any other natural cycle. And, like any other natural process, it has to be studied before it can be fully understood.
Eventually, sensations of discomfort began to make themselves known. My neck was stiff, and when I paused to flex it I realized I was hot and cramped. The sun was high enough now to reach through the trees, and I could feel myself starting to sweat in the overalls. Checking the time, I saw with surprise it was almost midday.
I stepped out of the cage and closed the door behind me, then stretched, wincing as my shoulder popped. Pulling off my gloves, I started to take a bottle of water from my bag, but stopped when I caught sight of my hands. The skin was pale and wrinkled after being in the tight rubber gloves. There was nothing unusual about that, yet for some reason the sight prompted something to bump against my subconscious.
It was the same sense of almost-recognition as I’d had the day before at Steeple Hill, and just as elusive. Knowing better than to force it, I took a drink of water. As I put the bottle away I wondered if Tom had spoken to Gardner yet. The temptation to switch on my phone to check for messages lured me for a moment, but I firmly put it aside. Don’t get distracted. Finish what you’re doing here first.
It was easier said than done. I knew there was a good chance that Tom would have called by now, and the awareness nagged at my concentration. Refusing to give in to it, I took almost perverse care over the last few measurements, checking and noting them down in a log book before I packed away. Locking the mesh cage behind me, I headed for the gates. When I reached my car I stripped out of my overalls and gloves and put everything in the boot before I allowed myself to turn on the phone.
It beeped straight away to let me know I had a message. I felt my stomach knot with anticipation. It had been left not long after I’d arrived at the facility, and I felt a stab of frustration when I realized I’d missed Tom’s call by minutes.
But the message wasn’t from him. It was from Paul, to tell me that Tom had had a heart attack.
We don’t realize how reliant we are on context. We define people by how we normally see them, but take them out of that, place them in a different setting and situation, and our mind baulks. What was once familiar becomes something strange and unsettling.
I wouldn’t have recognized Tom.
An oxygen tube snaked up his nose, and a drip fed into his arm, held in place by strips of tape. Wires ran from him to a monitor, where wavering electronic lines silently traced the progress of his heart. In the loose hospital gown, his upper arms were pale and scrawny, with the wasted muscles of an old man.
But then it was an old man’s head that lay on the pillow, grey-skinned and sunken-cheeked.
The heart attack had struck at the morgue the night before. He’d been working late, wanting to make up for the time lost out at Steeple Hill earlier that day. Summer had been helping him, but at ten o’clock Tom had told her to go home. She’d gone to change, and then heard a crash from one of the autopsy suites. Running in, she’d found Tom semiconscious on the floor.
‘It was lucky she was still there,’ Paul told me. ‘If she hadn’t been he could’ve been lying there for hours.’
He and Sam had been coming out of the Emergency Department as I arrived, blinking as they emerged into the bright sunlight. Sam looked calm and dignified, walking with the stately, leaned-back balance of late pregnancy. By comparison Paul seemed haggard and drawn with worry. He’d only found out about the heart attack when Mary had phoned him from the hospital that morning. Tom had undergone an emergency bypass during the night and was still unconscious in intensive care. The operation had gone as well as it could under the circumstances, but there was always the danger of another attack. The next few days were going to be critical.
‘Do we know anything else yet?’ I asked.
Paul raised a shoulder. ‘Only that it was a massive attack. If he hadn’t been so close to Emergency he mightn’t have made it.’
Sam squeezed her husband’s arm. ‘But he did. They’re doing everything they can for him. And at least the CAT scan was OK, so that’s good news.’
‘They did a CAT scan?’ I asked, surprised. That wasn’t a routine diagnostic for heart attacks.
‘For a while the doctors thought he might have had a stroke,’ Paul explained. ‘He was confused when he was brought in. Seemed to think something had happened to Mary instead of him. He was pretty agitated.’
‘C’mon, hon, he was barely conscious,’ Sam insisted. ‘And you know how Tom is with Mary. He was probably just worried that she’d be upset.’
Paul nodded, but I could see he was still concerned. So was I. The confusion could have been caused by Tom’s brain not receiving enough oxygen or by a blood clot from his misfiring heart. A CAT scan should have shown up any obvious signs of a stroke, but it was another worrying factor, even so.
‘Lord, I just wish I’d not been away yesterday,’ Paul said, his face lined.
Sam rubbed his arm. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. You couldn’t have done anything. These things happen.’
But this needn’t have. I’d been berating myself ever since I’d heard the news. If I’d bitten my tongue instead of provoking Hicks, the pathologist might not have been so hell-bent on having me thrown off the investigation. I could have taken some of the workload from Tom, might even have spotted the danger signs of the impending heart attack and done something about it.
But I hadn’t. And now Tom was in intensive care.
‘How’s Mary?’ I asked.
‘Coping,’ Sam said. ‘She’s been here all night. I offered to stay with her, but I think she’d rather be alone with him. And their son might be flying in later.’
‘Might?’
‘If he can tear himself away from New York,’ Paul said bitterly.
‘Paul…’ Sam warned. She gave me a small smile. ‘If you want to say hello I’m sure Mary would appreciate it.’
I’d known Tom would be too ill for visitors, but I’d wanted to come anyway. I started to go inside, but Paul stopped me. ‘Can you stop by the morgue later? We need to talk.’
I said I would. It was only just starting to dawn on me that he was effectively the acting director of the Forensic Anthropology Center. The promotion didn’t seem to give him any pleasure.
The clinical smell of antiseptic hit me as soon as I stepped inside the emergency department. My heart raced as it sparked a flashback to my own time in hospital, but I quickly quelled the memory. My footsteps squeaked on the resin floor as I made my way along the corridors to the intensive care unit where Tom had been taken. He was in a private room. There was a small window in the door, and through it I could see Mary sitting next to his bed. I tapped lightly on the window. At first she didn’t seem to have heard, but then she looked up and beckoned me in.
She’d aged ten years since I’d been to their house for dinner two nights ago, but her smile was as warm as ever as she moved away from the bedside.
‘David, you needn’t have come.’
‘I only just heard. How is he?’
We both spoke in a low whisper, even though there was little chance of disturbing Tom. Mary made a vague gesture towards the bed.
‘The bypass went well. But he’s very weak. And there’s a danger he might have another attack…’ She broke off, moisture glinting in her eyes. She did her best to rally. ‘You know Tom, though. Tough as old boots.’
I smiled with a reassurance I didn’t feel. ‘Has he been conscious at all?’
‘Not really. He came round a couple of hours ago, but not for long. He still seemed mixed up over who was in hospital. I had to reassure him that I was all right.’ She smiled, tremulously, her anxiety showing through. ‘He mentioned you, though.’
‘Me?’
‘He said your name, and you’re the only David we know. I think he wanted me to tell you something, but I could only make out one word. It sounded like “Spanish”.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
Spanish? It seemed like more evidence of Tom’s confusion. I tried to keep my dismay from my face. ‘Nothing I can think of.’
