Cross Bones Part 6

"Ferris sold throughout Quebec, Ontario, and the Maritimes. It wasn't Wal-Mart, but he made a living."

"You talked again with the secretary?"

"Appears Purviance really is more than a secretary. Handles the books, tracks inventory, travels to Israel and the States to evaluate product, schmooze suppliers."

"Israel's tough duty these days."

"Purviance spent time on a kibbutz back in the eighties, so she knows her way around. And she speaks English, French, Hebrew, and Arabic."

"Impressive."

"Father was French. Mother was Tunisian. Anyway, Purviance tells the same story. Business doing well. Not an enemy in the world. Though she did feel Ferris had been more moody than usual in the days leading up to his death. I'll give her a day to finish with the warehouse, then we'll have another little chat."

"Did you find Kessler?"

Ryan crossed to the couch and dug a paper from his jacket. Returning to the table, he handed it to me.

"These were the people cleared for autopsy patrol."

I read the names.

Mordecai FerrisTheodore MoskowitzMyron NeulanderDavid Rosenbaum "No Kessler." I stated the obvious. "Did you locate anyone who knows the guy?"

"Talking to the family's like talking to cement. They're doing aninut. aninut."

"Aninut?"

"First stage of mourning."

"How long does aninut aninut last?" last?"

"Until interment."

I pictured the cranial segments taking shape in my sand bowls.

"Could be a long one."

"Ferris's wife told me to come back when the family's finished sitting shiva. That lasts a week. I suggested I'd be dropping by sooner."

"This must be a nightmare for her."

"Interesting sidebar. Ferris was insured for two million big ones, with a double-up clause for accidental death."

"Miriam?"

Ryan nodded. "They had no kids."

I told Ryan about my conversation with Jake Drum. "I can't imagine why he's coming here."

"Think he'll really show?"

I'd wondered that myself.

"The hesitation tells me you've got your doubts," Ryan said. "This guy a flake?"

"Jake's not flaky. Just different."

"Different?"

"Jake's a brilliant archaeologist. Worked at Qumran."

Ryan gave me quizzical look.

"Dead Sea scrolls. He can translate a zillion languages."

"Any that are spoken today?"

I threw a napkin at Ryan.

After clearing the table, Ryan and I stretched out on the sofa. Birdie flopped by the fire.

We talked of personal things.

Ryan's daughter in Halifax. Lily was dating a guitarist and considering a move to Vancouver. Ryan feared the items were not unrelated.

Katy. For her twelfth and final semester at the University of Virginia, my daughter was taking pottery, fencing, and a cla.s.s on the feminine mystique in modern film. Her independent study involved interviewing patrons of pubs.

Birdie purred. Or snored.

Charlie squawked and resquawked a line from "Hard-Hearted Hannah."

The fire crackled and popped. Ice ticked the windows.

After a while everyone drifted into silence.

Ryan reached back and pulled the lamp chain. Amber light danced the familiar shapes in my home.

Ryan and I lay molded like tango dancers, my head nestled below his collarbone. He smelled of soap and the logs he'd carried in for the fire. His fingers caressed my hair. My cheek. My neck.

I felt content. Calm. A million miles from skeletons and shattered skulls.

Ryan is built on sinewy, ropelike lines. Long ones. Eventually I felt one line grow longer.

We left Birdie in charge of the hearth.

5.

RYAN LEFT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. SOMETHING ABOUT ALL-WEATHER radials and balance and a warped rim. I am not a good listener at 7 radials and balance and a warped rim. I am not a good listener at 7 A.M. A.M. Nor am I the least bit interested in tires. Nor am I the least bit interested in tires.

I am interested in air routing between Charlotte and Montreal. I can recite the entire USAirways flight schedule. Knowing the daily direct flight had been eliminated, I was certain Jake wouldn't arrive before midafternoon. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

A bagel and coffee around eight, and I headed to the lab. I was leaving for five days, and knew the Ferris family was anxious for information.

And for the body.

I spent another Elmer's morning joining the dozens of segments I'd built the day before. Like a.s.sembling atoms into molecules into whole cells, I built larger and larger sections of vault.

The facial bones were a different story. Splintering was extensive, either due to the cats, or simply due to the fragile nature of the bones themselves. There would be no reconstructing the left side of Ferris's face.

Nevertheless, a pattern emerged.

Though the lines were complex, it appeared that no break crossed the starburst radiating from the hole behind Ferris's right ear. Fracture sequencing pointed to that wound as the entrance.

But why were the hole's edges beveled on the outside of the skull? An entrance site should have been beveled on the inside.

I could think of one explanation, but fragments were missing from the area immediately above and to the left of the defect. To be certain, I'd need those fragments.

At two I wrote LaManche a note, explaining what I lacked. I reminded him that I was going to the annual meeting of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences in New Orleans, and that I would return to Montreal Wednesday night.

For the next two hours I ran errands. Bank. Dry cleaner. Cat chow. Birdseed. Ryan had agreed to take Birdie and Charlie, but the man has interesting views on pet care. I wanted to raise the odds in favor of proper feeding.

Jake phoned as I was driving underground into my garage. He was in the outer vestibule. Hurrying upstairs, I let him in the front door and led him down the corridor to my condo.

As we walked, I remembered the first time I'd laid eyes on Jake Drum. I was new to UNCC, and had met few faculty members outside my discipline. None from the Department of Religious Studies. Jake appeared in my lab late one evening, at a time when a.s.saults on female students had caused security announcements to be broadcast campus-wide.

I was nervous as a mouse staring across a tank at an underweight python.

My fears were ungrounded. Jake had a question concerning bone preservation.

"Tea?" I offered now.

"You bet. I got pretzels and Sprite on the plane."

"The dishes are behind you."

I watched Jake select mugs, thinking what a terrible perp he'd make. His nose is thin and prominent, his brows bushy and dead straight above Rasputin black eyes. He stands six feet six, weighs 170, and shaves his head.

Witnesses would remember Jake exactly as he is.

Today I suspected he'd caused strangers on the sidewalk to circle wide. His agitation was palpable.

We exchanged small talk while waiting for the kettle.

Jake had checked into a small hotel off the western edge of the McGill University campus. He'd rented a car to drive to Toronto the next morning. On Monday he'd leave for Jerusalem, where he and his Israeli crew would excavate their first-century synagogue.

Jake proffered his usual invitation to dig. I proffered my usual thanks and regrets.

When the tea was ready, Jake settled at the dining room table. I retrieved a magnifier and Kessler's print and laid them on the gla.s.s.

Jake stared at the photo as though he'd never seen one before.

After a full minute, he took up the lens. As he scanned the print his movements grew measured and deliberate.

In one way Jake and I are very much alike.

When annoyed, I grow churlish, snap, counter with sarcasm. When angry, truly white-hot livid irate, I go deadly calm.

So does Jake. I know. I've heard him debate issues at faculty council.

The ice facade is also my response to fear. I suspected this was also true of Jake. The change in his demeanor sent a chill scurrying through my mind.

"What is it?" I asked.

Jake raised his head and stared past me, lost, I could only guess, in a moment of probes, and trowels, and the smell of turned earth.

Then he tapped the photo with one long, slender finger.

A disjointed thought. Were it not for the calluses, Jake's hands might have been those of a concert pianist.

"Have you spoken with the man who gave this to you?"

"Only briefly. We're trying to locate him."

"What exactly did he say?"

I hesitated, debating what I could ethically divulge. Ferris's death had been reported by the media. Kessler had not asked for confidentiality.

I explained the shooting, the autopsy, and the man who called himself Kessler.

"It's supposed to have come from Israel."

"It does," Jake said.

"That's a hunch?"

"That's a fact."

I frowned. "You're that certain?"

Jake leaned back. "What do you know about Masada?"

"It's a peak in Israel where a lot of folks died."