Frozen Solid: A Novel (8 page)

“Oh, yes. He’s obsessed.”

“In the clinical sense?”

“He’s not certifiable. I don’t think he’s a bad man, deep down. But he can be like a little Hitler with his rules. Just don’t get sideways with him.”

“Forewarned,” she said. “But about Emily.”

Merritt scratched a fingernail over her desktop, as if trying to scrape away something crusty and foreign. “It’s tricky, with all these confidentiality regulations now. You’re not family, so I don’t—”

“What I hear stays here. I
promise
.”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Emily and I worked together at BARDA, part of CDC, and got to be good friends a few years back.”

“I didn’t know that.” Merritt seemed surprised and, for some reason Hallie couldn’t fathom, unhappy to hear that. “Not sure any of us did. No matter. It was very sad. That young woman was so sweet, and had such potential. What an awful waste.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe this will help you understand why I wasn’t eager to talk. The sad fact is, Emily killed herself.”

Hallie knew that this was not true. She also knew that it was important not to let anyone else know that yet. She did her best to look and sound horrified. “
Really?
My God.”

“Isn’t that just the most tragic thing you ever heard?”

“Suicide? Emily Durant? It’s hard to believe.”

“I didn’t say suicide.”

“You said she killed herself.”

“Accidental drug overdose. There is a difference.”

“Who determined that?”

“The station manager, Doc, and me. I found her and wrote up the report, since technically she worked for me. But the others had to sign off.”

“How did you come to find her?”

“Her partner—Fido—started to worry after she didn’t show up in the lab. He went to her room and knocked. No answer. Called and asked me to look in on her.” Merritt shook her head. “Oh dear. It was very bad. She was dead on her bunk with a syringe stuck in one arm. There were injection marks in other places, syringes, more drugs. Just … just
awful
. I’m not used to that kind of thing.”

“How do you know about the injection marks?”

“She was almost naked. You couldn’t miss them. I’m no expert on druggies, but Doc said they find all kinds of strange places to shoot up.”

“I seriously doubt Emily Durant was a druggie,” Hallie said.

“Pole changes people. Emily had been here almost a year. You’ve just arrived.”

“Emily never used drugs when I knew her. She rarely even drank. She was a nationally ranked ski racer in college. Stayed in top shape.”

“To tell you the truth, her health had been deteriorating for some weeks before she died. I saw it. Others did, too.”

“How so?”

“The poor girl was exhausted. Depressed. Not eating. Forgetful.”

Must have been watching her pretty closely to know all that, Hallie thought. But then, a good chief scientist would.

“It’s called getting Polarized,” Merritt said. “Happens at the end of a long stay.”

“Why didn’t she just leave?”

“Don’t you know, I suggested that very thing? But she’d been given a sizable grant. And signed a contract. If she had to withdraw for mental health reasons … Well, I don’t have to tell
you
. Poor thing. It would have ended her career.”

“It might have kept her alive.”

Merritt gave Hallie an odd look. “Did you have any more questions about this?” Her tone indicated that she hoped Hallie’s answer would be no.

“What was the drug?”

“We don’t know just yet. But—and it pains me to say this—it’s like Alice’s Restaurant here. You can get anything you want.”

“What did the medical examiner’s report say?”

“We haven’t seen one yet.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Not really. The ME at Christchurch does the autopsy and sends his report to the New Zealand Police. They give it to State, and
they
send it through diplomatic channels to Washington. After all that, it might be routed back to NSF and, if the powers there see fit, shared with us worker bees.”

“Did the doctor do a tox screen?”

“No, we’re not equipped for that.”

“You said you found injection marks, as in plural?”

“On her thighs and both arms.”

“Were photographs taken of the body? The death scene?”

“No.”

That struck Hallie as odd, too. “Does everybody know you were the one who found Emily’s body?”

“No, just Graeter, Doc, and Fido. Details like that are all confidential.” She hesitated, then continued: “And honestly, Hallie, you wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t learned you were friends. If details start leaking before the muckety-mucks get their paperwork, I could wind up in very hot water.”

“I give you my word, nothing I heard leaves this room.”

Merritt smiled. “I knew the minute we met that I could trust you. Just a feeling you get about some people.”

That sounded like a closing statement to Hallie. She got up to go. “Thanks for taking time, Aggie. I appreciate—”

Merritt waved her down. “Whoa, hang on. All we’ve done is talk work. What about
you
? Married, have a family?”

“No husband, no kids.”

“There must be a Mr. Right, though. Beautiful girl like you.”

“As a matter of fact. We’ve been together about a year.”

“Making family plans yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, family plans. Marriage, babies, all that.”

Merritt’s questions were mild in tone and accompanied by a
sincere-looking smile, but they felt strange to Hallie. They had known each other for only twenty minutes. And why would she care about Hallie’s family plans, of all things?

“We haven’t gotten there,” she said. Which was true, if you discounted her recent close call and the impasse with Bowman it had caused on the way to Dulles. Merritt didn’t need to hear any of that, but Hallie felt it would be discourteous to just walk out now without showing some personal interest in return.

“How about you, Aggie?”

“Married, you mean?” Long sigh. “Once. Not anymore.”

So, death or divorce, Hallie thought, either of which could bite if you reached too far. She nodded, waited to see if Merritt wanted to continue. She did.

“He came from a big family. And wanted a big family. We
—I—
couldn’t have children at all. He didn’t want to adopt. So he found a better breeder.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m over it long since. Seems like a dream now. Nightmare, actually.”

Are
you over it? Hallie wondered. Something in Merritt’s tone and expression suggested otherwise.

“You two tying the knot anytime soon?” Merritt asked.

Hallie had not heard that expression for a long time, but something in Merritt’s tone made it sound more like a hanging than marriage. She shrugged. “We both travel a lot and do dangerous work.”

“Can get addictive, though, right? That kind of work?”

Hallie had been thinking about that a good bit recently. Still, the question surprised her, coming from a relative stranger.

“Honestly, yes. I’m always glad to be home. But then I can’t wait to get out again.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“How so?”

“Most people would have said ‘leave home’ or maybe ‘go away.’ You said ‘get out.’ Like from prison.”

WIL BOWMAN LIVED ON A HUNDRED REMOTE ACRES IN NORTHWESTERN
Maryland, in a stone house built in the 1850s by a farm family named Mongeon and refurbished at odd intervals since. Bowman’s place was accessible by a dirt service road that curved and twisted more than a mile from State Route 550. The land was mostly mixed hardwood forest on the southern flank of Piney Mountain. Remnants of an orchard intermingled with native trees off to one side of the house. Bowman was slowly bringing the apple trees back, heirloom varieties like Northern Spy, Orange Pippin, Winesap, Roxbury Russet.

A quarter mile behind the house, a sheer granite face rose vertically for 150 feet and ran a half mile in either direction. In spring, freshets poured down the mountain above the cliff and joined into foaming cascades at several places. In winter, those waterfalls froze solid. In front of the house, Bowman had cleared several sloping acres to reclaim what, once upon a time, had been sheep pasture bounded by ruler-straight, knee-high stone walls. When time between operations allowed, he kept working to open things up beyond the fields.
He liked making space for the big maple, beech, and oak trees to have light and flourish. He also liked clean, open sight lines.

He sat at an oak table in front of a cavernous fieldstone fireplace. It was fitted now with a Vermont Castings Defiant woodstove, which heated the house all winter on four cords of seasoned wood, which he cut, split, and stacked himself.

He had been trying to write an email to Hallie for some time now, starting and stopping, uncharacteristically twisted up in his own thinking. He had not liked the way they had parted on Thursday. On the way to Dulles, she’d told him that she had thought she was pregnant. It had come as a surprise, but no more so than the fact that she’d waited until they were almost at the terminal.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” he asked, wanting her answer and fearing it in about equal measure.

“I wanted to be sure,” she said.

He looked over. Something in her tone. “That wasn’t the only reason, though.”

“No, it wasn’t the only one.”

Perhaps that was why she had waited until they were so close to the airport. Before more could be said, he double-parked in front of the terminal. He knew that she had to board in less than an hour and had two huge bags to check, not to mention passing security. He could feel her impatience. Cars were lining up behind them. A cabbie honked, then another. A dirty wind came up, making them both blink to clear the grit. He tossed her luggage onto a redcap’s wagon, then drew her aside.

“We need to talk more, Hallie.”

“We do. But I have to go.”

He held her with his eyes. “There are things you don’t know. About me.”

“And about myself, apparently.”

That surprised him. Shocked, almost. Hallie never spoke about herself that way, was virtually allergic to the argot of self-help books and guru mantras.

He held her, and they kissed. She promised to call from Los Angeles, or maybe it had been New Zealand. She waved to the redcap, who followed her into the terminal.

A green minivan pulled to the curb directly in front of him and disgorged people: business-suited man, woman in white parka and jeans, young girl with shining blond hair in red jacket and white cap. The man hauled a suitcase out of the van’s back, faced the woman, and they embraced. The girl fluttered around them.

Bowman turned away. More honking, a woman leaning out her car window, gesturing, yelling something. He heard none of it.

He started another email:

No, he thought. Sounds like a fuddled college kid. He deleted that attempt, got up, walked around. Looked out the front windows. It was midafternoon, the sun dipping behind the mountain’s western shoulder, white woods turning blue, wind spinning through the forest, twirling up snow devils in the old sheep pasture. Bowman looked out, watched shadows stretch, thought about climbing one of the frozen waterfalls. Tossed that idea away. Quit stalling, mister.

He went to the bathroom, used the toilet, saw his reflection in the mirror while he washed his hands. Bowman liked living among old things. Some young Marylander might have gazed at himself in that mirror before heading off to Antietam. Bowman had bought it for the oval frame of hand-carved butternut and had never replaced the glass, though it was cracked and dulled with age. It was like looking at himself through fog—not such a bad thing, actually. Thirty-nine,
not old, but not much youth left in that face. Had he ever looked young? Must have, once. The job ages you. Other people told you, so you knew that when you took it on. Like being a soldier. Or a cop in a big city. People thought the fighting ended when the bad actors swung, but it never really did end. Just smoldered underground, out of plain sight, waiting to flare again like roots that reignite forest fires.

There were certain rules he never broke. Some had to do with killing. Always finishing what he started was another. One of his favorite books was
Personal Memoirs of U.S. Grant
, and one of his favorite passages described young Grant’s attempt to ride home, on a short leave, before deployment separated him from family and friends. At one point he had to take a green horse across a rain-swollen river. Mixing fast water and young mounts was a good way to produce dead riders, as Grant, possibly the finest horseman ever to pass through West Point, well knew. But he wrote, “One of my superstitions had always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, not to turn back or stop until the thing intended was accomplished.”

Bowman had never forgotten that sentence, thought it worth adding to his collection of personal commandments, and allowed it to guide actions large and small. An email was one of those small things that could have very large consequences, and he would not let this one go unfinished. Now, though, he felt the way he imagined Grant’s horse must have, knowing it had to go, wanting like hell not to.

Walking back to the table, he felt, rather than heard, some disturbance.
Might
have been a very faint sound like a slap. He stood where he was for several seconds, then went to the kitchen and moved a switch that killed every light in the house. He stepped out onto the small back porch—the noise, or whatever it was, had come from that direction—leaving the door open. He stood there for a long time, listening, feeling the dark, and finally went back in.

At the table again, he sat and stared at the screen and reeled in his mind when it started to wander. Finally, to break something loose, he
sipped coffee that had grown cold sitting next to the computer, took a deep breath, and tried a jump-starting trick a writer friend had once showed him: