Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

“You know what I want you to do.” Brusque.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’ll go back to the American Colony?”

“Yes.” Eventually.

Ryan didn’t buy it.

“But first?”

“Poke around here, see if I can scare up contact information for Jake’s crew. I might find a list of those working this Talpiot site.”

“And then?”

“Call them.”

“And then?”

Adrenaline had my mind in overdrive. Ryan’s paternalism wasn’t gearing it down.

“Shoot out to Arafat’s old compound, flash some leg, maybe score a date for Saturday night.”

Ryan ignored that.

“If you go anywhere but the hotel, please call me.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I’ll call.”

Silence. I broke it.

“What’s Kaplan doing?”

“Working on Eagle Scout.”

“Meaning?”

“Early to bed.”

“You’re sitting on him?”

“Yes. Look, Tempe. It’s just possible Kaplan’s not our shooter. If that’s the case, someone else is.”

“Okay. I won’t go to Ramallah.”

Ryan followed that with his standard.

“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”

I followed with mine.

“I work on it.”

When we’d disconnected, I hurried to Jake’s office. My eyes were drawn to the objects beside the computer. My anxiety skyrocketed.

Jake’s site was in the desert. He wouldn’t go there without sunglasses. He wouldn’t go anywhere without ID.

Car keys?

I began shuffling papers, poking through trays, opening and closing drawers.

No keys.

I checked the bedroom, the kitchen, the workroom.

No keys.

And no info on the crew. No list of names. No task rotation sheet. No ledger with check stubs. Zip.

Returning to the computer, I noticed a yellow Post-it poking from below the keyboard. I snatched it up.

Jake’s scrawl. The name Esther Getz, and a phone number four digits off Blotnik’s at the Rockefeller.

Sudden thought. Could the Getzster be the woman phoning the Hevrat Kadisha?

I hadn’t a molecule of evidence to suggest that. Nothing. Unless you count gender. And what did calls to the Hevrat Kadisha have to do with anything anyway?

Okay. Jake had intended to see Getz or Bloom or both. Had he?

I stared at the number. Calling at this hour would be futile. Rude.

“Screw rude.” I wanted Bloom to know I was looking for Jake.

Four rings. Voice mail. Message.

I stood a moment, fingers locked on the receiver.

Getz?

Why not?

Voice mail. Message.

Now what? Who else to ring?

I knew the calls were pointless, but I was frustrated and had no better ideas.

Again, the flashing cursor from my id. There. Gone. There. Gone.

Indicating what? When nothing is making sense, I often repeat known facts over and over in the hope that a pattern may emerge.

Think.

Masada skeleton. Stolen.

Shroud bones. Missing.

Jake. Missing.

Courtney Purviance. Missing.

Avram Ferris. Dead.

Sylvain Morissonneau. Dead.

Hershel Kaplan. Solicited for a hit. By a woman. Maybe. Now in Israel. Was trying to sell bones?

My hotel room trashed.

My car followed.

Ferris-Kaplan-Blotnik telephone calls.

Ruth Anne Bloom. I don’t trust her. Why? Jake’s early-on admonitions not to contact the IAA?

Tovya Blotnik. Jake doesn’t trust him.

Cave 2001 bones linked to Kidron tomb bones.

Was there a pattern?

Yeah. Everything led back to Max.

Why the itchy id? Was there a piece that didn’t fit?

If so, I wasn’t seeing it.

My gaze wandered to a snapshot above the monitor. Jake, smiling, holding a stone vessel in one hand.

My mind looped.

Jake. Missing.

I dialed another number. I was stunned when a voice answered.

“I’m here.” Muffled, as though spoken into a hand-cupped mouthpiece.

I identified myself.

“The American?” Surprised.

“I’m sorry to call at this hour, Dr. Blotnik.”

“I-I’m working late.” Off-balance. Mine was not the voice Blotnik expected to hear. “It’s my habit.”

I remembered my first call to the IAA. Blotnik sure wasn’t working late that night.

I skipped the niceties.

“Have you seen Jake Drum today?”

“No.”

“Ruth Anne Bloom?”

“Ruth Anne?”

“Yes.”

“Ruth Anne has gone up north to Galilee.”

Bloom had left Jake a message saying she was working late. Working late where? At home? At the Rockefeller? At a lab elsewhere? Had she changed her plans? Was she lying? Was Blotnik lying? Had Blotnik merely misunderstood?

I made a quick decision.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Tonight?”

“Now.”

“That’s impossible. I’m-” Blotnik was clearly rattled.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Wait for me.”

I didn’t listen to Blotnik’s reply.

In the car, I thought of Ryan. I should have called and given my destination, but I hadn’t thought to do it before leaving, and I had no cell phone. Maybe I could call from Blotnik’s.

It was a night of open gates.

I should have seen that as an omen. Instead, I assumed Blotnik had anticipated my arrival.

Driving into the compound, I circled to the front courtyard and hurried down the driveway on foot. The fog was giving way to mist. The air smelled of turned earth and flowers and dead leaves.

The Rockefeller loomed like a giant black fortress, its edges merging with the velvety night. Rounding one corner, I glanced out the gate I’d just entered.

Across the way, the Old City slumbered, a place of dark and quiet stones. Gone were the delivery boys and housewives and schoolgirls and shoppers shouldering one another on the narrow streets. As I watched, a car turned from Sultan Suleiman onto Derech Jericho, its headlights white cones sweeping the haze.

I cut to the side door, an entrance used only by museum personnel. Like the gate, it was unlocked. Putting a shoulder to the wood, I pushed, and entered.

An ancient overhead fixture bathed the small vestibule in ocher. Ahead, a short corridor ended at doors giving onto exhibit halls. To the right, an iron-scrolled staircase curved upward, a backstage portal to the staff offices Jake and I had entered from the museum’s interior.

I spotted a phone on a wooden shelf beside the exhibit hall doors. Crossing to it, I lifted the receiver. The dial tone sounded like a French horn in the night-empty building.

I dialed Ryan. No answer. Was Kaplan on the move? I left a message.

Deep breath, then I climbed, hand on the rail, weight on the balls of my feet. At the top, I turned and headed down the long corridor, footsteps clicking off walls and floor.

A single wall sconce saved the hall from total darkness. To my right, handrailed balconies overlooking first-floor halls. To my left, arch-shaped recesses, all but one disappearing into inky darkness. Ahead, the access Jake and I had used on our visit to Getz.

The fourth alcove appeared softly luminous. On entering, I saw why. Pale yellow light seeped from cracks framing Blotnik’s door.

So did voices, barely audible, but sounding serene enough.

It was 1A. M. Who in God’s name could be here with Blotnik? Jake? Bloom? Getz?

I crossed the alcove and knocked softly.

The voices didn’t falter.

I knocked again, harder.

Not a hitch in the conversation.

“Dr. Blotnik?”

The men kept talking. Were they men?

Leaning in, I put my ear to the door.

“Dr. Blotnik?” Louder. “Are you there?”

Funny how your mind takes snapshots. I can still see the knob, old and going green. I can still feel the coolness of the brass on my palm.

The id’s lightning-quick, conjuring maps while the senses are still GPS’ing landmarks.