inspection and rolled the body onto its back. He had created the Y-incision and reflected the skin from Hunter's chest to expose his sternum and ribs. Prentice used the saw to cut through the lateral sections of the rib cage, and removed the front half as a single unit like the dome of a serving tray to expose the contents of the thoracic cavity.
'The mediastinum is shifted to the right, compressing the right lung against the ribs.' The recorder whirred as Prentice poked and prodded with a dull steel implement. 'Both lobes of the contralateral lung are contracted and shrunken, a consequence of the tension pneumothorax created by the left dorsal puncture wound.'
'Excuse me, Dr. Prentice,' the younger man at the head of the table asked. Leo suspected he was a medical student as he hardly looked like he was out of his teens. 'If the collapse of the lung was caused by the stab wound, shouldn't it have caused an open pneumothorax, and thus only a mild lateral shift of the esophagus, trachea, and blood vessels?'
'Remember to begin with observation, not speculation. Stick to the known facts. This man's thoracic anatomy reflects a tension pneumothorax, meaning that
'You're suggesting the water provided the necessary seal to hold the wound closed?'
'I'm not suggesting anything. I'm stating the facts as I can clearly see them. We know from the conjunctival petechiae, the fluid in the sinuses, and the water obviously retained in the tissues in the right lung, that his death was due to asphyxiation, specifically by drowning. He had to
'Then he couldn't have been stabbed more than a few seconds before immersion in the river.'
'Correct. Otherwise air would have entered the pleural space and created an open pneumothorax.'
Leo had heard more than enough. He turned and stormed out of the room.
Someone had stabbed his son in the back and disposed of his body in the river.
Now it was time to do something about it.
V
Marcus Colton passed like a ghost through the somber gathering, a faceless mourner amid the tearful women and stoic men. The day was gray, the branches on the weeping cypress trees brown. Only the manicured lawn and shrubs provided a background of color for the marble and slate headstones and crypts, most of which were draped with moss. A procession of limousines idled at the bottom of the gentle slope, beyond which he could see the hint of Buffalo Bayou. Somewhere nearby was the final resting place of Howard Hughes.
The funeral director stood at the head of the grave on an elevated platform, hands clasped behind his back, bible on the lectern before him. He was in the middle of reciting the standard speech about eternal souls and lives prematurely extinguished. The polished oak casket hovered over the hidden hole beneath it, enclosed by a cage of red velvet ropes.
A woman sobbed to his right and drew several consolatory pats on the shoulder. In the race for sympathy, she trailed only the man sitting in the front row, a man that he knew needed none.
Colton skirted the periphery of the gathering and vanished behind the branches of a cypress. Gearhardt didn't acknowledge his arrival. He just stared straight ahead through his Serengeti sunglasses, his face stripped of all emotion. Only the clenched muscles in his jaws suggested that he was suffering, and not as a symptom of sorrow.
Colton studied the scene as he waited, memorizing faces and attaching names to those he recognized. His dark hair was cropped military short, his acute gray eyes hidden behind black lenses. His suit matched every other. He looked like anyone else, everyone else. Forgettable.
When the funeral director finally finished speaking, Gearhardt rose and cast what appeared to be a snarl of dead weeds onto the casket, ran his fingers along the smooth grain, and walked away from the gathering. He wound a circuitous route through the maze of ornate headstones and joined Colton beneath the sagging branches.
Colton didn't offer his condolences. Empty platitudes changed nothing. Instead, he waited patiently for his sometimes employer to speak. He had done enough jobs for Gearhardt in the past to know how the man worked. Gearhardt was in charge, but he allowed Colton autonomy over the operation itself. It was a rare combination, and Colton respected him all the more for it. Over the course of the past two decades, they had combined for more than a dozen successful reclamation projects, all of which had gone off without a hitch. There were always complications, but Colton was in the business of providing solutions, none of which came cheap. The mere fact that Gearhardt had called him first spoke volumes about the situation.
'I trust you found my offer satisfactory,' Gearhardt said.
'As always.' Colton allowed the silence to linger between them, interrupted only by the distant din of voices and the whistle of dove wings.
'You have reservations.'
'I'm not exactly sure what you expect from me on this one. On the surface, it's a straight locate-and- excavate job, with maybe a few more bureaucratic hoops to jump through to secure the land lease, but when you factor in your boy's death, I have to wonder if the assignment isn't of a more personal nature.'
'Have you ever known me to be sentimental in business matters?'
'No.'
'Then give me your assessment.'
'The Medical Examiner's report clearly states that Hunter's death was by drowning, and while there were two large puncture wounds in his back, they weren't necessarily dealt with the intent to kill. With easy access to guns and machetes, an assault with a hook seems highly unlikely and reflects none of the traits of a crime of passion. If the men you sent with him had wanted him dead, his body would never have been found. Not in that jungle. And his associates were well screened. In my opinion, none of them are capable of the kind of treachery you suspect.'
'That kind of wealth can alter anyone's behavior patterns.'
'True. However, in this case I find it hard to believe. I've thoroughly reviewed their dossiers and see nothing that would imply the potential for subterfuge, let alone violence.'
'Then we're in agreement. They're all dead.'
Colton nodded slowly. Gearhardt surprised him with his cool reasoning, especially under the circumstances.
'I've been giving this a lot of thought,' Gearhardt said. 'Initially, given the sheer amount of money we're dealing with here, I suspected some sort of conspiracy. But the more I step back and rationalize the situation, the more I believe that external forces contributed to my son's death, and the probable deaths of the rest of his expedition party.'
'What do you propose?'
'I'm not quite sure, which is why I contacted you.'
'The location is inherently rife with variables. There are countless species of venomous snakes and insects. That high in the cloud forest, the weather is notoriously unpredictable. They found his body in a seasonal river only after it had receded far enough to strand his body. And then there's the human factor. There are still indigenous tribes hidden in the Andes, isolated groups that might not take too kindly to any unheralded intrusion. And you can't discount the potential involvement of the Peruvian government. If word of your party's destination and what might be hidden there somehow leaked, there could be soldiers crawling all over the site. Then there are diseases we don't even know about yet, and for most we do, there are no inoculations. Any of hundreds of factors could have
