Frozen by Jay Bonansinga Page B

the damn visions.
    But “vision” was a woefully insufficient word for what he had just experienced—something he had been experiencing off and on since elementary school. “Dimensional shift” was closer, although the sound of that phrase still rang a tad “woo-woo” for Grove’s forensic mind. Perhaps “neurological episode” came the closest. Not that these crazy spells had ever been given a diagnosis. These visions would always remain the province of Grove’s secret world.
    He got up and got dressed. It was time to call Tom Geisel and tell him about the Iceman. But before Grove had a chance to punch Geisel’s number into the bedside phone, he realized it was still a tad early for a phone call to Virginia.
    Another placard tented on top of the TV promised guests a delicious continental breakfast in the lobby every morning from four o’clock until ten o’clock.
    Grove went down to the deserted lobby and found a meager buffet set up along one side of the room that included miniature cereal boxes, a large plastic bowl filled with ice and small sealed containers of milk and orange juice, and a big stainless steel tureen of Seattle’s Best coffee. Grove filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and sat alone at a round table, reading the morning edition of USA Today while CNN droned through a wall-mounted television.
    At nine o’clock Grove went back up to his room and placed a call to Geisel’s private residence in Fredericksburg.
    â€œSo how’s the mummy business going?” Geisel wanted to know after the two men had exchanged good mornings.
    â€œThe mummy business is good, actually,” Grove told him. “Better than I thought.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    A long pause.
    â€œTom . . . are you sitting down?”

PART II
    THE DOORWAY
    â€œThere are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / That are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
    â€”Shakespeare, Hamlet

4
    Dark Side of the Moon
    The innocuous high-rise stood on a peaceful street corner in the sleepy bedroom community of Reston, Virginia. Insiders called it the Annex, a massive conical pile of mirrored glass and iron gridwork rising up against the robin’s-egg-blue sky. Soccer moms in SUVs and kids on skateboards clattered by its unmarked facades, oblivious of the grim proceedings going on inside, the gruesome slide shows and morbid death talk.
    The bureau had moved its administrative overflow here in 2002, amid the paranoid post 9-11 funding boom, and nowadays the corridors buzzed with ceaseless activity. The Behavioral Science Unit had an operations office here, a six-agent group headed up by Terry Zorn.
    â€œThat’s a helluva theory,” Zorn was marveling in his corner office, leaning back on his swivel chair behind his cluttered desk, a wireless headset connecting him with Tom Geisel over at headquarters. Fluorescent tubes shone down on Zorn’s meticulously shaved cranium.
    â€œAnd that’s all it is, Terry,” Geisel’s voice buzzed in the earpiece. “Matter of fact, I’m not even sure there’s a theory involved. At this point it’s essentially just an observation, an interesting wrinkle.”
    â€œI remember when they discovered that damn thing, I recall reading an article about it—where was it, maybe in National Geographic ?”
    â€œAnyway . . . that’s the situation up there.”
    â€œWhat does he want, Tom?”
    â€œHe wants to work the case. He wants to play this mummy thing out.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œIt’s my fault, actually. I sent him up there. Who knew, right? He’s a good man, Terry.”
    â€œDamn straight he’s a good man, he’s a goddamn prodigy. If he said there’s a connection between the Sun City perp and the Easter bunny, I’d believe him.”
    On the other end of the line Geisel let out a sigh. It was an exasperated sound, the kind of noise a coach