Beyond the Ice Limit

2

A LINCOLN NAVIGATOR, driven by an elfin man in a green cap, met them at the San Jose airport. From there, they had driven south along Route 17 into redwood-clad hills. It was a beautiful drive through towering, haunted forests. Both Glinn and Garza stayed resolutely silent; Gideon sensed they were ill at ease.

Deep in the redwoods, the car turned off the highway and began winding its way along a series of valleys, past small farms and ranches, isolated villages, shabby trailers and run-down cabins, through deep pockets of redwoods, meadows, and burbling creeks. The narrow, cracked asphalt road gave way to gravel. The evening was advancing and dark clouds tumbled in, casting a pall over the landscape.

“I think we just passed the Bates Motel,” said Gideon, with a nervous laugh. No one else seemed amused. He sensed a gathering atmosphere of tension in the car.

The gravel road entered another redwood forest and almost immediately they came to a large wrought-iron gate, set into a high stone wall. A wooden sign, once elegantly painted and gilded but now somewhat faded, read:

Below that, an ugly, utilitarian placard had been bolted:

As they approached, the gate opened automatically. They passed through and halted at a small gatehouse. The driver in the green cap rolled down his window and spoke to a man who came out. He quickly waved them along. The road, winding through gloomy redwoods, rose ahead. It began to rain, fat drops spattering on the car windshield.

Now the feeling in the car was one of oppression. The driver turned on the wipers, which slapped back and forth, back and forth, in a monotonous cadence.

The SUV climbed to the ridgeline and suddenly the redwoods gave way to a high meadow, many acres in extent. Through the sweeping rain, Gideon thought he glimpsed a distant view of the Pacific Ocean. At the far end, the meadow rose to a high lawn, at the apex of which stood a mansion of gray limestone, in Neo-Gothic style, streaked with damp. Four towers rose to crenellated turrets and battlements framing a grand central hall, its Gothic arched windows glowing dull yellow in the stormy twilight.

They approached the mansion along a curving drive, wheels crunching the gravel. The wind picked up, lashing rain against the windshield. There was a distant flicker of lightning, and a few moments later Gideon heard the delayed rumble of thunder.

Gideon swallowed a crack about the Addams Family as the driver halted under a pillared porte cochere. A red-haired orderly in a white jacket waited on the steps, brawny arms crossed, as they emerged from the vehicle. No one came forward to greet them. The orderly made a brusque gesture for them to follow and turned, walking back up the stone steps. They followed him into the great hall that served as the entryway. It was spare, almost empty, and their footfalls echoed in the large space as the door boomed shut behind them, slammed by an unseen hand.

The orderly pivoted to the right, passed beneath an arched portal, then continued down a long hallway and into a parlor. At the far end stood a carved oaken door, on which the orderly knocked. A voice summoned them in.

It was a small, comfortable office. A gray-haired man with a broad, kindly face, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, rose from behind a desk. The walls were covered with bookshelves. A fireplace stood against the far wall, logs ablaze.

“Welcome, Mr. Glinn,” he said, coming from around the desk, hand extended. “Mr. Garza.” They shook hands.

“And you must be Dr. Crew. Welcome. I am Dr. Hassenpflug. Please, sit down.” He accompanied this with a gesture indicating the chairs in which they were to sit, arrayed comfortably around the fire. His easy warmth contrasted strongly with the unease that surrounded Garza and Glinn.

A brief silence ensued. Dr. Hassenpflug finally broke the ice. “I imagine you wish to hear how the patient is doing? I’m afraid the news is not encouraging.”

Glinn clasped his hands and leaned forward. “Thank you, but we’re not here to learn about the patient’s condition. As we discussed, our only purpose today is to see the patient. His prognosis is not our concern.”

Hassenpflug sat back. “I understand, but a word of caution might be in order—”

“I’m afraid any such word would be out of order.”

The doctor fell silent, a frown gathering on his face. Much of his amiable air was dissipating under Glinn’s curt and unfriendly tone. “Very well, then.” He turned to the orderly, who had been standing behind them, his hands clasped in front of his white jacket. “Ronald, is the patient ready to receive visitors?”

“As ready as he’ll ever be, Doctor.”

“Please show the visitors into his quarters. You and Morris remain close by.” Hassenpflug turned back to Glinn. “If the patient becomes excited, the visit may have to be terminated. Ronald and Morris will be the judges of that.”

“Understood.”

They crossed the parlor and great hall, passing beneath another arch into what had once apparently been a large reception room. At the far end was a door, not of wood, but of riveted steel, and toward this door they headed. The orderly named Ronald paused before it, pressing a small intercom button.

“Yes?” came a tinny voice.

“Mr. Lloyd’s visitors are here.”

The buzzer sounded and the door opened with a click, to reveal a long, elegant marble corridor, lined with ancestral portraits. There was nothing of the air of an institution about this place, although it was now clear to Gideon that it was, in fact, just that. The corridor gave onto an elegant room, ablaze with light. The room was furnished with dark Victorian sofas and armchairs, the walls covered with Hudson River School paintings of mountains, rivers, and other wilderness scenes. But what attracted Gideon’s attention most strongly was the robust man, about seventy years old, with a shock of white hair, seated on one of the sofas. He was wearing a straitjacket. An orderly—Gideon assumed this was Morris—sat next to him with a tray, on which sat an array of dishes, each holding a mound of pureed food. The orderly was spooning dark brown goop into the man’s mouth. Gideon noticed that a bottle of red wine sat on the tray—a Château Pétrus, no less. A plastic sippy cup filled with the wine stood adjacent to the bottle.

“Your visitors are here, Mr. Lloyd,” Ronald announced.

The man named Lloyd raised his massive, shaggy head, and two piercingly blue eyes widened—at Glinn. Despite the straitjacket and the man’s age, he still radiated strength and physical power. Slowly, slowly, the man stood up, staring at them and seeming to swell with a singular intensity, and now Gideon could see that his legs were cuffed and hobbled, rendering him unable to walk except in the tiniest of steps.

He leaned over and spat out the brown stuff that the orderly had just put in his mouth.

“Glinn.” He ejaculated the name the same way he had the puree. “And Manuel Garza. What a pleasure.” His tone indicated it was no pleasure at all. His voice was strange, quavering and deep, shot through with gravel. It was the voice of a madman.

And now those concentrated blue eyes settled on Gideon. “And you’ve brought a friend?”

“This is Dr. Gideon Crew, my associate,” said Glinn.

The air of tension had gone off the charts.

Lloyd turned to the orderly. “A friend? How surprising.”

He turned back to Glinn. “I want to look at you—up close.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lloyd,” said Glinn, “but you have to remain where you are.”

“Then you come to me. If you have the guts.”

“I don’t think that’s advisable…” Ronald began.

Glinn approached Lloyd. The orderlies stiffened but did not intervene. He halted about five feet away.

“Closer,” Lloyd growled.

Glinn took another step, then another.

“Closer,” he repeated. “I want to look into your eyes.”

Glinn walked forward until his face was only inches from Lloyd. The white-haired man stared at him for a long time. The orderlies shifted nervously and remained close, tensing, it seemed, for whatever might happen.

“Good. Now you can step back, please.”

Glinn complied.

“Why are you here?”

“We’re mounting an expedition. To the South Atlantic. The Ice Limit. We’re going to take care of the problem down there once and for all.”

“Do you have money?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not only criminally reckless. You’re an idiot, as well.”

A silence.

Lloyd continued. “It was five years and two months ago when I said to you, when I begged you, when I ordered you, to pull the dead man’s switch. And you, you crazy obsessed son of a bitch, you refused. How many died? One hundred and eight. Not counting the poor bastards on the Almirante Ramirez. Blood on your hands, Glinn.”

Glinn spoke in a calm, neutral tone. “There’s nothing you can accuse me of that I haven’t done the same a hundred times myself.”

“Cry me a river. You want agony? Look at me. For the love of God Almighty, I wish I’d gone down with the ship.”

“Is that why the straitjacket?” Glinn asked.

“Ha! Ha! I’m as gentle as a kitten. They’ve got me in this to keep me alive, against my will. Free one hand and give me just ten seconds and I’m a dead man. A free man. But no: they’re keeping me alive and burning through my own money to do it. Look at my dinner. Filet mignon, potatoes au gratin with Gruyère, lightly grilled cavolini di Bruxelles—pureed, of course, so I won’t attempt suicide by choking. And all washed down with a ’00 Pétrus. Care to join me?”

Glinn said nothing.

“And now, here you are.”

“Yes, here I am. Not to apologize—because I know no apology would be adequate or accepted.”

“You should have killed it when you had the chance. Now it’s too late. You’ve done nothing while the alien has grown, swollen, and engorged itself—”

“Mr. Lloyd,” said Morris, “remember your promise not to talk any more about aliens.”

“Glinn, did you hear that? I’m forbidden to talk about aliens! They’ve spent years trying to rid me of my psychotic talk of aliens. Ha, ha, ha!”

Glinn said nothing.

“So what’s your plan?” said Lloyd, recovering himself.

“We’re going to destroy it.”

“Excuse me,” said Morris, “but we’re not to encourage the patient in his delusions—”

Glinn silenced him with an impatient gesture.

“Destroy it? Brave talk! You can’t. You’ll fail just like you failed five years ago.” A pause. “Is McFarlane going?”

Now it was Glinn’s turn to pause. “Dr. McFarlane has not done well in recent years, and it seemed imprudent—”

“Not done well? Not done well? Have you done well in recent years? Have I?” Lloyd cackled mirthlessly. “So. Instead of Sam, you’ll take others with you, including this poor sap, what’s his name? Gideon. You’ll send them to a hell of your own making. Because you’ve no sense of your own bloody weakness. You figure everyone else out, but you’re blind to your own arrogance and stupidity.”

He fell silent, breathing hard, the sweat coursing down his face.

“Mr. Glinn,” warned Ronald, “the patient is not allowed to become excited.”

Lloyd turned to him, suddenly calm, the voice of reason. “As you can see, Ronald, I’m not the least bit excited.”

The orderly shifted uncertainly.

“I’m not here to justify myself to you,” said Glinn, quietly. “I deserve all of this and more. And I’m not here to ask you to excuse my actions.”

“Then why are you here, you son of a bitch?” Lloyd suddenly roared, spraying spittle and brown flecks of pureed filet mignon into Glinn’s face.

“That’s enough,” said Ronald. “Visit’s over. You have to leave now.”

Glinn removed his handkerchief, carefully wiped his face clean, and spoke quietly. “I’m here to seek your approval.”

“You might as well ask if the lamppost approves of the dog pissing on it. I disapprove. You’re an idiot if you think you can still destroy what has grown down there. But you always were an arrogant shit-eating grifter. You want my advice?”

“That’s enough!” said Ronald, moving in and taking Glinn by the arm, directing him toward the door.

“Yes, I want your advice,” Glinn said over his shoulder.

As Gideon followed the orderly who was gently, but firmly, escorting Glinn from the room, he heard Lloyd hiss out: “Let sleeping aliens lie.”