Deep Ice by Karl Kofoed

he had to admit that spending time with Sarah was about all he wanted to do anyway.
    He’d caught himself earlier, every time he’d passed her door, wondering if she was in there. Shep had sniffed at her door once, making him think the dog could read his mind.
    The chemical Sarah gave Henry was very low-power stuff, but it was enough. He began to feel as though his head were filling with helium. Then everything around him took on a golden glow.
    “Look at the face on the screen, then close your eyes and think of the guy who shot you,” she said in a studiously casual voice. “Try to wipe all the rest of your thoughts and feelings from your mind.”
    A few seconds passed.
    “Can you see him yet?” she asked.
    “Sort of,” replied Henry, eyes closed, trying to cooperate.
    “Can you see him or not?” she persisted. “I need to know.”
    “Well. . .” He was doing his best to put himself back on the ice. “I’m working on it.”
    Just before he’d shut his eyes, Sarah had leaned over to adjust the laptop screen so he could see it better. As she’d bent near him, her white silk blouse had fall en open in a way few men could have ignored. Now all he could see behind his closed eyes were white lace and smooth skin. He noticed the scent of jasmine in the air.
    “Are you concentrating?”
    “Oh, yes,” he said with a smile. “But I guess I’m not getting any. . . anything.”
    “Fuck!” said Sarah under her breath.
    Henry continued to smile. He nodded involuntarily.
    She took a deep breath. “Okay. You’re going to be like this for a while, so just sit back and let the drug help you remember.”
    He opened his eyes again and forced himself to look at the image on the screen. “Okay. Okay. . . I got it, I think.”
    And suddenly he could see the man who’d shot him. As if a flash bulb had snapped in his mind, he saw the distinguished features of a man in his forties. The man had piercing brown eyes and thin black eyebrows, and he wore a moustache and beard tinged with grey, but short and well trimmed. The hood surrounding his face was that of a Norwegian parka lined with long beige fur. Henry forced himself to try to notice other details – distinguishing marks, moles, scars – but the man had none he could see. His skin was smooth. To Henry he looked Greek or Italian, definitely Mediterranean.
    “What else?” he said to himself.
    “What was that, Henry?” asked Sarah.
    He shook his head slowly as his mind’s eye tried to make out other distinguishing characteristics. Everything was normal – just stereotypical gear. Blue ski pants, padded boots.
    And, yes, there was something. Not much, but Henry remembered.
    He looked up at Sarah. “Something,” he slurred.
    She smiled. “What?”
    “He. . . the man who shot me. . .”
    Henry noticed she had blue eyes. They shone when she smiled. Her reddish hair made them look all the bluer.
    “What?” she said.
    “What?” he echoed.
    “What about the man who shot you?” A spot of impatience now.
    “Oh,” said Henry. “He was a lefty. Left-handed.”
    “What do you recall that tell s you that?”
    He talked as though in a daze, but his mind was sharp. “The reason I didn’t duck when he pulled the gun was. . . was he took it off his right shoulder. Didn’t look like he was going to shoot – just moving it, like. Then he shot me left-handed. I didn’t expect it.”
    He shook his head slowly. “Didn’t see it comin’.”
    “Anything more about his face?” said Sarah, looking hopelessly at the screen of her laptop. “Can’t you tell me more about his face?”
    “He was a slick prick.”
    There was a knock at Sarah’s door. Kai Grimes. He looked at her, then at Henry.
    “We have a little more info on the shooter,” said Sarah.
    Grimes’s eyes narrowed. “Finally,” he said. “Tell me.”
    She looked back at Henry. “I gave him a relaxant to help him remember. And he remembered the man who shot him was left-handed.”
    “That’s the