Prophet of Bones (21 page)

He wondered what she’d say when she saw him.

It had been a long time. A lot could change in six years. Everything, in fact.

He tried to remember their last words and found that he couldn’t recall them—not specifically.

Nothing too horrible, but she’d said it; he could remember that much—something about not wanting to see him again.

He’d considered phoning first, but he didn’t want to risk the call. The part of his brain that whispered against paranoia had been getting quieter and quieter lately. And recent events had caused it to shut up entirely. The paranoid part of his brain said he needed to worry about tapped phones, and the nonparanoid part responded with “Yeah, what he said.”

The truth was, Westing had him more than a little spooked. He wasn’t sure what they were capable of.

From the east, Chicago was something you crept up on, passing through a series of sprawling little suburbs until you finally rounded a curve in the highway and saw skyscrapers in the distance. Paul double-checked his map. Once in the city, he found his exits and descended to the surface streets, winding his way to the museum. At some point, it began to rain. He pulled into the closest lot he could find and paid an exorbitant fee to park his car. He grabbed the manila envelope off the passenger seat and climbed out.

It was a museum of the old guard, back when they knew how to build them. Huge Parthenonian pillars—baroque stonework and intricate detail, all on a scale designed to awe. Like Greek ruins before they were ruins, and with none of this new postmodern simplicity that seemed to govern the design of public works today. It was stone, mostly. And what wasn’t stone looked like stone. A structure in the form of a response, built after the turn of the last century; Chicago saying, Here is a building that will not burn.

Paul splashed through puddles and climbed the broad marble risers to the entranceway. He pushed through—a tiny glass man-door that seemed out of place on a building whose lobby could accommodate a battleship. Footsteps echoed in the expanse. A hundred people milled. Families with kids, tourists with cameras. Up ahead, in the central expanse, elephants shared space with dinosaur bones.

Paul stared for a moment at the enormous skeleton.

He’d always found articulated skeletons to be somewhat unsettling. Standing there, upright, an unnatural creature. It didn’t bother him when the bones were lying flat, resting on felt, assembled in rough approximation to a natural formation. But the single extra step of having them standing upright was one step too far. It
implied
something that wasn’t there. Bones connected by ghost tendons and ghost ligaments, held in place by ghost flesh. An artificial construction. In this case, it was a dinosaur,
Tyrannosaurus rex,
or something like it. A species drowned long ago and buried for thousands of years, now brought to light.

He approached the information desk. “I’d like to speak with someone from bones.”

The woman behind the counter looked at him as if he’d spoken Chinese.

He changed tacks: “I’d like to speak with Lillivati Gajjar.”

“She’s an employee here?”

“Yes.”

“What department?”

“Paleographic analysis.”

Again, the look. Like he’d spoken Chinese.

“She works with bones,” he said.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She got on the phone and dialed a number. There was a pause, and then the woman spoke into the receiver: “A man is here to speak with a Lillivati Gajjar.”

Then came another pause. “Okay, connect me.” After a few moments, she said, “Hello, this is the information desk. There’s a man here to see Ms. Gajjar. Uh-huh.”

The woman turned to him. “What is this about?”

“I’m an old friend.”

The woman repeated Paul’s words into the phone. Another pause. “What did you say your name was?” the woman asked.

“Paul Carlsson.”

Again she repeated his words. There was a longer pause this time.

Long enough for him to wonder what the other side of the conversation sounded like.

“I’m here from Westing,” Paul said. “It’s a laboratory. I’m here to talk about bone samples.”

“He said he’s here from a lab,” the woman said. Another pause. Then: “Yes. Yes. Okay.” She hung up.

“She’s coming down. You can wait for her there.” She gestured to the seats along the wall.

“Thank you.”

Paul walked over to the benches and took a seat. Time seemed to slow. He laid the manila envelope across his legs and watched the reflection of people in the polished floor as they walked by. He listened to the clack of shoes, the slow rhythms of the visitors’ conversations. The light was beautiful, he decided, coming in through the massive skylights in the ceiling.

Five minutes later, he caught sight of Lillivati crossing the wide anteroom. She was as beautiful as ever. Tall and slender. Her hair was short, cut in a pixie style around her oval face. She was wearing a white lab coat with the museum’s name stenciled across the breast.

“You’ve gained weight” were her first words to him. She reached out to shake his hand. Her hand was delicate and cool to the touch. Then, tilting her head to the side, she smiled. “It suits you. You were always too thin before. Follow me.”

She led him outside.

They found a quiet place at the edge of the building, under an alcove, and watched the rain begin.

“I only have a few minutes,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I’m in the middle of a hell day.”

“Thanks for talking with me.”

“It’s been years, Paul. I always wondered if I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

She brushed his comment aside with the wave of a slender hand. “For a long time, I hoped to hear from you.”

“Then what happened?”

“I stopped hoping. Life goes on.”

“It certainly does.”

“So you’re here, Chicago,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, I drove in from Baltimore today.”

“Drove? Jesus, what, you don’t believe in airplanes?”

“I believe in them. But I wanted this trip to be a little more under the radar.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m just being cautious.”

“Ah, married.”

“Uh, no, that’s not what I—the situation at work requires some delicacy.”

“This isn’t a social call then, is it?” she asked.

“No, not exactly.” He glanced up at the big stone columns. “How did you end up here?”

She took a puff of her cigarette. “They were hiring.”

“But still,” he said. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you were interested in.”

“It’s work. I’m interested in working.”

“What happened to digs and primatology?”

“Life happened. Positions aren’t easy to come by. But this has me working in the field, at least. Before this, I was stuck teaching.” She faux-shuddered. “Me in front of an endless stream of students, semester in, semester out, giving lectures, assigning course work. Can you imagine?”

“I can imagine it.”

“It was hell.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It was an exercise in futility. I taught them, and then every semester they came back dumb again.”

“Different students.”

“Not to me. To me, they were the same, every year.”

“Jesus, you really
weren’t
cut out to teach.”

“Told you. Now I’m working with primate bones. It’s interesting. It’s something.” She took another drag of her cigarette.

“How much do you know about Westing?”

“I’ve heard of it. So you work there?”

“I do. At the moment.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“You always were.”

“Does your museum archive bones from Westing?”

“We get a lot of bones from a lot of different places.”

“Including us?”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“The bones that come in, do you ever see them?”

“It’s not my specialty.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not involved with those projects. I deal with the primates. I handle the cleaning, the cataloging, the identification. I’m one of the most junior researchers here, and anything even vaguely worth publishing gets handled by others. I’m a glorified lab tech. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not even glorified. Just a lab tech. I do a lot of the basic cleaning and testing.”

Paul nodded. “But you could get access to the other bones if you wanted?”

She looked at him closely. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’s probably best that I don’t tell you quite yet.”

She crushed her cigarette out on the concrete paving and dropped it into the receptacle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“You drive here unannounced after not speaking to me since college. ‘Trust me’ really isn’t good enough.”

Paul sighed. He leaned back against the cold stone. “I worked at a dig site a few months ago. We found some bones. There were some irregularities, and I’m checking up on something.”

“You worked at a dig site for Westing.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re checking up on something, only they don’t know you’re checking up.”

“Something like that.”

“So you drive all this way, and this is your pitch?”

“I realize that it must seem a little odd.”

“Then you won’t mind if I tell you to fuck off?”

Paul lowered his head. This wasn’t going as he’d hoped.

“Do you have access to the bones?” he asked one last time.

“No, the bone room is under lock and key.”

“You always had a way with keys.”

For the first time, the briefest flash of a smile—despite herself. It faded quickly.

“Yeah,” she said. “I did, didn’t I?”

“But I guess a lot has changed since then.”

“Not so much,” she said. “The doors have gotten harder, though.”

He made an impulsive decision. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure if he’d do it. “There’s one more thing I can show you.” He held up the manila envelope.

“Okay.”

He slid the pictures out of the envelope. He handed them to her one by one, until she held all seven.

“What are they?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. They’re dig pictures, but I’d like to know what you think of the bones.”

“It’s hard to tell from just photos.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this come through here?”

“No, nothing like this. Not that I’ve seen. Even in books.”

“What can you tell me about the bones, using your expertise?”

“Nothing, really. I don’t see a scale. I don’t have stratigraphic data. I don’t have anything. These could be fake for all I know.”

“Assuming they’re not fake.”

“Well, they’re bizarre then. They don’t look human,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m not sure. If I had the actual bones, I’d know more.”

“You said you do testing here. DNA?”

“No, of course not. Just simple stuff. Isotope analysis of bone matrix collagen.”

“To determine migration patterns?”

“And other things. Diet and trophic level. If there’s a reason to test it.”

Paul nodded. “How much do you know about what goes on with the bones after they’re delivered here?”

She stared at him, searching his face. “Where were those bones dug up?”

“You don’t want to know more,” he said.

“You know what? You’re right. Maybe I don’t want to know any of this.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Break’s over,” she said. “I have to get back.”

After a moment of awkward silence, he stuck out his hand. She shook it. “Thank you,” he said.

She turned and walked toward the building’s entrance, but she stopped after a few steps. “There is something odd, though,” she said, turning back toward him.

“What?”

“Bones come in, and they stay. For the most part. But now and then, we’ll get a shipment, and they’re cleaned and then repacked and shipped out to somewhere else.”

“Shipped out to where?”

“I don’t know.”

“It would be a huge help.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Is there a way to find out?”

“Not my area. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Lilli—”

“I wish I could help.” Her tone said the conversation was over.

“Of course.” Paul tore off one corner flag of the manila envelope and wrote his cell phone number on it. He gave it to her. “If you see anything that might change that, give me a call. Any information would be greatly appreciated.”

He shook her hand again. “Thank you for your time.”

He turned his collar up against the damp and stepped out into the rain.

*   *   *

Paul got a hotel for the evening and stayed the night. He left the next morning, preparing for the long drive back.

Halfway between Indianapolis and Dayton his phone rang. Unknown caller.

He hit the button and it was her voice: “I was able to track down a location for you. Quick, got a pen?”

Paul pulled over on the side of the highway.

“Ready.”

“It’s 12467 Hallis, Toomey Hills, Florida. A company called Axiom. That’s where the bones are shipped sometimes.”

“Thanks, Lilli.”

“Tell me I won’t regret this.”

“You won’t,” he said. He spent the rest of the drive home hoping that was true.

23

The congressman stood in the central courtyard, sweating in the shade. His personal security detail flanked him to the right and left—four men with active eyes and identical dark jackets. By the congressman’s impatient expression, Gavin judged that they’d been standing there for some time.

“Peter,” Martial exclaimed loudly, as he and Gavin stepped finally into the courtyard’s muggy air. “Welcome to Axiom.”

The congressman didn’t smile. His eyes narrowed. Behind him, his security detail pivoted slightly in response to the approaching party. Gavin had the sense that some training was in play—just where to stand, just where to look, eyes scanning for potential threats while simultaneously locating possible exits. He wondered, idly, if the men had been trained to jump in front of a bullet, if necessary. Who among them would react first, if it came down to it? Who would rush most quickly to die for this man?