied pull yourself together. For once, the kid didn’t seem angsty or resentful. Of the lot of them, Anders’ reaction was the most by-the-book. The kid was obviously scared and needed their mother now more than ever, but from the look of things, some serious role reversal was going on. Anders had become the parent, Bobbi Sue the sullen teen.

  Only one word came to mind. Hysteria. Striker had never liked it. What woman did? The ancient Greeks believed the uterus could come loose and wander aimlessly around in a woman’s body like a laser pointer at a concert. The ancients blamed every type of unsavory feminine behavior on it. Wandering uterus my ass, Striker thought, as she watched Bobbi Sue begin to slap her own forehead in what could only be frustration. If the ancients were right, then Bobbi Sue’s uterus was currently located in her frontal sinus.

  “For what it’s worth,” whispered the Baron, “I might suggest the occasional full-throated slap across the face is an underused remedy.” He glanced around to see if anyone might second his medical opinion. His wife rolled her eyes—at his uselessness or the suggestion itself, Striker couldn’t be sure.

  “Nobody’s slapping anyone,” she said. But if it comes to that, I’ll be the one doing the slapping. “Listen, the Yegorov wouldn’t sail into an ice field. It’ll be easier to get our bearings out in open water.”

  “Or this ice is protecting us,” mused la Grande Dame.

  “From what?” said Striker.

  The Dame tipped her head in the direction of the sea beyond the blue arch. “From whatever might be out there.”

  “Go ahead,” said the Baron gleefully. “Tell everyone what you saw.”

  “I’m already regretting telling you,” she said.

  “You’re talking about those killer winds, right?” said Striker.

  “Katabatic,” said Anders.

  “My guess is it’s yet another symptom of global warming,” said Striker. “It’s probably never happened before.”

  “Goody goody,” said the Baron.

  “That is not what I was referring to,” said la Grande Dame.

  “Then what?”

  The Dame fell silent.

  “Well I for one believe Mr. Leopard Seal had him some hangry friends,” said the Baron.

  Striker and Anders both looked at each other disbelievingly. Did the old guy just say hangry?

  “Orca,” Bobbi Sue managed to stutter.

  “No, it was a rogue wave,” said Anders.

  The Dame remained quiet. Inexplicably she slipped off a glove and began inspecting her giant emerald, the thing dark as kelp. Something in the way she twisted the jewel round and round as if screwing it into her finger told Striker that for now it was best if the old woman kept her theories to herself.

  “I lost my earbuds, but I still have my binoculars,” offered Anders.

  “Awesome,” said Striker, “but all this ice is blocking anyone from seeing us. If folks want to stay put, be my guest,” she said, “but I’m heading out, and once I’m out, I ain’t coming back.”

  “Unless you have to,” murmured the Dame.

  Striker ignored her. “Who’s with me?”

  Anders nudged their mother’s kayak with their paddle. “Mom? Mom,” they said. “We gotta go.”

  “My baby.”

  “Dad and Mikey are fine, Mom,” Anders said. “Mikey’s always been lucky. The wave probably carried them back to the boat. Mikey’s probably guzzling a hot chocolate right this instant.”

  “He most certainly is not,” said the Baron. “I saw what happened to those two.”

  “Really?” said Striker.

  The Baron fell silent. For once, other people seemed to register in his consciousness. You could see it happening in real time. The old man’s gaze searching for purchase.

  “Admittedly, the eye can be a trickster,” he finally offered. “I’m sure the little man is indeed enjoying his cocoa.” He said the word as if he’d never pronounced it in all his born days. “Wherever he is,” he added, sotto voce.

  Bobbi Sue accepted the gesture with a small nod. “My babies,” she concurred, her husband and son’s survival now a matter of settled law. “My beautiful babies.”

  “All right then,” said Striker. “Everyone tie up. You.” She pointed at Anders. “You might have to pull her.” Anders nodded and tied their boat to their mother’s. “And you.” She pointed to a spot where la Grande Dame could add a second rope to her husband’s kayak.

  “The metaphor becomes life,” opined the Dame.

  You married him, lady, but Striker had already made a note to herself to stay the hell out of their marital head games. “We doing this?” she said.

  Suddenly the very dead Alexei sat up straight in the back of the Baron’s tandem. Striker gasped. The skin on the back of her neck burned as if someone were flaying it with nettles.

  Alexei stared aimlessly around the group until his eyes met hers. Striker tried to look away but her head felt locked in a vice, eyes glued open. He grinned. There was madness in his gaze. “Prizrak,” he whispered. A sunbeam shone through a ragged piece of ice, casting a spotlight on him, his skin illumed an airless blue. “Prizrak.” The word rattled inside Striker’s skull like a lone die. With a wink, the Russian slumped back down into nothingness. The ice shifted, the spotlight doused.

  Striker had heard it loud and clear. The hair was still standing up on her forearms. It wasn’t pain in his voice, the pain of a man who had given his all so that some rich bastard wouldn’t have to break a sweat.

  It was dread.

  “Just our luck,” said the Baron, “another Cossack who doesn’t speak English.”

  “Keep it to yourself,” barked Striker.

  “Excuse me?” said the Baron.

  His confusion coupled with the bewilderment on the faces of the others made her realize the whole exchange had probably taken place inside her head. She looked at the dead Alexei slumped in the back of the old guy’s tandem, this man-sized sack of potatoes in a yellow dry suit.

  C’mon, Ronnie, keep it together.

  “Might I suggest,” Striker said quietly, “we keep our speculation about what happened to ourselves till we’re back onboard.”

  “Aye-aye, captain,” said the Baron. He made a sloppy salute.

  Fuck you, Striker thought. It was just her luck to be carting around the monocle guy from Monopoly and his Botox-faced moll. But given everything she had ever done in this life, she probably deserved nothing less.

  It was strange. Just minutes ago the magnificent blue archway had been on the other side of the ice field. Now here it was perfectly positioned right in front of their boats, like a balloon backdrop at a prom. Striker chalked it up to currents, maybe a riptide. With one mighty stroke apiece, she and la Grande Dame sailed under the massive structure and out into the open sea, the Baron trailing silently in their wake. Striker could feel where drops of ice melt had landed on her cheeks. The moment like a baptism, the universe softly raining on her, rinsing the gunk off.

  They were paddling out in the open. The ocean was choppier than before but nothing too terrible. Kayaking really was the next best thing to walking on water. To think only a layer of fiberglass separated her from the deep blue sea. She glanced around to see how the others were holding up. Nobody looked tired. Anders’ arms were practically a blur as they towed their mom. It had to be the adrenaline. Striker herself felt like she’d mainlined something, pupils big as dimes.

  Nothing gets your mojo working like a little certain death.

  It would have been a truly gorgeous outing except for all that other stuff. Panoramas like this were the reason tourists traveled to Antarctica. The silence of the ice, the sense of drifting outside time, the beauty of every shade of blue. Towing the Baron and the dead Alexei wasn’t even a problem as Striker lost herself in the magnificence of the landscape.

  It reminded her of the heaven of her childhood. The way the nun who taught the religious instruction class Tuesday nights in the basement of Our Lady would describe it, the old woman with the glassy eyes of a true believer. No hunger, no cold, just peace, everything white, infinite and eternal, no need to speak. (But what about the people, Striker always thought. What color were they?) She almost expected to see the dead crowding around on the ice, the dearly departed barefoot and robed in soft white tunics.

  She had never really thought about heaven until all those hours she was forced to spend in the damp basement of Our Lady, an army of dehumidifiers running full blast year-round. Mabel had never used the word. Instead, her grandmother spoke of making that final trip across the River Jordan to a land of good food, good music, rest, a little justice. Mabel sitting in the broke-down chair in the tiny apartment on Clark that Ama liked to pick the stuffing out of, shoving it in her mouth when Mabel wasn’t looking. Mabel with her feet in a dented bucket filled with water and salts. What her grandmother believed. All people—the good and the bad—would one day make that journey across the water, find a place to finally sit down and catch their breath. It wasn’t about being worthy. It was about having served your time on earth.

  Striker took hold of her Leica. Might as well, she thought. Her sunglasses were gone but she still had her camera. She pressed the power button, kept pressing it. The shutter wouldn’t open. Shizer. Maybe it was the temperature, the Leica finnicky even in good weather. Early in her career she had learned to always bring a Holga along. She pulled the cheap plastic camera out of her dry bag and snapped a few shots. It had been with her on every scouting trip for the last two decades. As long as she didn’t drop it, the thing would never die.

  “If I’d known we were still sightseeing, I would’ve brought my popcorn,” said la Grande Dame.

  Striker recapped the lens. The jibe made her think the old lady wasn’t as old as she’d budgeted. The Dame was one of those chicks who could run anywhere from fifty to Jane Fonda. Either way, she was probably right. By now the cavalry had likely been called. Help was speeding their way. A sailor named Grigorii might wrap Striker up tight in one of those tinfoil blankets, use other means later that night to properly warm her. Grigorii with olive skin and green eyes. In a first-world sense, they were all too rich to die.