“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.
“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.