Frozen Solid by James M. Tabor Page A

bacteria was hot right now. BALB/c was not one of them. Why in God’s name would anybody lie about such a thing? Maybe he wasn’t lying—just wrong. Or maybe those were the only mice he could get down here. Before she could ask, he said, “So you’ll be doing time with Fido.”
    Curiosity overcame her dislike of talking about absent people. “Why do you say it like that?”
    “Fido is one crispy critter.”
    “As in burned out?”
    “He hasn’t been playing with a full deck for some time. And Emily’s death knocked him for a loop.”
    Whoa, she thought. I’m wasting a golden opportunity. “Since we’re friends now, can I ask you something?” she asked.
    “I guess.”
    “Do you know how Emily died?”
    His face did that thing again. He lowered his voice. “Through the grapevine—overdose.” His voice became more distant, and he glanced back at his table.
    So the killer’s ruse was working. Assuming this man wasn’t the killer, she thought.
    “Wasn’t there an investigation?”
    “You’re barking up the wrong Beaker.”
    She had noted by then that his speech consisted largely of trite idioms. “What do you mean?”
    “Merritt found the body.”
    Before she could speak, he looked over her shoulder and said, “Uh-oh.”
    She turned. A woman, eating alone several tables away, had jumped to her feet. Her eyes were wide, mouth open, face contorted. She screamed once, grabbed her belly, dropped to the floor.
    A tall, thin man with the paper-white skin of an albino was sitting not far away. He wore dark glasses even in the dim galley. He moved quickly and knelt beside the woman, whose paroxysms reminded Hallie of childbirths she had witnessed.
    “Who’s that?” Hallie asked Blaine.
    “Doc. The station medical officer. Orson Morbell.”
    The woman’s pain appeared to ease. Panting, she said, “I don’t know what happened. I was just sitting and all of a sudden …” She stared not at his face but overhead. Hallie looked up. Nothing but the burned-out Christmas lights.
    “You lie still, Diana. I’m going to have people bring you down to the infirmary. It’s probably appendicitis.” Over his shoulder Doc said, to no one and everyone, “Call comms. Get the EMTs in here. Tell them we need a gurney.”
    Hallie thought the woman was about forty. She had olive skin, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a Spanish accent. Her hands looked like Graeter’s, and a gold wedding band and engagement ring shone brightly against the reddened skin.
    “It’s Diana Montalban,” Blaine said quietly. “She’s a biochemist. University of Madrid.”
    “Look.” Loud whisper from somewhere to one side of Hallie.
    Montalban wore a black sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and runningshoes. Something was happening to her belly. It swelled as though inflating, rising above the waistband of her sweatpants, pushing them down. Hallie saw the ragged pink line of a C-section scar.
    “What the hell is going on?” Someone else, not whispering now.
    “Diana?” the doctor said. “What’s happening? Talk to me.”
    She screamed, cutting him off. People started edging back, pointing.
    “Somebody get a goddamned gurney!” the doctor shouted. “We need to bring her to the clinic.”
    The woman’s hands were clamped over her belly, covering the scar. She began to writhe. As Hallie watched, blood started seeping through her fingers, then flowed freely. The doctor put his hands over Montalban’s, applying hard direct pressure. Someone offered a folded-up lab coat, which Morbell grabbed. He pushed Montalban’s hands away, and in the split second before he applied the makeshift compress, Hallie could see blood pulsing from where the healed incision had reopened into a gaping red slash. The sweet stink of blood filled the cafeteria.
    Three EMTs arrived this time, one carrying medical kits, the other two pushing a wheeled stretcher. Blood had pooled all around the woman’s torso, soaking the doctor’s legs and