Frozen Solid A Novel

24




NIGHT IN THE JUNGLE, AND BARNARD SAW THE BAYONET GLITTERING gold in the AK-47’s muzzle flashes. Stroboscopic bursts all up and down the line, the smell of cordite and shit, salt sweat burning his eyes. Rounds slapping mud, smacking tree trunks, a scream, curses. A bullet nicked the toe of his boot, felt like a trap snapping on it.

He was pushing and pulling his M16’s charging lever to clear a stoppage, but it was solidly jammed, not a millimeter of travel forward or back, and the NVA soldier was coming at a dead run and Barnard could not take his eyes from that shining bayonet and the NVA was ten steps away, then five, and the bayonet came at his face and Barnard started to scream.

Something woke him from the jammed-gun dream. He had it only rarely now, but it came back when things were stressful in the waking world. At least he wasn’t sweating and gasping, the dream’s occasional aftermath. Lucianne still slept beside him. It was the soft buzzing of his cellphone on the bedside table that had awakened him before the bayonet punched through his eye socket.

Wednesday, 3:54 A.M., the clock’s luminous numbers said. Moving carefully, so as not to disturb Lucianne, he eased out of bed and went into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Normally, the ID window in his phone showed who was calling—name and number. Failing that, it said, “Private caller.” Just now, nothing at all appeared. That was a tip-off in itself.

“We need to meet,” Bowman said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

Barnard knew Wil would not be calling like this without good reason. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get dressed. Where are you?”

“Stay in your pajamas. Just make some coffee. I’m in your driveway.”

Barnard examined the manila folder’s label: “Christchurch medical examiner’s report.” They were sitting downstairs at Barnard’s dining room table. Both had cups of fresh black coffee.

“None other.”

“How in God’s name …” Barnard began, then stopped. “I know. Don’t ask.”

“Give it a read,” Bowman said.

Five minutes later, Barnard put the papers on the table in front of him. “Ketamine overdose.”

“Self-administered. That was their finding. Do you see anything wrong with the report?”

“No. Their procedure looked three-P.”

“What’s that?”

“Sorry. ‘Per proper protocol.’ They performed a solid-phase extraction procedure using Bond Elut C18 for ketamine and norket-amine detection in biological fluids and tissues. They analyzed and confirmed the drug using gas-chromatography and mass spectrometry. The procedures yielded ketamine levels of 8.1 and 2.9 milligrams per liter in heart and femoral blood, respectively. Anything above about 6.0 in heart blood would likely be fatal to an otherwise healthy adult.”

“They also found alcohol in her system.”

“Level just .038. That’s not even a DUI.” Barnard pushed the papers away from him. “Emily Durant using drugs? Unthinkable.”

“But there was ketamine in her system.”

“Know much about it?” Barnard asked.

“It’s an anesthetic. Not much beyond that.”

“Was an anesthetic. Today, a recreational drug. ‘Vitamin K.’ Some years back, it was used for monitored anesthesia surgery—twilight sedation. Colonoscopies, some plastic and dental work, minor ophthalmic procedures. That lasted until people started waking up.”

“While they were being operated on, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Bad.”

“Worse. Waking up during a colonoscopy is one thing. In the middle of a face-lift …”

“That happened?” Bowman asked.

“Yes. And wasn’t even the worst of it.”

“What could be worse than waking up while someone was carving you a new face?”

“Not being able to move or communicate about what you were feeling. Ketamine is a short-acting paralytic. So imagine being fully awake, paralyzed, in agony.”

“You said it was being used as a recreational drug, though.”

“Smaller dose levels produce euphoria and disinhibition.”

“But they found no evidence of foul play,” Bowman said.

“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I don’t believe Emily Durant died from an accidental overdose.”

Bowman set his cup down. “Neither do I.”

Barnard’s head snapped up. “You don’t?”

“I suspected it before. Now I’m sure.”

“What do you think?”

“I think somebody killed her.”