Frozen Solid: A Novel

by James Tabor

  “What have you got to lose by humoring me for five minutes?”

  She had been choosing her words very carefully and watching Graeter’s reactions as she might have watched a copperhead on the desk in front of her. If he was the one, something would show on his face, in his voice, his eyes.

  “Leland …” He shook his head but then turned around, looking over his shoulder to make sure his body blocked her view. “What was it, again?”

  “Ambie. Probably short for a name like Ambrose. Ambert. Ames. Amos. Can you look for first or last names beginning with ‘Am’?”

  “Do you know why I’m doing this?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad. I don’t, either. Thought you might be able to enlighten me.”

  “Wow.” The genuine surprise in her voice drew a look from him.

  “Wow what?”

  “You do have a sense of humor.”

  “It’s usually broken. Slips out at odd times.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Listen. Need to say this. When I’m wrong, I’m wrong. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “No need to apologize. Men are prone to such outbursts when they can’t think of anything better to do.”

  He gave her an incredulous look, shook his head. “When was this?” he asked. “I mean, when was she supposedly seeing whoever this supposedly was?”

  “They hooked up just after Thanksgiving.”

  “For the record, I hate that expression. Sounds like railroad cars.”

  “You know what? I hate it, too. Consider it deleted from our communications.”

  “The station would have been fully staffed then,” he said. “It’s going to take me a few minutes to read through all these names.”

  “Wait. You don’t have to do that.”

  “How else?”

  “Use the Find function. It’ll take half a second.”

  “Where’s the Find function?”

  “What program is that?” she asked.

  “Excel.”

  “Up in the right corner of your screen, there are the words ‘Find’ and ‘Select’ with little binoculars beneath them.”

  “I see it.”

  “So just pull that down and type ‘Am’ in the search box.”

  “Son of a bitch. That’s neat.”

  “What did it find?”

  “Kramer. Liam. Quamber. Ramirez. Sam. William. Yoaman. A few more like that. But nothing that would shorten to Ambie.”

  “Damn it.”

  “I’m just the messenger here, Leland. Maybe Ambie was short for something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Ammo. Amber. Ambient.”

  “I guess you’re right.” She would have to work on it later.

  He swung around to face her. “Will there be anything else?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “My turn: how did I know you were going to say that?” he said.

  “I came to see you about Fida.”

  “What about him?”

  “I can’t find him.”

  “Can’t find him? What’s that mean?” Graeter asked.

  “He’s not in his room and not in the lab. Didn’t respond to a page. Is there any place where he might not hear it?”

  “No.”

  “If he was outside, though?”

  “SORs require anyone going outside to carry a radio,” Graeter said. “And a page would be broadcast over that. Maybe he’s sound asleep.”

  “I knocked hard on his door.”

  “Wait one.” Graeter had comms page Fida and direct him to call the station manager immediately. Nothing happened. He said, “Here’s what I think. He’s lying around somewhere stoned out of his gourd, listening to Ravi Shankar on headphones.” He sighed, stood. “But let’s have a look.”

  At Fida’s door, Graeter knocked loud enough and long enough to bring the same irate woman out of her room.

  “Help you?” Graeter said.

  She glared, but closed her mouth and slipped back in.

  Graeter took from his pocket a single key, attached by a small chain to a spent rifle cartridge. “GGM,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The great grand master key. Opens every door in the station. There’s only two. I have one and so does Merritt.”

  Inside, Graeter’s nose wrinkled. “Been down here too long. This is what happens. People stop taking care of themselves.”

  “We talked yesterday,” Hallie said. “He was aware of it.”

  “Being aware and doing something about it are two different things.”

  “So if he’s not here, where would he be?” she asked.

  “I can’t think of a place where he wouldn’t hear a page.”

  “The Underground?”

  “PA system goes down there,” Graeter said.

  Old Pole? she thought, but she said nothing.

  “Maybe he was out and didn’t take a radio. Or didn’t have it turned on.”

  Graeter shook his head. “First, SORs forbid egressing without a radio. Second, we’re in Condition One. It’s eighty-four below and blowing with whiteout. Nobody leaves the station.”

  “This morning it was seventy and calm.”

  “We’re surrounded by thousands of miles of ice. Fronts zip in and out like hockey pucks. There’s a saying: ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.’ ” Hallie had heard that about Alaska, too, and Colorado. But it was even more accurate here. “Why don’t we check the lab again?” he said. “SORs forbid headphones for this very reason, but sometimes …” He shrugged.

  Halfway to the door, Hallie had a thought. “Hold on a second.” She moved the mouse of Fida’s computer. The monitor, which had been in sleep mode, illuminated. “Look at this,” she said. On the screen a document was open, with these words:

  I AM JUST GOING OUTSIDE AND MAY BE SOME TIME.

  “Oh God,” she said, thinking, Why would he do that? Then she thought: He wouldn’t. For a moment she felt torn loose from her surroundings, assailed by horror and fear, nauseated and dizzy. She reached for a wall to steady herself.

  “What?” Graeter asked.

  “I know that quote.”

  “Care to enlighten me?”

  “Ever read about the Scott polar expedition?”

  “I know they died coming back from the South Pole,” he said.

  “Four starving, frostbitten, and exhausted men, trapped in their tent by a storm. One, Oates, was in agony. Desperate for relief and to leave food for the others, he said those exact words and walked off into a blizzard. His body was never found.”

  “Son of a bitch. Fida took a penguin,” Graeter said.

  “What?”

  “It’s an expression. Sometimes a penguin will walk away from its flock, off into the wasteland,” Graeter said. “Certain death. No one knows why they do it, but it’s a documented phenomenon. People do, too. Less often, but it happens.”

  “He was clearly crisp,” Hallie said. “But I didn’t think he would do something crazy like this. What now?”

  “We have to assume he’s gone out,” Graeter said.

  “And?”

  “There’s a missing person protocol. Search inside and outside simultaneously, two different teams. I’ll start the inside now.”

  Hallie headed down the hall. Graeter locked Fida’s door and trotted after her. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To get my ECW gear. I want to help search.”

  Graeter grabbed her elbow. “Negative. Nobody egresses in Condition One. That’s the SOR.”

  She pulled free. “We need to search now.”

  “Not in Condition One.”

  “I won’t stand by while a man might be out there freezing to death.”

  “That’s not your decision to make.”

  “The hell it isn’t.” She walked away.

  When she was out of hearing, he keyed his radio.

  A few doors down, the angry w
oman stepped out of her room.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hi.” Hallie kept on going.

  “Wait a sec. I’m sorry I was rude before. I want to talk to you.”

  Hallie stopped, turned. Over the woman’s shoulder, she saw Graeter’s back. He was still talking on his radio. “I’m sorry. There’s something I have to do. It’s really important.” The woman didn’t need to know that one of her close neighbors might have just committed suicide.

  “I have something important, too.” The woman’s face was reddening. “It will just take a minute.”

  “Sorry. I’m in Room A-237. Come see me later.” Hallie hurried on.

  “Asshole,” the woman called.

  “Dr. Leland.”

  Hallie was almost to her room when someone spoke from behind. She turned and saw two big men approaching. One wore a Dragger’s dirty Carhartt overalls and black boots. The other was tall and powerfully built, with a white lab coat on over jeans, a blue shirt, and a red sweater.

  Dragger and Beaker, she thought. I wonder what brings these two together. But she had a pretty good idea.

  “I’m Ben Lowry, biochemistry,” the Beaker said. He was clean-shaven and had huge hands. She could see him as a forward for Duke or UNC. His voice was flat.

  “Jake Grenier. Diesel mechanic,” the Dragger said. Hallie recognized him.

  “You were out on the ice. When Rockie’s Cat went down.”

  “Yep. You did good out there, Doc.”

  “Thanks. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “Not make any trouble, would be a good start,” Lowry said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’ll be escortin’ you to your room,” Grenier said.

  She took a step back, her face hardening, anger kindling. “I don’t think so.”

  “Zack Graeter called,” Lowry said, tapping the radio in his coat pocket. “We’re on the station security team.”

  “It’s for your own good, Doc,” Grenier said, and she heard real concern in his voice. “You can’t imagine what it’s like out there right now. Flesh freezes solid in seconds. Cracks like glass if you tap it. You can frostbite your lungs. Eyeballs freeze, for Christ’s sake.”

  “That’s exactly why somebody has to go after Fida.”

  Grenier said, more gently, “Look, it warms up a little, I’ll be the first on the ice with you. But nobody’s goin’ out now.”

  She must have looked unconvinced, because Lowry said, “I’m told you go on expeditions. Mountains and caves and such. Done a bit of that myself. Alps, Andes, some others. Cardinal rule: Don’t make more victims. Am I right?”

  He was correct, and she knew it. “Okay. What will happen when it warms up?”

  “A Search and Rescue team’s gonna be staged and ready to roll,” Grenier said. “We plan and practice for this, Doc. Ain’t a bunch of Boy Scouts fallin’ over ourselves down here.”

  “After you,” Lowry said politely. “We’ll just see you to your room and leave it at that.”

  “How long do you intend to keep me confined here?”

  “Until dinner hours in the galley, Zack Graeter said. Just enough for you to cool down, was the impression I got.”

  “How do you know I won’t go out anyway? After you leave?”

  “Because I’m going to ask you to give me your word of honor that you won’t. Unless there’s an emergency of some kind, of course. Otherwise, we’ll have to post a Polie here, and that would be a shame because with winterover coming, we all have way too much to do.” He put out his hand. “So: word of honor?”

  She sighed, then shook.

  35

  “BRANK!” GUILLOTTE EXCLAIMED, WALKING INTO THE STATION’S grimy weight room. Though Guillotte’s expression and tone were friendly, Brank took a step backward. He and Guillotte had not spoken since the incident in the dive shed. Guillotte came forward.

  “I am sorry for what happened,” Guillotte said. “We should not let Beakers get between us.” He winked. “And besides, what is the harm in a little drink, right?” He took a flask out of his gym bag, uncapped it, drank, offered it to Brank.

  “What is it?”

  “Something special. You will like it.”

  Brank sipped, gingerly at first, then took a real swig. “Good shit,” he said, licking his lips. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Some friends in France make it special. I keep a supply.”

  Brank handed the flask back. He wore black sweatpants and a red tank top. A big man, six-two and 220, and strong, but a coat of bearlike fat covered his muscles.

  “So,” Guillotte said, extending a hand. “Put that behind us?”

  Brank looked suspicious, but only for a second. He shook. “No problem, man. It’s forgot.”

  “Do you mind if I work out some, too?”

  “Hey, more the merrier,” Brank said. He picked up fifty-pound dumbbells and started pumping out a set.

  Guillotte pulled off his gray sweatshirt. Underneath, he was wearing a sleeveless black tank top that was stretched skin-tight over his torso. Brank glanced over, one lifter checking out another; then the two got down to work. Guillotte put on an old pair of fingerless gloves, started with push-ups and sit-ups and dips, then put four 45-pound plates on the bench-press bar, for a total weight of 225.

  “Would you spot me for this? I am going up twenty pounds now.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Brank was unable to contain a smirk at so little weight. He stood at the head of the bench and kept his hands several inches beneath the bar as Guillotte pushed it up off the rack, balanced it over his chest, and started his reps. After ten his arms started to shake and the bar’s ascent slowed.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” Brank urged. “You got another one in there, push it out!”

  Guillotte grunted and heaved and got the bar back in place on the uprights. He panted a few times, stood up, massaged his pecs and arms, got some water. Two minutes later he was ready again.

  “Watch me close on these,” Guillotte said. “I am feeling shaky.”

  “I got you,” Brank said. “Go for it.”

  Guillotte managed nine, and half of the tenth. Brank had to help him get the bar back into place. Guillotte stood, red-faced, breathing hard. He patted his chest, grinned. “On fire here.” Brank nodded. He did not seem impressed with the weight. “What are you putting up now?” Guillotte asked.

  “Two sixty-five,” Brank said.

  “You shit me? No way. Two sixty-five?”

  “Fuckin’ A, man. Want to bet?”

  Guillotte looked doubtful. “How much?”

  “Shit, I don’t care. Twenty bucks.”

  “Yes, I bet that. Go ahead. I spot.”

  Brank looked smug as he added twenty pounds to either end of the bar and locked down the collars. “Watch now, see how it’s done. You got me?”

  “I got you. Go for it.”

  Guillotte positioned himself at the head of the bench. Brank started to push the bar up off its rests, then stopped.

  “Wait a second,” Brank said. “How many reps?”

  “What?”

  “How many reps I got to do here?”

  “Six.”

  Brank grinned. “Piece of cake.” He got the bar up over his chest, lowered it, raised to full extension, and kept going. By the fourth rep his face was scarlet and he was holding his breath on the lifts, rather than exhaling. His whole body shook with the sixth rep’s effort. Just before he set the bar back on its pegs, Guillotte said, “A hundred says you do not have one more in you.”

  Brank tried to look back at Guillotte. “Done,” he gasped. He moved the bar over his chest and started lowering it. His face was the color of brick. Guillotte put his hands on top of Brank’s.

  “I got it,” Brank said.

  Guillotte pulled back, so that the bar was directly over Brank’s face. He began to press down.

  “Don’t! What the fuck are you—” The bar touched the bridge of Brank’s nose, and he stopped talking.<
br />
  “Frogman?” Guillotte said. “You insult me, and my country? Big mistake, fat fuck.” He pushed down again, but not very hard. Two hundred and sixty-five pounds did the work. There followed the brittle snaps of cracking bone and a very brief scream.

  36

  CAROL HAD BROUGHT COFFEE, COLD DRINKS, AND ROAST BEEF sandwiches to Barnard’s office. They drank the coffee, left the rest alone. Barnard removed his pearl tie tack and handed it to Bowman, who plugged its stem into a digital voice-stress analyzer the size of a laptop computer.

  “How does it work?” Barnard asked.

  “The unstressed human voice produces sounds within a known range, measured in hertz units. Deception causes involuntary sound anomalies called Lippold tremors. Higher vocal frequencies, in lay terms.”

  “And it can work from a recording?”

  “Oh yes.” Bowman opened a program, and two windows of equal size, separated by a black horizontal line, appeared on the computer screen. A thin orange line ran straight across the middle of the top window’s white background.

  “That will show his voice as any audio recorder would,” Bowman explained.

  The lower screen displayed a green line against a black background. Above and below the thin green line were red lines. “This is where we’ll see evidence of the Lippold tremors. If the green response display passes beyond the red lines, there is deception.”

  Bowman fast-forwarded past Barnard’s meeting with the young male assistant in the outer office.

  “David Gerrin. So pleased to meet you.”

  “Donald Barnard. Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Gerrin.”

  “I am happy to.”

  “Look at that.” Bowman paused the audio. The green line had swelled beyond both red lines. “He’s not happy to see you at all.”

  “Doesn’t mean much. He could be thinking about lunch or his mistress or any one of a thousand things I was keeping him from.”

  “Let’s keep going.” Bowman started the recording again.

  “So, I saw your confusion and will explain. This name, David Gerrin, does not fit with my appearance. It is not the name I was born with. That one has so many syllables, even fellow Bangladeshis find it difficult.”

  “Good move.”