Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

Ryan strode onto the balcony and surveyed the landscape below.

“Who screamed?” Lily asked.

“I saw someone down by the pool,” Katy said.

Ryan stepped in and slid the door sideways. Water plumed from the track.

“Holy hell!” Katy sounded scared. “That posting. Could this be related?”

Ryan snicked the lock into place, turned, frowned at me.

Crap!

I hadn’t told him about the threatening message on Katy’s blog.

“What posting?” he asked.

I gave a condensed version.

“And you didn’t mention this little incident because . . . ?”

“I got distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“First LaManche called with his bombshell about Harriet Lowery’s DNA.” As the excuse left my lips I knew it was lame. “Then there was the news about Al Lapasa.”

Ryan spoke to Katy.

“Was the man alone?”

“I think so.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I didn’t see. I— I’m sorry. I acted like some B-grade Hollywood heroine.”

“Can you describe him?” I recognized the altered tone. Ryan had kicked into cop mode.

Katy shook her head. “It was dark.”

Ryan walked over and placed a hand on each of his daughter’s shoulders.

“Look at me.”

Lily’s eyes rolled up.

“Why are you dressed at two in the morning?”

“I fell asleep watching TV.”

“Watching what?”

Lily shrugged. “Nothing special. Just stuff.”

“Do you have any idea who this intruder might be?”

“I didn’t see the guy.”

A few beats passed.

“I’ll double-check the gates and the house.” Ryan shot a look my way. Angry? Troubled? Disappointed? “Let’s all get some sleep.”

WHEN I AWOKE, DAWN WAS JUST A PALE HINT ALONG THE HORIZON.

Instantly my thoughts circled to where they’d been just prior to Katy’s scream.

Had I stumbled upon Plato’s unstated motive for stonewalling use of his DNA? Did he fear another man had fathered his sons?

Throwing back the covers, I crossed the floor and opened my balcony door. Breathed deeply.

Overnight, the rain had stopped. The air smelled of salt, damp foliage, and wet sand.

It was 6:37.

Late morning East Coast time.

Anxious for answers, I didn’t bother with coffee, just grabbed a Diet Coke from the kitchen and returned to my room.

Checked a number.

Dialed.

Sheriff Beasley was in his office and took my call.

I minced no words.

“Plato still refuses to give DNA. I find that baffling.”

“What’s his reason?”

“He won’t give one.”

“Plato’s an odd duck.”

“From time to time, I encounter people who won’t submit bodily fluids for testing. Sometimes for religious reasons. Sometimes out of ignorance. Sometimes because they’re guilty as hell. With Plato, I sense that it’s none of those.”

No reply.

“Sheriff Beasley, is there something you’re holding back?”

“What are you talking about?” Guarded.

“You tell me.”

“You’ll need to be more specific, miss.”

Beasley was wasting my time. Those who do so fail to enjoy the sunny side of my disposition.

“How about this? If I made an inquiry into Harriet Lowery’s kidney transplant, would I dig up some curious facts?”

Beasley was silent a long moment before speaking.

“If you’re wanting medical information, you’ll have to speak to Harriet’s doctor.”

“Might you know who that is?” Icy.

More hesitation, then, “Patricia Macken.”

“Might you have contact information for Dr. Macken?”

Beasley exhaled loudly.

“Hang on.”

The sheriff put me on hold for almost five minutes.

“OK.” He read off a number.

“Thank you.” Dickhead. I didn’t say it, but the good sheriff heard it in my tone.

I was about to disconnect when Beasley spoke again.

“Plato may be stubborn and uneducated, but he’s honest, works hard when given the chance.”

“I believe he is.”

“This is Lumberton.” In case I’d forgotten. “Let’s keep this as low-profile as possible.”

Excitement fizzed in my chest. Beasley’s comment was a tell that I was on the right track.

“Of course.”

I disconnected and dialed Macken.

A woman answered, said the doctor was in an examination room and could not be disturbed.

I explained that I was calling about a former patient. Stated that my business was urgent.

The woman promised to deliver my message.

I sat back, satisfied I’d soon have an answer.

Twenty minutes later I was pacing the room. Didn’t physicians have to hustle these days? Eight minutes per patient? Two? A heartbeat? How long could Macken spend with one person?

I dressed. Brushed my teeth. Tied back my hair. Let it down. Checked the phone to be sure the line was working. Ran through some e-mail. Checked again.

At eight forty the damn thing finally rang.

I snatched up the receiver.

“This is Patricia Macken.” Though firm, the voice was clearly that of an older person. One born in Dixie. “I have a message to call this number. My nurse indicated it might be a medical emergency.”

“Not exactly. But thanks for getting back to me. I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work for the medical examiner in Charlotte.” KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. And local. If needed, I’d elaborate, add detail. “I’m calling about a woman named Harriet Lowery.”

“Yes.” Suspicious.

“I believe you treated Mrs. Lowery for kidney disease until her death five years ago.”

“Who did you say you are?”

I repeated my name and affiliation.

“Why is the Charlotte ME interested in a patient who died under a physician’s care in a hospital in Lumberton?”

“Actually, it’s the coroner in Montreal, Canada, who is interested. I consult to that office as well.”

“I’m confused. What does this have to do with Harriet Lowery?”

“In fact, the interest is in her son, John.”

“Spider?”

“Yes.”

“Spider died in Vietnam.”

“Perhaps not.”

An intake of breath told me Macken hadn’t seen that coming.

“Please explain.”

I gave her the basics. The Hemmingford floater, Jean Laurier, identified by fingerprints as John Lowery. JPAC. The Huey crash in Vietnam in 1968. The exhumation in Lumberton. The suspected mix-up of John Lowery and Luis Alvarez.

“My colleagues and I thought we had the confusion sorted out, then DNA sequencing excluded Harriet Lowery as the mother of the Quebec victim.”

Macken said nothing, so I continued.

“Harriet’s DNA was obtained from pathology slides stored at Southeastern Regional Medical Center. As you can imagine, the material was somewhat degraded. We’d like to run another comparison using a sample from Spider Lowery’s father. Plato refuses to submit a swab.”

I paused, allowing Macken the chance to speak. She offered nothing.

“We’re wondering why, Dr. Macken.”

“Perhaps Mr. Lowery knows you are wrong.”

“Everything else indicates that the man who died in Quebec is Spider Lowery. If we’re wrong, DNA from Mr. Lowery could establish that.”

“Why are you calling me?”

Why was I?

“If I could understand Plato’s opposition, I might have a chance at changing his mind.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s a question of paternity, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Neither Spider nor Tom was a suitable donor for Harriet. We both know that happens all the time in families. It means nothing. But in the course of testing for tissue compatibility, I suspect something unexpected turned up. Something devastating for Plato.”