Frozen Solid A Novel

25




“WHY DO YOU THINK THAT?” BARNARD BLURTED.

“The postmortem found multiple injection sites on the body. Drugs and paraphernalia were in the room.”

“Yes.”

“Injection sites included the femoral vein and artery and the median cubital and cephalic veins of both arms. Typical addict injection sites. But there were also micropunctures under each breast. Not typical.”

Barnard nodded, waited.

“Death from ketamine overdose seems beyond question.”

“And?”

“The microwounds weren’t injection sites.”

“What, then?”

“It was torture, made to look like something else. This is a homicide. And a bad one, at that.”

It took a moment for Barnard to grasp what he was hearing. Homicide was not a thing he had yet considered. And … torture? He became aware of a building rage, could feel his face flushing, his hands clamping into fists. He started to ask Bowman how he could know such a thing, but Bowman spoke first.

“Every wound site is close to a major nerve or nexus. Femoral, in the upper thigh. Solar plexus. Ulnar, on the inside of each elbow”

“You really think so?” Barnard was still struggling with the idea of torture.

“Yes. Whoever did it was good enough to avoid collateral trauma, which would have alerted a medical examiner.” He paused, looked at Barnard. “Sorry to tell you this, but I would bet that a more thorough postmortem would disclose damage to the optic nerves and possible others.”

“My God,” Barnard said. “Whoever did this has to be insane.”

A scientist, Barnard normally dealt with new information in a systematic, linear fashion: If that is so, then this must follow; and if this is so, then it is reasonable to believe … But a revelation like this defied such orderly dissection. The questions came tumbling out of his brain faster than he could articulate them. Why had this happened? Who had done it? How could they have done it without being discovered, in such a contained environment? What he finally said was “Criminal investigation is not my field. I’d better get on the horn to the FBI.”

“Maybe not quite yet,” Bowman said.

“Why not?”

“Let’s think this through first. Who, and why?”

“Jealous scientist,” Barnard said.

“Possible. Maybe she made a discovery that someone else wanted credit for.”

“Or a jilted lover,” Barnard suggested.

“More likely, I’d say. Hell hath no fury. And a place like that could magnify anger. If there are any cracks in a mind, a place like the Pole will make them worse.”

“Or it could have been a stark raving lunatic,” Barnard said.

“Yes. Somebody who was unstable before or became so after arriving. Now let’s look at why.”

“Another scientist might want to take false credit,” Barnard said.

“A jilted lover would want revenge.”

“And psychopaths just kill.”

“Killing is one thing. Torturing is another,” Bowman pointed out.

“Hard to see anyone but a psychopath torturing.”

“For every psychopath, there are hundreds of sanctioned torturers. All wanting one thing: information.”

“So they might have suspected Emily knew something she shouldn’t.” Barnard rubbed his face. “God. This is hard, Wil.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Hallie is down there, and I sent her,” Barnard said.

“You had no idea. Have you reached her yet?”

“Tried email and sat phone both. Still no luck, so I did some inquiring. A NASA launch has preempted most of the station’s satellite time. And there was a solar event, as well.”

“I didn’t get through, either,” Bowman said.

“If you can’t, it has to be a complete blackout. I guess now we call the FBI.”

“We could try. But the Bureau is very buttoned up and brutally overtasked. The official report shows death from overdose. It would take a lot more than our suspicions for them to fly agents down there.”

“Even if you talked to them?”

Bowman chuckled. “I play for a different team. Crosstown rivals. Coming from me could hurt more than help. Stupid, but how much in government isn’t?”

“What the hell do we do then? If you’re right about this, a murderer is running loose around the station. Unless he already flew out,” Barnard said. He was feeling something close to panic, a sensation he had not experienced for a very long time.

“We have to go on the assumption that he’s still there. Or she.”

“So Hallie could be in danger,” Barnard said miserably. “Everybody could be in danger. We should at least reach out for the station manager.”

“He might be the one who killed Emily.”

Barnard started. “How likely is that?”

“We have no way to know.” Then Bowman was quiet for some time.

“What, Wil?” Barnard asked.

“I was thinking how long a ride it would be in the back seat of an F-35.”

“I didn’t know they had two-seaters.”

“Prototypes for the Israelis.”

“You could do that?”

“Yes. But it would take most of today for authorization, half the night for them to find a plane and pilot, eight hours for the trip, including travel time to an air base. They couldn’t land in New Zealand. So Australia, then civil aircraft to McMurdo …” Bowman shook his head. “Not fast enough.”

“What about contacting McMurdo?” Barnard asked.

“I did, before coming here. They can’t communicate with the Pole, either. And it’s too cold for planes to land there.”

“So they’re completely cut off.”

“Yes.” Bowman sat still, hands flat on the table, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. Barnard recognized the look in his eyes, knew it had been in his own at one time. Trapped in a room with no doors and life at stake. Finally Bowman said, “How many scientists are down there?”

“Can’t be many, this late. Why?”

“We’ll keep trying Hallie. Meantime, let’s put the scientists under a microscope.”

“Why them?”

“More likely to know anatomy than a forklift driver.”

“We don’t have much time,” Barnard said.

“Won’t take much.”

Barnard walked him to the door. “Wil—if anything happens to Hallie because of me …” He stopped, had to look away.

“I understand,” Bowman said. “Believe me, I understand.”