“Mrs. Ferris?”
The gnarled fingers bunched and rebunched a hanky.
“I’m Temperance Brennan. I’ll be helping with Mr. Ferris’s autopsy.”
The old woman’s head dropped to the right, jolting her wig to a suboptimal angle.
“Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult this is for you.”
The younger woman raised two heart-stopping lilac eyes. “Do you?”
Good question.
Loss is difficult to understand. I know that. My understanding of loss is incomplete. I know that, too.
I lost my brother to leukemia when he was three. I lost my grandmother when she’d lived more than ninety years. Each time, the grief was like a living thing, invading my body and nesting deep in my marrow and nerve endings.
Kevin had been barely past baby. Gran was living in memories that didn’t include me. I loved them. They loved me. But they were not the entire focus of my life, and both deaths were anticipated.
How did anyone deal with the sudden loss of a spouse? Of a child?
I didn’t want to imagine.
The younger woman pressed her point. “You can’t presume to understand the sorrow we feel.”
Unnecessarily confrontational, I thought. Clumsy condolences are still condolences.
“Of course not,” I said, looking from her to her companion and back. “That was presumptuous of me.”
Neither woman spoke.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
The younger woman waited so long I thought she wasn’t going to respond.
“I’m Miriam Ferris. Avram is…was my husband.” Miriam’s hand came up and paused, as if uncertain as to its mission. “Dora is Avram’s mother.”
The hand fluttered toward Dora, then dropped to rejoin its counterpart.
“I suppose our presence during the autopsy is irregular. There’s nothing we can do.” Miriam’s voice sounded husky with grief. “This is all so…” Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed fixed on me.
I tried to think of something comforting, or uplifting, or even just calming to say. No words formed in my mind. I fell back on cliches.
“I do understand the pain of losing a loved one.”
A twitch made Dora’s right cheek jump. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
I moved to her, squatted, and placed my hand on hers.
“Why Avram?” Choked. “Why my only son? A mother should not bury her son.”
Miriam said something in Hebrew or Yiddish.
“Who is this God? Why does he do this?”
Miriam spoke again, this time with quiet reprimand.
Dora’s eyes rolled up to mine. “Why not take me? I’m old. I’m ready.” The wrinkled lips trembled.
“I can’t answer that, ma’am.” My own voice sounded husky.
A tear dropped from Dora’s chin to my thumb.
I looked down at that single drop of wetness.
I swallowed.
“May I make you some tea, Mrs. Ferris?”
“We’ll be fine,” Miriam said. “Thank you.”
I squeezed Dora’s hand. The skin felt dry, the bones brittle.
Feeling useless, I stood and handed Miriam a card. “I’ll be upstairs for the next few hours. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”
Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hall.
As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.
“That was very kind.” His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing “Lucille.”
“A woman has lost her son. Another her husband.”
“I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor.”
Where was this going?
The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.
“This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead.”
2
THE ENVELOPE HELD A SINGLE BLACK-AND-WHITE PRINT. PICTURED was a supine skeleton, skull twisted, jaw agape in a frozen scream.
I flipped the photo. Written on the back were the date, October 1963, and a blurry notation. H de 1 H. Maybe.
I looked a question at the bearded gentleman blocking my way. He made no move to explain.
“Mr.-?”
“Kessler.”
“Why are you showing this to me?”
“I believe it’s the reason Avram Ferris is dead.”
“So you’ve said.”
Kessler crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Rubbed palms on his pants.
I waited.
“He said he was in danger.” Kessler jabbed four fingers at the print. “Said if anything happened it would be because of this.”
“Mr. Ferris gave this to you?”
“Yes.” Kessler glanced over his shoulder.
“Why?”
Kessler’s answer was a shrug.
My eyes dropped back to the print. The skeleton was fully extended, its right arm and hip partially obscured by a rock or ledge. An object lay in the dirt beside the left knee. A familiar object.
“Where does this come from?” I looked up. Kessler was again checking to his rear.
“ Israel.”
“Mr. Ferris was afraid his life was in danger?”
“Terrified. Said if the photo came to light there’d be havoc.”
“What sort of havoc?”
“I don’t know.” Kessler raised two palms. “Look, I have no idea what the picture is. I don’t know what it means. I agreed to keep it. That’s it. That’s my role.”
“What was your connection to Mr. Ferris?”
“We were business associates.”
I held out the photo. Kessler dropped his hands to his sides.
“Tell Detective Ryan what you’ve told me,” I said.
Kessler stepped back. “You know what I know.”
At that moment my cell sounded. I slipped it from my belt.
Pelletier.
“Got another call about Bellemare.”
Kessler sidestepped me and moved toward the family room.
I waggled the print. Kessler shook his head no and hurried down the hall.
“Are you ready to release the Cowboy?”
“I’m on my way up.”
“Bon. Sister’s busting her bloomers for a burial.”
