“Bone marrow, blood, the cornea and retina of the eye, brain, skeletal muscle, dental pulp, liver, skin—”
“Don’t we already use those?”
“We do. Adult stem cells isolated from bone marrow and blood have been studied extensively and are used therapeutically.”
“Why not simply use the big guys and leave embryos and fetuses alone?”
I enumerated points on my fingers.
“Adult stem cells are rare. They are difficult to identify, isolate, and purify. There are way too few of them. They do not replicate indefinitely in culture the way embryonic stem and germ cells do. And, to date, there is no population of adult stem cells that is pluripotent.”
“So embryonic stem and germ cells are the name of the game.”
Ryan fell silent for a moment. Then, “What’s the potential payoff in having lots of them available?”
“Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, chronic heart disease, end-stage kidney disease, liver failure, cancer, spinal cord injury, multiple sclerosis, Alzheimer’s disease—”
“The sky’s the limit.”
“Exactly. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to block that kind of research.”
The baby blues went wide, the voice went preachy, and one long finger pointed at my nose.
“It’s a first step, Sister Temperance, toward a slide down the slippery slope of pregnancies conceived only for use of the embryos, resulting in an Aryan nation dedicated to the propagation of muscular, blond, blue-eyed men and slinky, long-legged women with big breasts.”
With that, they called our flight.
On the way to Guatemala we talked about mutual friends, and about times and experiences we’d shared. I told Ryan about Katy’s psych project with the Cheez Whiz rats, and about her quest for summer employment.
Ryan asked about my sister, Harry. We laughed as I described her latest romance with a rodeo clown from Wichita Falls. He filled me in on his niece, Danielle, who’d run off to sell jewelry on the streets of Vancouver. We agreed the two had a lot in common.
Eventually, fatigue sucked me in. I fell asleep with my head on Ryan’s shoulder. Though rough on my neck, it was a warm and reassuring place to be.
By the time we collected our baggage in Guatemala City, worked our way through the throng of porters pleading to carry it, and found a taxi, it was nine-thirty. I gave the driver my destination. He turned to Ryan for directions. I provided them.
We pulled up at my hotel at ten-fifteen. While I paid the fare, Ryan unloaded the luggage. When I asked for a receipt, the driver regarded me as though I’d requested a urine sample. Muttering, he dug a scrap of paper from the seat crack, scrawled something on it, and thrust it at me.
The desk clerk greeted me by name, welcomed me back. His eyes shifted to Ryan.
“Will that be one room or two?”
“One for me. Is three fourteen still available?”
“I’ll take it.”
“And the senor?’
“You will have to ask the senor.”
I forked over a credit card, signed in, collected my bags, and headed upstairs. I’d hung my clothes, spread out my toiletries, and started a bath when the phone rang.
“Don’t start, Ryan. I’m going to bed.”
“Why would I want to start Ryan?” Galiano asked.
“You invited him here.”
“I also invited you here. I’d rather start you.”
“I’ve been traveling with Detective Personality for almost twelve hours. I need sleep.”
“Ryan did sound a bit edgy.”
The frat brothers had already spoken. I felt a prickle of irritation.
“He shot a guy.”
“Yes.”
“Ryan and I are going to drop in on Aida Pera, the ambassador’s little friend, tomorrow. Then I’m going to swing by for a chat with Patricia Eduardo’s mother. She claims she’s got some new information.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“She’s a strange one.”
“Where’s the father?”
“Dead.”
“Did she agree to give a saliva sample?”
I’d asked Galiano to set that in motion before my departure from Montreal. Now that we had a potential ID, it
