James Rollins - Map of Bones

A gray-white powder filled it halfway. The last of the amalgam.

With Monk’s assistance, he had done some research into the m-state powders, how the compounds stimulated endocrine systems and seemed to have a strong ameliorative affect on the brain, increasing perception, acuity… and memory .

Gray dumped the contents of the vial into one of the glasses of orange juice and used a teaspoon to stir it.

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 glasses 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, circumstance 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 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 bloody 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 . A last message to live in the present. To accept the past and not rush the future.

His father reached for the spiked glass 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 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.”

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 associated 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 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.”