Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

“Ruth Anne Bloom phoned me at home.”

So much for the ban on interruptions.

“Thank you for taking the time,” I said.

“Not at all. Not at all. It’s a pleasure to accommodate foreign colleagues.” Blotnik chuckled. “You work for a coroner in Canada?”

I explained my position.

“Right, then. What’s this about a skeleton from Masada?”

I described the photo that had started it all. Then, using no names, I told Blotnik how the skeleton had been stolen from the Musée de l’Homme by Yossi Lerner, then hidden by Avram Ferris and Sylvain Morissonneau.

I outlined the radiocarbon results.

I did not mention Hershel Kaplan. I did not mention the Joyce book, or the reason behind the theft and concealment of the bones. I did not mention the samples I’d sent off for DNA testing.

I did not mention the fact that Ferris and Morissonneau were dead.

“You obtained this photo how?” Blotnik asked.

“From a member of the local Jewish community.” True enough.

“Probably all nonsense.” The jovial chuckle now sounded forced. “But we can’t ignore this, now can we?”

“I think not.”

“And I’m sure you’re quite anxious to be rid of this mess.”

“I’ve been authorized to release the bones. If you’ll provide a shipping address, I’ll arrange with FedEx-”

“No!”

No chuckle there.

I waited.

“No, no. I can’t put you to all that trouble. I’ll send someone.”

“From Israel to Quebec?”

“It’s no problem.”

No problem?

“Dr. Blotnik, archaeological materials are transported internationally all the time. I’m perfectly happy to package the materials and use any shipping service you select-”

“I must insist.”

I said nothing.

“There have been some unfortunate outcomes recently. Perhaps you’ve heard of the James ossuary?”

The James ossuary was the ancient stone coffin mentioned in the Internet links. I vaguely recalled something in the news a few years back about damage to an ossuary on loan to the Royal Ontario Museum.

“The James ossuary was the piece broken in transport to Toronto?”

“Smashed would be a better word. En route from Israel to Canada.”

“It’s your call, sir.”

“Please. This is best. I’ll be back in touch shortly with the name of the envoy.”

Before I could reply Blotnik cut me off.

“The skeletonis in a secure location?”

“Of course.”

“Security is of the utmost importance. Make sure no one has access to those bones.”

I returned to my lab as Ryan was cradling the receiver.

“Kaplan’s not talking,” he said.

“And?”

“Guy in major crimes over there says he’ll turn up the heat.”

Ryan noticed that I was disconnected from the conversation.

“What’s up, sunshine?”

“I don’t know.”

Ryan’s expression reshaped subtly.

“Too much cloak and dagger over this skeleton,” I said. “Even if itis the missing Masada skeleton. If thereis a missing Masada skeleton.”

I recounted my conversation with Blotnik.

“A five-thousand-mile trip seems a bit drastic,” Ryan agreed.

“A bit. Antiquities are routinely shipped around the globe. There are companies that specialize in doing just that.”

“How about this.” Ryan placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “We have a nice dinner, go back to your place, maybe slip into something derived from the art of dance.”

“I didn’t order the tap pants.”

My gaze drifted to the window. I felt anxious and restless, and didn’t know why.

Ryan stroked my cheek. “Nothing’s going to change overnight, Tempe.”

Ryan was dead wrong.

THAT NIGHTIDREAMED OF THE MAN NAMED TOVYABLOTKIN. He was wearing dark glasses and a black hat, like Belushi and Aykroyd in their Blues Brothers act. Blotkin was on his haunches, scraping with a trowel. It was dark, and each time his head moved moonlight glinted off his lenses.

In my dream Blotkin plucked something from the ground, rose, and offered the object to a second figure whose back was to me. The second figure turned. It was Sylvain Morissonneau. He was holding a small black canvas.

Light seeped from Morissonneau’s fingertips as he scratched dirt from the canvas. Slowly, a painting emerged. Four figures in a tomb: two angels, a woman, the risen Jesus.

Jesus’ features dissolved leaving only a skull, gleaming and brilliant white. A new face took shape above the orbits and orifices, like fog congealing in mountain terrain. It was the face of Jesus that had hung over my grandmother’s bed. The Jesus with gimmicky I’m-following-you-everywhere eyes. The Jesus that had frightened me throughout my childhood.

I tried to run. I was fixed in place.

The Jesus mouth opened. A tooth floated out. The tooth grew and spiraled toward me.

I tried to bat it down.

My lids flew up.

The room was dark save for the digits on my clock radio. Ryan snored softly beside me.

My dreams are normally not Freudian puzzlers. My subconscious takes events and weaves them into psychedelic tapestries. Morissonneau’s comment about the dreamlike quality of Burne-Jones’s paintings? Whatever the trigger, this one had been a beaut.

I looked at the clock. Five forty-two.

I tried sleeping.

At six-fifteen I gave up.

Birdie trailed me to the kitchen. I made coffee. Charlie wolf-whistled, broke off, and rummaged in his seed dish.

I took my mug to the sofa. Birdie settled in my lap.

Outside, two sparrows poked fruitlessly at the courtyard snow. I knew how they felt.

More questions than answers on the skeleton. No explanation of how Sylvain Morissonneau died. No progress on Ferris.

No idea why Jake hadn’t returned my calls.

Or had he?

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I retrieved my purse, returned to the sofa, and dug out my cell phone.

Jake had called. Twice.

Damn! Why hadn’t I heard?

I’d been engaged in festivities with Ryan.

Jake had left a simple message. Twice. Call me.

I punched in Jake’s number. He answered right away.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got international coverage,” I said. “All this speed-dialing to Jerusalem would force me to mortgage the place on St. Bart’s.”

“You’ve got a place on St. Bart’s?”

“No. But I’d like one.” Birdie reoccupied my lap. “The carbon-fourteen results came back. The skeleton’s two thousand years old.”

“Have you contacted anyone?” Jake asked.

“The IAA. I had to, Jake.”

“Who did you speak with?” Tight.

“Tovya Blotnik. He wants to send an envoy to Montreal to collect the bones.”

“Does Blotnik know you took samples for DNA testing?”

“No. You do know those results will take longer?”

Jake ignored my question.

“Does he know about the odd tooth?”

“No. I thought you might want to talk about that first. Jake, there’s something else.” I told him about Morissonneau.

“Holy crap. Do you think the guy’s ticker really clocked out?”

“I don’t know.”

Empty air. Then, “Did Blotnik say anything about a tomb or an ossuary?”

“He mentioned a James ossuary.”

More empty air. Charlie filled it on my end with a line from “Strokin’.” I wondered briefly what the cockatiel had witnessed the night before. Jake’s voice brought me back.

“You’re sure he said James ossuary?”

“Yes. What’s the big deal with this James ossuary?”

“Never mind that for now. Tempe, listen to me. Listen carefully. This is important. Don’t mention the DNA samples. All right? Can you hold back on that for a bit?”

“Why?”