Jimmy said, “‘But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.’ Freedom from fear is what we most supposed to provide family. You my family, Mr. Snow. And I feared losing you.”

“The Bible’s been used to justify a lot of spilled blood, Jimmy,” I said.

“And the devil’s a regular at Sunday service, Mr. Snow,” he said. “Meek as a lamb, quiet as a mouse.”

To say Lucy was in a tizzy when Jimmy and I arrived at my house would be an understatement. Her eyes were red and unblinking. She was pacing back and forth, a shot glass in one hand, my sole bottle of Old Forester Bourbon in her other.

She saw Jimmy and froze.

“Wha’d you bring him for?” Lucy said, thrusting a forefinger at Jimmy. Her voice was quaking. “Nobody should have to see this shit. Especially, not him! Not Jimmy! This ain’t your world, dude!” Then, aiming her j’accuse forefinger at me, she said, “This is his world. And his world is a freakin’ horror show!”

“How many of those have you had?” I said, pointing to the bottle of whiskey.

“None,” she said. “Just seemed like I should have it nearby considering what I’ve just seen.”

“It’s all right,” Jimmy said. “I know who he is, and I know what I’d do for Mr. Snow push come to shove.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lucy said. “Would you do this?”

She plopped down in front of one of her laptops and hit a button.

A news report began to play: A long, lean, dark-haired woman with a large microphone stood in front of the more-than-a-century-old grand structure of the Casino de Montbenon in Lausanne, Switzerland. She was speaking rapid-fire German and occasionally pointing to two shimmering cylindrical structures in front of the casino.

Lucy’s autointerpret program instantly translated the newswoman’s feverish reportage into a robotic monotone: “As you can see behind me, standing freely in front of the main entrance to the legendary Casino de Montbenon are two shiny cylinders. Both cylinders are made of ice, measuring approximately three meters by two meters in diameter. Frozen inside each cylinder? The body of a man.”

I stood, walked to the kitchen and brought back two more shot glasses.

I offered one to Jimmy, who shook his head.

I pried the bottle of bourbon from Lucy’s death grip, poured myself a shot and knocked it back.

The news report showed a close-up of the two naked men suspended dead in their separate cylinders of ice—two men, postmortem blue eyes barely open, frozen in their lost struggle against drowning and hypothermia.

“We thought they were sculptures,” a man with round wire-rimmed glasses said. “Some new installation. That’s not unusual for Lausanne, is it?”