Chapter Text
PRELUDE
The only light down here is from his flashlight beam skipping around the rocks. The underwater passage is narrow. Some parts even require him to push his oxygen tank through before squeezing in after.
In the depth of dark water, the wheezing of his CCR 1 sounds incredibly loud. He checks his watch. The heart rate is low, thanks to many years of practice. His tank is more than 70% full if he needs to use it, but he is confident that he will not. He has surpassed 30m depth which is past the halfway point and it will take him half an hour to ascend to the surface. All is good.
He tugs on his guide rope that will lead him back to where they came into the winding underwater cave system. Without it he might get lost in the many dead end crevices before running out of oxygen and die.
Another 2m ascent. It’s been almost an hour, his fellow diver should have made it back already.
He tugs on the rope again. But this time, there is no resistance.
Maybe the cold is messing with his sensations. He gives it another tug. The rope slithers flaccidly in the water.
He feels panic rising. His heart rate starts to spike. His breathing is picking up rapidly. The CCR can’t process the CO2 he breathes out fast enough. Quickly he switches to the O2 tank and takes two big gulps of breath to calm himself down. It’s ok. He’s been spelunking here since he was just a teen.
All the rocks start looking the same to him. This time when he looks down at his watch, it tells him that it will take more than 300 minutes to decompress2 . He doesn’t have anywhere near enough gas on him to accomplish that. He will have to cut it short somehow. When he checks the oxygen level it says 27% left. How could he be consuming it so fast?
But his brain starts to slow…
***
The day Beatrice sets off to Kaari is the second to last day of polar nights there. The sun won't rise at her destination at all and it’s 13 hours along the E76 heading ever northward.
Her reason for choosing this day was sound: she starts work on Monday afternoon and if she arrives just before Sunday, that will give her at least a full day and half to unpack and get situated. But now, while the sun fades below the horizon like a sweet memory, the dashboard displaying 13:12 - six hours into the drive, her coffee tumbler long since empty, her downloaded podcasts and playlist depleted, she can’t help but feel incredibly ill and ill-prepared for her new life.
Ovikaari is a small town 300 kilometers into the Arctic circle. The locals call it “Kaari” in short, which means “arc”. The town is crescent shaped, hugging a vast land of nothing but mountains, tundra, and snow.
With the heat on full blast and the monotony of the drive lulling her into sleepiness, she makes a decision. The snow tires squeak as she turns off the highway. The last thing she wants is for her body to be found after plummeting head first into the hardy leek fields that've been miles along the highway bathing in the yellow equinox light. It would be a sick joke for the leeks to thrive in a blanket of snow while she could easily perish surrounded by them.
Beatrice turns off the car and attempts to drop her seat back, except one or maybe more than one boxes block the seat from tilting down more than a few degrees. She lets out a quiet disappointed huff for no one to hear and instead tries to find a comfortable position from leaning against the cold window. The leather seat squeaks underneath her and her jacket rustles as she folds it into a makeshift pillow.
Beatrice squints at the last bit of orange she will see for quite a few days. The sun is still lingering reluctantly at the edges of the horizon. She wonders why anyone ever finds sunset beautiful. It’s depressing.
When Beatrice jerks awake in the utter darkness, her dash tells her it’s been almost two hours. She is freezing and there is a kink in her neck from sleeping crookedly in the seat.
Shivering, she starts the car. Her breath is coming out in a mist and there is nothing but seven more hours of unchanging darkness and reflective road markers. She thinks about chugging some Vitamin D pills when she arrives. This weird state of lucidness and exhaustion can only mean her carefully maintained sleep schedule will be messed up.
She dreamt of something during her nap, but now she can’t remember it fully other than it being icy, bone chilling with water surrounding her. Left a strange feeling.
When Beatrice puts the car in drive, Kaari, dark and frozen as it may be, pulls on her.
Despite her best efforts Beatrice passed out upon her arrival. She had barely turned on the heating so the spacious glass house could warm up when she proceeded to tangle up in her warmest coat and plop down on the still plastic wrapped sofa. It had just been casually put in the middle of the living room by the movers.
When she wakes up later in the polar night, it is, of course, sun-less with a kind of gray-blue that threatens daylight. Her watch tells her that it is half past noon. Hastily, she begins to follow her plan for “settling in”. The annoyance from being behind schedule and the lack of sunlight snowball into complete unawareness of the passing of time. By the time she is more or less satisfied with her progress, it is almost 2am. And she doesn’t manage to fall asleep till well past three.
Out of sorts. That’s how she feels the next day when the sun returns.
When she hears the burring sound of an oversized lawn mower approaching the house, she frowns. Beatrice’s house is at least 2 clicks from any other structures and its isolation was part of her reason for choosing it. She isn’t expecting any visitors or to see anyone before heading into work.
She mentally checks where her weapon is located and then approaches the floor to ceiling window on the second floor.
The first person she sees in the sunlight since her new beginning wears a trapper hat, puffy jacket, and a messenger bag. They hop off an ATV and dig a few envelopes out of the bag as they make their way to the mailbox, crunching on the unshoveled driveway.
The postman. Suddenly remembering the outgoing mail she had meant to send for days but failed at doing because of the move, Beatrice dashes downstairs. Grabbing a legal sized envelope atop her table, she dashes to the front door and bursts into the cold with only thick socks on her feet.
Immediately she has to pull her cardigan taught across her chest to shield against the frigid air trying to seep through her cotton raglan. “Pardon!” she calls out on the patio step.
Nearly back at the ATV again, the postal worker turns around and pushes up the brim of the oversize trapper hat so it sits above their eyebrows.
It’s a woman probably around Beatrice’s own age. Her cheeks are red from the chill of the wind and her shadow on the snow is a vibrant blue against the sun.
A sharp bark comes from the ATV. Both women turn to the source of the noise which is a red husky with eyebrows that are undetermined between vicious and comical. The dog sits up in the passenger seat. Though the dog looks eager to get off of the quad bike, it stays put. The post woman raises a mittened hand for a gesture and the dog hushes immediately from a bark to a whine.
“Sorry, Pixie just started to learn to socialize. Don’t mind her,” the postie's accent is American with a bit of lilt that is hard to pinpoint.
“It’s no bother,” Beatrice responds and tries not to shiver. The post woman turns back to her and gives her a curious once over.
“Just moved here? You British or something?”
“Half British.” Beatrice wants to snap back with something like “you’re not from here either” for the rather personal inquisition but refrains. Instead, she clears her throat and raises the envelope for the post woman to see, “I need to send this out.”
The post woman comes closer and takes the envelope. She skims the address as she retreats back to her ATV. “Oh, perfect. I am heading to the town registry to file some property paperwork the day after tomorrow. I can drop it off for you then.”
Beatrice frowns at the unnecessary oversharing but decides to not comment on it, again . “How shall I pay postage?”
“Don’t worry about it. I'm heading there anyway,” the post woman says as she tucks Beatrice’s package into her messenger bag.
“Wait.”
The post woman turns around once again and registers Beatrice’s hesitation. With a gentle pat of her bag that is supposed to encourage confidence, she says, “I promise I’ll take care of it.”
Beatrice chews on her bottom lip. “No offense but I’d rather pay postage and keep a receipt. The file is rather important,” Beatrice says in an officious tone. It is slightly undercut by the fuzzy socks and the shivering.
This time, the post woman seems like she will shove the envelope back into Beatrice’s arms but reins it in. She shakes her head in exasperation, “you know… you big city folk are always so suspicious with everything.” She starts walking briskly back towards Beatrice in ankle deep snow, waddling rather threateningly like an angry penguin, “with your lungs full of smog and heart full of pain. What’s so wrong with going the extra mile to help people? Sometimes folks do things out of the kindness of their hearts!” Eventually, she stops right in front of Beatrice, digs out a pad from deep within her messenger bag and hands it off. It’s the old fashioned kind with carbon paper between its pages.
“Fill it out. I will return the receipt with the signature on Friday. Four, thirty euros.” Stretching out her palm, she adds coldly, “cash only”.
Only after the ATV has taken off down the icy road does Beatrice realize she had not even asked for the post woman’s name.
—
The first three weeks of her new job are exactly what Beatrice expected. Drunken rows at the local bar every couple of days. Animal stock disputes. Small fender benders. Restless teenagers rebelling against living so far from busier civilization.
She goes on call, does her job, and then goes home. She tries not to think about why she is here, where she comes from, or where she has been.
Structure . It’s nice to have a structure. Even though half of her furniture is still wrapped in plastic and most of her things are living in boxes. It has become a familiar action to shrug into her big neon yellow and navy blue POLIISI jacket over a sweater and thermal shirt. Even the creak of the swivel chair in the station office has become so ubiquitous she doesn’t hear it anymore. The various smells of whatever concoction Camila, one of her constables, is brewing has become a staple of her everyday life.
What hasn’t changed since day one is that the post woman still hates her guts. She found a soggy signed receipt for her mail in her mailbox that Friday as promised. It was almost frozen when she found it and looked like it might have been stomped on in the snow or maybe licked by a dog. Both were distinct possibilities.
It also didn’t help when she discovered that the post woman is the sister, or adoptive sister, of her other constable, Michael.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says a woman in the trapper hat at the threshold of the station.
Beatrice and the woman stare at each other for a second before the post woman says with incredulity, “ this is your new boss?” She turns to Michael situated in the far corner.
“Yes,” Michael takes his feet off of the desk and gestures. “Inspector, meet my sister, Ava Silva.”
“We have met,” Beatrice supplies simply.
“You have?” Michael asks dumbly.
“I deliver the post, Michael. I meet a lot of people,” Ava Silva then turns to Beatrice, “does the inspector have a name? Am I allowed to know what ‘B.R.’ stand for?”
“It’s Beatrice. But ‘Inspector’ is fine. I’m the only one around here. If you don’t count DCI Superion.” She indicates towards the only enclosed office in the station, which is empty currently. The Chief is scheduled to retire in two months’ time, and only comes in to work three days a week.
“Color me impressed,” Ava says dryly.
Thinning her lips to a line, Beatrice doesn’t say anything further and tries to turn her focus back to the missing persons’ reports. They are records from the past 18 months that she has made herself go over. The most recent one reads: “Experienced diver last seen near the bridge heading north on 25th of October…”
With a clack, Ava puts a container on Michael’s desk, “you forgot your lunch, dipshit.”
“Don’t call me that.” Michael mumbles.
“What do you call people who forget their lunch all the time?”
“Whatever-”
Beatrice clears her throat hoping to cut off the childish sibling squabbling.
Ava, with her hands freed from holding Michael’s lunch, puts them up on her waist. “Ok, I’m off. Don’t want to get you in trouble with your new boss .”
Then the post woman leaves without saying goodbye.
The phone rings and Camila picks it up. “Yes, Hans?” She nods. “Uh-huh. We’ll be there.”
It's late afternoon and the moonlight is barely pushing through the cloud layer. “The Sudin brothers are fighting in the bar again.” She hangs up the phone before picking up her neon and navy jacket.
“That again?” Michael pipes up.
“I will go with Camila. Hold the fort, Michael,” Beatrice says in a slightly authoritative tone.
Michael nods and puts his feet back up the desk. “Have fun.”
Being her usual talkative self, Camila fills Beatrice in as they hop into the cruiser, “the older brother, Jonatan, used to be the postman before Ava took over. He co-owns the farm and a few acres of land with his brother, Karl. But Karl divided the property and sold his half, or I guess technically leased it for the wind farm.3”
“Right. The energy company gets to come to your property and build the turbines. And you don’t make money back until the turbines start generating electricity.”
“Yeah. And the turbines are quite a bit behind. So a lot of townsfolk who went with it are having troubles. Jonatan thinks his brother betrayed their traditions. Living off the land and all that.”
Beatrice focuses on driving for a bit. The roads wind and twist to avoid immovable boulders and other features of a landscape carved by glacial movements. The tallest structure to offer a landmark is the church. The body is of aged wood and the roofline is a mixture of slate curves and a tower just this side of being an onion dome.
“What do you think? You grew up here,” Beatrice finally asks. Camila is the only officer amongst them actually from Kaari. Both Michael and Beatrice are transplants.
Camila stays silent for a bit, then she half-shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s not easy to live off the land nowadays. I don’t blame people for turning away from tradition. Before the wind farm, Karl used to work as security for Michael’s mom, when she had a bigger lab here. But she downsized before eventually closing it down. The lab closure meant lots of people lost their jobs and were left with less options. That was about a year and half ago.”
Beatrice has read about the Arq-Tech satellite lab. It was set up as a geological research center by Jillian Salvius. Quite controversial when it was first established, the locals always suspected Salvius’s motives.
When the cruiser turns into the pub’s lot, they can see a small crowd gathered around two older men that are tangled up in a ball of limbs and beards. Obscenities are being spat out from between clenched teeth.
“Back up, folks!” Beatrice tries to push her way into the center of the crowd but people are paying her no mind.
Two loud pops behind her shush the crowd immediately. Even the two brawlers scramble away from each other. Beatrice turns around to see Camila re-holstering her pistol. She just shrugs as she joins Beatrice, as if to say “whatever works”.
The two brawlers are still vehemently glaring daggers at each other. One of them is clearly drunk as he is swaying slightly in the cold air. The other one’s sweater collar has been ripped out of shape and his lip is bleeding. As Beatrice approaches, she can smell the stink of booze off of the drunk one she believes is Karl. He is more haggard looking than his brother who looks very much like him. They both have long, bushy beards. Karl’s has more red-brown in it than his brother’s mostly silver one, but his eyes are more bloodshot with puffy eye bags underneath.
Without warning, Karl suddenly spits at his brother, which springs the older sibling into action again but this time Beatrice gets to him in time. With a precise and swift movement she clamps her hand over Jonatan’s wrist and twists. The guy cries out in pain and bends over. The spitting sends Karl himself off balance and he staggers before falling on his ass.
“Go, inside, now,” Beatrice gives Jonatan a little shove and the man yields. Shedding one last spiteful look at his brother still sitting on the icy ground like a bullied child, Jonatan walks inside the pub.
“Show’s over, guys. Back inside!” Camila herds the crowd back towards the pub.
Hooking her arm under the drunkard’s armpit, Beatrice declares in her best Police Woman scold, “ you are going to sober up in the station.” After much dragging and shuffling to help Karl’s reluctant and imbalanced body, she puts him in the car and locks the door. The cruiser is parked along the curb by the entrance and most of the bystanders have finally made their way back into the pub with disappointment that the evening's entertainment has been ended prematurely by the presence of the police officers.
“I can’t say that I condone the way you de-escalated the situation,” Beatrice says across the hood of the car as Camila walks towards the Cruiser.
“It worked,” Camila answers cheerfully.
“I don’t recall ever firing my gun outside of the range back in the Capital,” Beatrice mumbles while lifting her hat to wipe her brow.
“Oh, no. The folks here hunt. You gotta be armed, boss.”
“Watch out.” A voice calls out behind them. Beatrice turns to see that the unprofessional post woman, Ava, is bodily hauling two giant cases of something that clanks like wine bottles from a truck parked nearby. They have seen each other a few times in passing since their last encounter, but neither friendliness nor animosity have developed further.
“You need any help with that?” Camila asks.
“No, I’ve got it,”
“Need a hand?” A man shouts from the doorway of the pub.
“I said ‘no’ once already and I will say it again! I’m good, thanks.” She resumes her position before seeing Beatrice standing in her path watching her.
“Do you mind?”
For a second Beatrice thought the post woman was demanding her help specifically until she felt a tug on her sleeve from Camila. Belatedly Beatrice realizes she is in fact just in the way . Mumbling a quick apology she steps aside and almost slips on black ice.
Their eyes meet and they exchange an awkward half nod to acknowledge each other’s existence.
She watches Ava put the first case as a door stop so she can bring in more cases.
“Hey, close the damn door! All the cold air is coming in!” A voice shouts from somewhere inside.
“Oh hush Fergus, you big baby.” Ava ignores the man’s shouting and continues to head behind the bar with the case of goods, greeting everyone as she goes. Despite the earlier brawl and the cold, the pub has returned to its normal vitality on a cold winter evening.
Beside Beatrice, Camila waves through the open door at a couple seated at a booth. Beatrice recognizes the couple as the town physician, Dr. Shannon Masters and her wife, whose name she can’t quite recall. Suddenly Beatrice feels very much like a stranger again.
Clearing her throat, “I’ll head back. You can stay with your friends if you want,” Beatrice says to Camila. Technically they’re off the clock already. “I can handle him.”
“You sure?” Camila nods her head at Karl in the back of the cruiser, who’s already nodded off.
“Yes. Call me if you need a lift later.”
“No worries, Ava will give me a ride,” Camila points at the post woman at the door, in the middle of carrying another case into the bar.
At the mention of the post woman’s name, Beatrice looks up just as Ava looks back at her. Another curt nod and Beatrice climbs into the cruiser.
In the station, the fluorescent tube lights in various shades of warm white buzz unpleasantly overhead. The wind picks up outside and throws particles of snow and ice onto the window panes and their aluminum frames. Visibility will be a struggle when Beatrice finally heads home.
The water from the dispenser glugs out as Beatrice fills up a paper cup.
She unlocks the reinforced door into a small cement room - their holding cell.
“Here,” Beatrice places the paper cup of water on the bench next to where Karl is slumped over. He is still on the slurred words side of drunk and it seems it will still be a while before he manages to sober up, but at least the fight has left him.
Beatrice leaves the small observation window open just in case Karl attempts something off-hand, then she settles at her desk, leaning back in the desk chair and opening a paperback.
Through the small barred window, she can hear Karl downs the cup after knocking back its contents in one swig. “I lost everything, inspector. The rams got scrapie 4 and we had to cull them. Then my wife died. It’s all downhill from there. I tried.” He plops down on the rather cushy cot and lets gravity take him horizontal.
Beatrice thinks he might have fallen asleep before Karl opens his mouth again. “Those damn turbines. Breaking all the time. Never making a buck before I had to pay for repairs.” He tosses the crumpled empty paper cup on the cement floor with a hollow thunk.
Then the howling wind is all Beatrice can hear for the rest of the evening.