It’s cold in the cemetery. The day is bright and sunny, but the wind makes it feel chill and inhospitable. The cool breeze cuts through Edward Sanders as he stands before his father’s grave even as the sun warms his rich, dark umber skin. He pulls his leather jacket tighter around himself, suddenly wishing he had put on a pair of jeans this morning instead these dress pants made from the absolute thinnest material in existence. The wind curls up his pants like frozen vines crawling around his legs. If not for the jacket, he’d be an ice cube by now.

      He isn’t sure why he is even here. The grave is empty, just a headstone to mark where his father would have been buried had a body ever been recovered. The grave marker, which reads “Jake Sanders, Devoted Father, Seeker of Truth,” sits on a plot Jake bought years before when he and his wife were still happily together. It is there more to appease the insurance company that required a death certificate before they would even consider paying out on his mother’s claim. His parents may have been separated, but that didn’t mean that Jake ever would have left them without. She was still waiting for the check, insurance companies running at a snail’s pace and likely hoping that word of Jake’s survival would mean they needn’t pay out after all. The insurance company even balked over putting his father’s preferred name on the stone.

      Jacob Sanders, who always preferred Jake and was willing to fight anyone who tried to use his full name, was an archaeologist of some note who constantly traversed the world. He would often be gone for months at a time. This proved hard on his marriage and led to Edward’s mother asking for an amicable separation. However, Jake did, as the newly placed headstone read, remain a devoted father to his son. He always did whatever he could for Edward through the years. That’s why Edward now stands here so confused.

      This time around, his father had disappeared without warning. Edward had gone to visit him for their regularly scheduled father/son dinner to find no one home. A week later, a telegram arrived that read simply: Gone to Antarctica for expedition on behalf of American Environmental Society. In touch soon.

      But Jake hadn’t been in touch, he was completely incommunicado for months. The next thing Edward knew, he received a second telegram from someone named Jacob Whateley, the head of this “AES,” that said only “Regret to inform loss of expedition archaeologist Jacob Sanders while exploring in Antarctica. No body recovered.”

      Nothing more.

      Now Edward stands before an empty grave several months later just as confused. he casually speaks to the stone hoping for some kind of answer as he fiddles with one of the short twists on his head, a nervous condition he’s had since high school.

      “What happened to you, Dad?”

      Though unexpected, he does get an answer. Not from his father, of course, but from somewhere behind him. “He died doing what he loved, uncovering mysteries. Loved it so much he apparently became one,” a familiar voice says behind him. Edward turns to see the man he has only ever known as “Uncle T.” T is a man in his mid to late 30s, maybe early 40s, Edward didn’t really know. He didn’t think T is actually his uncle, just a close friend of his father. Still, he’d always been around and Jake considered him family, so Edward did as well.

      “Heard about Jake, nephew. I’m so sorry.” He brushes a hand across his bald head, Edward isn’t sure if he shaves it or comes by it naturally. “And I’m sorry I missed the memorial. I was out of town on... business...”

      T was always cagey about what he did for work, and Jake was tight-lipped about it whenever Edward asked. The most he would ever admit is that T was a man who could get things done and he’d saved Jake’s ass more than once in the field. The man carried himself with a military posture, so it was Edward’s assumption that he worked in some covert capacity and wasn’t allowed to admit what that entailed.

      “How’d you know I was here?” Edward asks in order to alleviate T’s obvious discomfort in talking about work.

      “Swung by your mama’s. She said you were stopping by to see the new marker.” He nods his head towards the gravestone. Edward nods and turns back to his father’s headstone.

      The two men stand there in silence for a moment before Edward finally speaks. “It’s weird, T. This man was dedicated to checking in with us on every job he ever went on. Even that time he was imprisoned in Tunisia for ‘grave robbing,’ remember?” Edward uses air quotes on the words grave robbing. “He still found a way to get word to us.”

      T closes his eyes and turns his head up to the sun, allowing it to warm his sepia-toned skin as he thinks. “Well, what was different this time around, I wonder.”

      “Have you ever heard of a group called the American Environmental Society?”

      T allows his mind to travel through every organization he and his friend in the Straw Hat have ever interacted with over his many years before finally shaking his head. “No. Never.”

      “Neither have I. That’s the only difference I can think of, really. He’s never worked for these people before. I’ve certainly never heard of them, and I’ve been doing some research ever since I got that second telegram. Outside of a few newspaper articles in library archives, I can’t find much. They barely even have any sort of web presence.”

      T shrugs. “Some people don’t really do all that social web stuff.”

      “An environmental group in the 21st century without even a Facebook page? That’s weird, unc. Most of these groups survive by online donations these days. They at least try to convince some well meaning college student to post for them without pay, but these guys? Nothing.”

      T drops his head in thought and pulls his jacket tight around him as another gust of wind cuts through the cemetery. “Hmm... okay... So, what comes next?”

      “Well, from the info I did find online, a simple business listing on a search engine, it looks like their local. Plus, I got this yesterday.”

      Edward pulls a telegram from his coat pocket and hands it to T. It reads “Urgently need to discuss father’s last job. Come to office at earliest convenience. Will be expecting you. Jacob Whateley, AES.” It includes an address downtown, one of the more historic buildings on Front Street.

      T passes the paper back to Edward and mumbles, “AES?” Then to Edward he says, “Didn’t think anyone used telegrams anymore.”

      “You and me both, T.”

      T clears his throat and reaches into his pocket, removing two very old, very large coins. He hands them to Edward and seeing the young man’s confusion explains, “This is something I do for all my fallen comrades. It’s an old custom, but I think Jake of all people would appreciate the gesture.”

      Edward looks at the coins. He can’t identify them, even though throughout his youth his dad had managed to teach him what every coin ever minted looked like. The metal feels odd to his fingers, but he can’t quite figure out why. “He did love a burial ritual. Don’t you usually leave these on the eyes, though?”

      “Yeah, but modern burial practices often make that impractical, so we adjust.”

      Edward nods and places them at the base of his father’s gravestone, pushing them into the dirt enough that they aren’t noticeable to anyone passing by hoping to snag a loved one’s trinket. He stands and turns to T.

      “Listen, nephew,” T says putting his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Keep me informed on what this Whateley fella has to say. You’ve got me curious now, and I told your dad that if anything ever happened to him that I’d look after you and your mom, so I’m in this now too.”

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      "I will, T. And thanks.” Edward returns the gesture with his free hand, the two men standing there in a moment of solidarity.

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      The American Environmental Society is situated in one of the older downtown buildings on Front Street. The building has been there long enough to earn an historical plaque. The plaque reads: Isaiah Black Building. Original location of the Antarctic Exploration Society, established 1852.

      Edward makes his way to the AES offices. He notices how oddly vacant it seems around him. While there are multiple office suites in this building, none of them seem to be occupied. This makes the interior darker than expected. As he walks, he only sees two men standing near each other in low, hushed conversation. He fails to notice the two eye him hard as he passes and steps into an office suite.

      Inside, there are numerous offices within, but they too appear to be currently empty. The only person he sees is a woman behind a centrally-placed desk. He walks up to the secretary and says, “Edward Sanders to see Jacob Whateley. I believe he’s expecting me.”

      The secretary, a beautiful woman with tan skin, richly green eyes, and dark hair tied up into a high, tight ponytail, smirks at him and nods. She stands from her desk and walks down a long hallway. Edward confusedly follows. He can’t help but watch her butt sway side to side in the tight pencil skirt she wears that fits it tightly. He is so distracted by this that he fails to notice a lizard-like tongue dart from her mouth as she turns back to make sure he is following. He also fails to notice the low insect-like buzzing sound coming from somewhere.

      Arriving at an office door, she knocks. A rich baritone voice with a mild New England accent calls “Enter” as Edward reads a sign that reads: Jacob Whateley: Founding President. The secretary opens the door and motions for Edward to enter. He does. Once he is across the threshold, she bows slightly and closes the door. Edward is so focused on looking into the office that he fails to notice the way her eyes blink through a second set of eyelids... or that they blink vertically.

      The office is dark. It sits in an interior part of the building, so has no windows. The carpet under Edward’s feet feels rough under his shoes, like it hasn’t been changed fr a very long time. There is a desk lamp providing the majority of the light in the room, as well as accent lighting along some of the shelves to the left. The office is filled with odd artifacts and what seems to be various specimens in jars. Edward steps up to one of them and sees it twitch slightly in its jar. He’s sure this is just a trick of the light.

      He reaches out to touch one of the jars, only to stop as he hears: “Mr. Sanders. It’s an absolutely pleasure to meet you.” The voice comes from the far right corner of the office near a bookshelf. The man who can only be Jacob Whateley stands from a chair and closes the book he is holding. He places it on the shelf beside him and begins to walk forward. From the brief glimpse Edward catches in the dim light, the book appears to be old, it’s leather-bound cover wrinkled with age, and it seems to the young man to have a face on it. Edward wonders how the man could read in such a dim light.

      Whateley meets Edward and takes his hand and shakes it. The man’s hand is bony and feels a bit brittle as Edward grips it. He has long, brownish blonde hair of kinky curls pulled into a ponytail with a single shock of gray and thick glasses on his face. His skin is so pale that it almost seems grayish in the room’s low light. He wears a suit jacket, but under it is a t-shirt. He wear this with jeans and what appears to be a pair of Birkenstocks with white socks. He looks like a hippie, basically. His t-shirt, from what Edward can read under the jacket, has a graphic image of the Earth and says something about saving the planet.

      “Your father told me so much about you.”

      “You knew him well?”

      “Oh yes. We joked often about having the same first name.”

      Edward looks at him oddly as Whateley releases his grip and makes his way back behind his desk. He sits down while motioning Edward to sit in a chair across from him.

      “Jacob,” Whateley continues grinning.

      “Yes... of course.” Edward’s left eyebrow raises in suspicion.

      “We’re all so sorry for your loss, Mr. Sanders. He was a good man and one of the best in his field. How is your dear mother holding up?”

      Edward puts his hand on the back of his neck and rubs it a little. “I think more confused than anything. We both are, honestly. What was my father doing in Antarctica?”

      Whateley chuckles slightly. “Well, as you know, the ice is melting, Mr. Sanders. Global warming has reached a critical mass and we are starting to see actual land under the ice down there. Meanwhile, the Russians are positively slavering to look for oil on the landmass.

      Edward nods. “It’s bad, or so I’m told.”

      “It is. I’ve seen it for myself. We here at the American Environmental Society are trying to understand the grander ramifications of this catastrophe and, maybe figure out how to reverse it. For that, we need to investigate the land and find a reason to protect the land.

      “And you needed an archaeologist?”

      “Indeed. There have been expeditions to the area for over a hundred years, and there are remaining artifacts from each of those journeys into the frigid depths. Your father was a great help to us in that respect. He helped us learn more about those previous expeditions and the effect they had on the region.”

      Edward’s face bunches up to one side, like the smell in the room has turned foul. “Okay... weird. I would have thought a geologist or an ecologist would be more useful, but sure. I guess that makes sense. Why all the secrecy, though?”

      Whateley looks amusedly confused.

      “Secrecy?”

      “My dad never kept me in the dark, even when he was working for various governments and corporations that made him sign an NDA. He always found a way to tell me where he was and as much of what he was doing as he could without causing an international incident.”

      Whateley chuckles, a little darkly Edward thinks. “Oh, no no no. No secrecy. We just approached him about this job with fairly little notice. He sent you a telegram.” He waves his hand dismissively at this.

      “Yeah. One telegram. I usually got regular updates when my dad was away on a job. This time, nothing after that first telegram until the one that told me he had disappeared and was presumed dead.”

      Whateley clears his throat. “Well, Mr. Sanders, it is not so simple to send messages in the frozen depths of Antarctica, I assure you.”

      Edward has a million responses to this, but instead he just narrows his eyes and says, “Yeah. I guess.”

      Silence hangs in the air for a moment. A clock ticks on somewhere over to the left. A strange gurgle cuts through the office. To Edward it sounds like the plumbing is about to explode, or maybe Whateley is just ready for his lunch. Still, it seems to come from all around him. Also, he is sure he imagines it, but he thinks he hears the word “tequila” or something like it whispered from outside the door.

      The hippie’s tone becomes more serious, businesslike. “Now, I’m sure the daunting task of sorting through your father’s papers and the like has fallen to you, the only son.”

      “Yes...” Edward is instantly alert, his suspicions mounting. “My mother wasn’t really emotionally up to it.”

      “Of course.” Edward thinks he sees a slight dark grin flitter across Whateley’s face. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would consider it a great personal favor if you would keep an eye out for one of your father’s journals. It wasn’t amongst his belongings after his disappearance and we wondered if he may have sent it home for some reason.”

      The young man chooses his words carefully, something in the back of his head practically screaming at him to be cautious. “I haven’t found any new research journals in the paperwork that I’ve been through already. Most of the old ones have been passed on to whatever group or university he was working for at the time. Protocol, I’m told. I plan on continuing to sort through his office tonight or tomorrow. I’ve been cleaning out his house for days. His office looks like a bomb has gone off in it, but I’ll see what I can find.” This last part was bullshit. He didn’t like this Jacob Whateley, didn’t like his face, didn’t like the way he constantly called him “Mr. Sanders,” didn’t like his tone, and something about this whole situation stinks to Edward. In fact, sitting here Edward starts to notice there is actually a foul odor in this office. It is musty, like mold and mushroom and dank, dark holes in the ground where things lay in wait.

      The strange oppressive atmosphere that has been building immediately lifts as Whateley turns on a thousand-watt smile, the one he probably turns on for donors that doesn’t quite manage to reach his eyes, claps his hands together loudly, and stands quickly. “Excellent! Thank you so much for coming in today, Mr. Sanders. I do hope we’ll be hearing from you soon. The fate of the world may hang in the balance.”

      As Whateley says this, his secretary opens the door and ushers Edward out, closing the door behind him. As he walks back down the hall with her, he realizes that he didn’t see Whateley press any button to summon the woman. How did she know when to open the door? Had she been waiting on the other side the whole time? While he ponders this, he just catches the eye of one of the two men who now pass him heading towards Whateley’s office. They are the same two men he passed in the outer hallway when he arrived. He can’t be sure, but he swears he hears one whisper “That the guy?” as they walk by.

      Once he is back on the sidewalk outside the building, one of the things that struck him odd earlier returns to his mind. While walking to his car, he freezes mid-stride and speaks to himself. “Jacob?”