Map Of Bones Part 63

His father entered through the back door. Sawdust speckled his hair. He wiped his boots on the rug, nodded to Gray, and dropped heavily into a chair.

"Your mother tells me you're heading back to Italy."

"Only for five days," Gray answered, nesting all three gla.s.ses between his palms and carrying them over. "Another business trip."

"Right..." His father eyed him. "So who's the girl?"

Gray startled at the question and bobbled some of the orange juice. He hadn't told his father anything about Rachel. He wasn't sure what to say. After their rescue, the two had spent a night in Avignon together as matters were sorted out, curled in front of a small fire while the storm exhausted itself. They hadn't made love that night, but they had talked. Rachel had explained about her family's history, haltingly, with some tears. She still could not balance her feelings about her grandmother.

Finally, they had fallen asleep in each other's arms.

In the morning, circ.u.mstance and duty had pulled them apart.

Where would it lead now?

He was heading back to Rome to find out.

He still called daily, sometimes twice daily. Vigor was healing well. Following the funeral for Cardinal Spera, he had been promoted to the position of prefect at the Archives, to oversee the repair of the damage done by the Court. Last week, Gray had received a note of thanks from Vigor but also discovered a message hidden within the text. Below the monsignor's signature lay two inked seals, papal insignia, mirror images of each other, the twin symbols of the Thomas Church.

It seemed the secret church had found a new member to replace the lost cardinal.

Upon learning this, Gray had shipped Alexander's gold key to Vigor, the real real gold key, from a safe deposit box in Egypt. For safekeeping. Who better to secure it? The fake key, the one used to trick Raoul, had been fashioned at one of the many shops in Alexandria known for their skill at counterfeiting antiquities. It had taken less than an hour, performed while Gray had freed Seichan from Alexander's watery tomb. He hadn't dared transport the real key to France, to the Dragon Court. gold key, from a safe deposit box in Egypt. For safekeeping. Who better to secure it? The fake key, the one used to trick Raoul, had been fashioned at one of the many shops in Alexandria known for their skill at counterfeiting antiquities. It had taken less than an hour, performed while Gray had freed Seichan from Alexander's watery tomb. He hadn't dared transport the real key to France, to the Dragon Court.

General Rende's testimony and confession while in custody proved how dangerous that would have been. The litany of atrocities and deaths stretched back decades. With Rende's confession, his sect of the Dragon Court was slowly being rooted out. But how thoroughly or completely would never be known.

Meanwhile, closer to Gray's heart and mind, Rachel continued to sort out her life. With Raoul's death, she and her family had inherited Chateau Sauvage, a b.l.o.o.d.y inheritance to be sure. But at least the curse had died along with Rachel's grandmother. No other Verona family members had been aware of the grandmother's dark secret. To settle matters further, plans were already under way to sell the chateau. The proceeds would go to the families of those killed in Cologne and Milan.

So lives slowly healed and moved forward.

Toward hope.

And possibly more...

Gray's father sighed and tipped back in his kitchen chair. "Son, you've been in an awfully good mood lately. Ever since your return from that business trip last month. Only a woman puts that kind of shine on a man."

Gray settled the tumblers of orange juice on the table.

"I may be losing my memory," his father continued. "But not my eyesight. So tell me about her."

Gray stared at his father. He heard the unspoken addendum.

While I can still remember.

His father's casual manner hid a deeper vein. Not sorrow or loss. He was reaching out for something now. In the present. Some connection to a son he'd perhaps lost in the past.

Gray froze by the table. He felt a flare of old anger, older resentment. He didn't deny it, but he let the heat wash through him.

His father must have sensed something, because he settled his chair to the floor and changed the subject. "So, where are those sandwiches?"

Words echoed in Gray's head. Too early...too late Too early...too late. A last message to live in the present. To accept the past and not rush the future.

His father reached for the spiked gla.s.s of orange juice.

Gray blocked him, covering the cup with his hand. He lifted the tumbler away. "How about a beer? I think I saw a Bud in the fridge."

His father nodded. "That's why I love you, son."

Gray stepped to the sink, dumped the orange juice down the drain, and watched it swirl away.

Too early...too late.

It was time he lived in the present. He didn't know how much time he had with his father, but he would take what he could get and make the very best of it.

He crossed to the fridge, grabbed two two beers, popped the lids on the way back, pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, sat down, and placed a bottle in front of his father. beers, popped the lids on the way back, pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, sat down, and placed a bottle in front of his father.

"Her name is Rachel."

Act One

First Blood

Chapter 1.

May 23, 7:32 A.M A.M.

New Orleans The Bronco crushed through the debris left by the hurricane and bounced off yet another hole. Lorna nearly hit the roof of the cabin. The car slid to the left on the wet road. She eased off the accelerator as she fought for control.

The storm had stripped vegetation, sent creeks overflowing their banks, and even floated an alligator into someone's swimming pool. Luckily the worst of the dying hurricane had struck further west. Still, with such downpours, Mother Nature seemed determined to turn Orleans Parish back into swamplands.

As Lorna sped along the river road, all she could think about was the phone call. It had come in twenty minutes ago. They'd lost power at ACRES. The generators hadn't kicked in, and a hundred research projects were threatened.

As she rounded a final oxbow in the Mississippi River, the compound appeared ahead. The Audubon Center for Research of Endangered Species occupied over a thousand acres downriver from New Orleans. Though a.s.sociated with the city's zoo, ACRES was not open to the public. Sheltered within a hardwood forest, the grounds included a few outdoor pens, but the main facility was a thirty-six-thousand square-foot research building that housed a half-dozen laboratories and a veterinary hospital.

The latter was where Dr. Lorna Polk worked since completing her postgraduate residency in zoo-and-wildlife medicine. She oversaw the facility's frozen frozen zoo, twelve tanks of liquid nitrogen that preserved sperm, eggs, and embryos from hundreds of endangered species: mountain gorillas, Sumatran tigers, Thompson's gazelles, colobus monkeys, cape buffalo. zoo, twelve tanks of liquid nitrogen that preserved sperm, eggs, and embryos from hundreds of endangered species: mountain gorillas, Sumatran tigers, Thompson's gazelles, colobus monkeys, cape buffalo.

It was a big position to fill, especially for someone only twenty-eight and just out of her residency. Her responsibility-the frozen genetic bank-held the promise of pulling endangered species from the brink of extinction through artificial insemination, embryo transfer, and cloning. Yet, despite the weight of her responsibility, she loved her work and knew she was good at it.

As she raced down the long entry road toward the main facility, her cell phone chimed from the cup holder. She grabbed it and cradled it to her ear while driving one-armed.

The caller must have heard the line pick up and spoke rapidly. "Dr. Polk. It's Gerald Granger from engineering. I thought you should know. We've got the generators working and isolated the power loss to a downed line."

She glanced to the truck's clock. The power had been down for close to forty-five minutes. She calculated in her head and let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Gerald. I'll be there in another minute."

She flipped the phone closed.

Reaching the employee lot, she parked and rested her head on the steering wheel. The relief was so palpable she almost cried, almost. After taking a moment to collect herself, she straightened and stared down at the hands on her lap, suddenly aware of what she wore. She had fled the house in a pair of wrinkled jeans, an old gray turtleneck, and boots.

Not exactly the professional appearance she usually maintained.

Twisting to exit the Bronco, she caught her reflection in the rearview mirror.

Oh, dear G.o.d...

Her blond hair-normally primly braided-had been pinned back into a rough ponytail this morning. Several flyaways only added to her already disheveled appearance. Even her black-framed gla.s.ses sat askew on the bridge of her nose. At the moment, she looked like a drunken college student returning from a Mardi Gras party.

If she looked the part, she might as well go all the way. She pulled out the pin holding her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, then climbed out of the truck, and crossed toward the main entrance.

Before she could reach the facility's main doors, a new noise drew her attention: a heavy wump-wumping wump-wumping. She turned toward the Mississippi. A white helicopter skimmed over the treeline and headed in her direction. It was coming in fast.

As she frowned, a hand settled on her shoulder from behind. She jumped slightly, but fingers squeezed in rea.s.surance. A glance back revealed her boss and mentor, Dr. Carlton Metoyer, the head of ACRES. Covered by the noise of the helicopter, she had not heard his approach.

Thirty years her senior, he was a tall, wiry black man with bushy white hair and a trimmed gray beard. His family had been here in the region for as long as Lorna's, tracing their roots back to the Cane River Creole colony, a blend of French and African heritage.

Dr. Metoyer shielded his eyes as he stared at the sky.

"We got company," he said.

The helicopter was definitely headed toward ACRES. It swept toward an adjacent field and began to descend. She noted it was a small A-Star helicopter equipped with floats instead of the usual landing skids. She also recognized the slash of green across the white sh.e.l.l of the aircraft. After Katrina, most people in New Orleans knew that insignia. It was one of the Border Patrol helicopters; fleets of such choppers had been vital to the rescue operations and security following the disaster.

"What are they doing here?" she asked.

"They've come for you, my dear. They're your ride."

Chapter 2.

Lorna's stomach sank as the helicopter lifted off-not so much from the motion as from sheer panic. She clutched the armrests as she sat next to the pilot. The growing roar of the rotors penetrated her bulky headphones. It felt like rising in an elevator. An elevator strapped to a rocket.

She was never a fan of heights, hated air travel in general, and considered riding an airborne lawnmower the height of madness. She had only flown once in a helicopter, during an externship in South Africa conducting a census of African elephants in the lands bordering a preserve. Back then, she had prepared for that flight by downing a pair of Xanax tablets before the trip. Still, her legs had felt like warm pudding for hours afterward.

And today she'd had no warning.

Dr. Metoyer had only filled her in on the sketchiest of details as the helicopter landed. He had not even given her time to go inside and inspect her project's liquid nitrogen tanks. Staff is already on it Staff is already on it, he had promised, adding that he'd check them himself and radio the details later.

Radio...

They were flying beyond any cell signal.

She risked a glance through the side window. The helicopter banked, giving her a birds-eye view of the Mississippi. They were traveling downriver, roughly following the Big Muddy's course. The name was particularly apt following the storm. The river was a chocolate brown, rich with silt, eddying and churning as it flowed toward the Gulf of Mexico.

They were headed out over the river's delta, where all that alluvium-silt, clay, sand, and soil-deposited and pushed out into the Gulf, forming over three million acres of coastal wetlands and salt marshes. Not only was the region environmentally significant, home to a vast and complicated ecosystem that traced its roots back to the Jura.s.sic period, it was also commercially significant. The area supplied the United States with a large percentage of its seafood, and almost 20 percent of its oil.

It was also a weak link in the nation's border. The maze of islands, twisting waterways, and isolated fishing docks made the delta a sieve for smugglers and traffickers of all sorts. The Department of Homeland Security had designated the region a high-level threat and reinforced the New Orleans station of the Border Patrol.

According to her boss, the Border Patrol had been searching the area following last night's storm surge. It was common for smugglers to work under the cover of storms to bring in drugs, guns, even human cargo. Early this morning, a team had discovered a trawler beached on one of the outlying islands. After investigating the ship, they'd made a call to ACRES.

Much of that call remained a mystery, even to Dr. Metoyer. He had not been informed about the nature of the request, nor why Lorna in particular had been asked to make this trip.

Despite her trepidation about air flight, a smoldering anger was building. She had projects in jeopardy over at ACRES. What was she doing flying out into the middle of nowhere? Her anger grew, stoked by her anxiety. What was going on? Why ask for her in particular? She knew no one in the Customs and Border Protection service.

The only answers lay at the end of this flight.

The radio built into her earphones crackled. The pilot pointed toward the horizon. He wore a green uniform with shoulder patches marking him as part of the Border Patrol's Air and Marine unit. He had introduced himself, but she hadn't caught his name.

"Dr. Polk, we'll be landing in a few moments."

She nodded and stared forward. The dense emerald of the swampy marshes broke apart below into a tangle of islands and peninsulas ahead. Farther out into the Gulf, a dark line near the horizon marked a row of larger barrier islands that helped protect the fragile marshes and coastal swamps.

But they weren't going that far.

She spotted a shiny white boat moored by one of the small islands. Finally Finally. As they descended toward it, she also noted an old fishing trawler rammed into the beach. It had struck hard enough to topple a few trees and ride halfway up onto the island. It plainly had been shoved there by the storm surge.

The helicopter dropped fast. Her grip tightened on the armrests. She had read that a majority of air crashes occurred during takeoffs and landings. Not a statistic she wanted to bear in mind at the moment.

Within a few yards of the water, their descent slowed. The rotorwash beat the waves flat. Then, as gently as a goose landing on a still pond, the chopper's floats settled to the water. A few flicks of some switches and the whine of the rotors began to slow.

"Please stay seated," the pilot said. "They're sending a Zodiac out for you."

His nod out the window drew her attention to a small rubber pontoon boat that pushed off from the island and shot toward them. Moments later, a crewman dressed in the same Border Patrol green helped her out of the helicopter and into the Zodiac.

She dropped onto a bench of the pontoon boat, both relieved yet still carrying a hot coal in her belly. She shaded her eyes as they headed toward sh.o.r.e, searching for some answer for the mysterious and sudden summons.

The morning was already growing warm as the sun broke apart the clouds and opened blue skies. The day promised to grow into one of Louisiana's steam baths. And she was okay with that. She took deep breaths to steady herself, taking in the brackish odor of leafy decay, wet moss, and muddy salt.w.a.ter.

To her, it was the smell of home.

Her family had lived in Louisiana going back to the nineteenth century. Like all the old families of New Orleans, her history was as deeply ingrained as the lines on her palms. Ancestors' names and stories were as familiar as if they'd died only yesterday.

During the War of 1812, her great-great grandfather, only seventeen at the time, had abandoned the British army during the Battle of New Orleans and made his home in the new burgeoning frontier city. He met and married the daughter of the de Trepagnier family and quickly made a small fortune by growing sugarcane and indigo on a hundred-acre plantation given as a dowry. Over the years, that fortune continued to grow, and the Polk family was one of the first to build in the oak-shadowed glen of New Orleans's Garden District. After selling the plantation, the family settled permanently in the district. Over the generations, the Polk mansion became respected as a gathering place for military generals, legal scholars, and countless men of science and letters.

The Italianate mansion still stood, but like the city, the Polk family had begun a slow decline during the twentieth century. Only Lorna and her brother still bore the family name. Her father had died of lung cancer when Lorna was a child; her mother pa.s.sed away a year ago, leaving the siblings a mansion in ill repair and a pile of debt.