Grave Secrets

“You forgot one thing, Dr. Lucas. Patricia’s unborn baby. The baby you never allowed to draw breath.”

In the distance I heard the sound of a siren. Lucas’s head jerked to the right, returned to me.

Keep talking!

“I found that baby’s bones inside its murdered mother’s clothing. Those bones will provide DNA.” My voice was sounding farther away by the second.

“That DNA will match a sample provided by Patricia Eduardo’s mother. That baby will reach out from death to seal your fate.”

Lucas’s knuckles bulged white as his eyes went hard and black. The look of a sniper, a terrorist, or a hostage taker who has been cornered. The realization there is no way out.

“In that case, I might as well settle up with you. What’s one more?”

A veil fell across my vision. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. I would die in a morgue in Guatemala.

Then, “You are skilled and resourceful, Dr. Brennan. I admit that. Consider this your luckiest year.”

Through a black fog I saw Lucas take the gun from my chest, slide the barrel into his mouth, and pull the trigger.

30

THE STORY NEVER MADE HEADLINES IN GUATEMALA OR CANADA.

In Guatemala City, La Hora ran a blurb on the indictment of Miguel Angel Gutierrez for first-degree homicide. Claudia de la Alda’s mother was quoted expressing her satisfaction with the investigation. Two column inches. Page seventeen.

In separate articles, the Patricia Eduardo and Maria Zuckerman murders were attributed to organized crime, and Lucas’s death was classified as a suicide.

Not a word about stem cells.

In Montreal, La Presse and the Gazette ran brief follow-up stories on the rue Ste-Catherine shoot-out. In addition to Carlos Vicente, a second suspect had been identified in Guatemala City. The man died before an arrest could be made. Period. No speculation as to the motive for a Guatemalan shooting an American in Montreal.

No ink anywhere on Antonio Diaz, Alejandro Bastos, or Andre Specter. Diaz remained a judge. Specter remained an ambassador.

Presumably, Bastos remained dead.

I’ll never really know why Hector Lucas turned the gun on himself. I believe it was arrogance combined with desperation. He saw himself as a superior being, and when he knew it was over he chose the terms. It was also arrogance, I believe, that led him to spare me. He wanted me to know that it was he who chose that I would live, and he wanted me to remember. A memorial of sorts.

Ryan was at the hospital by seven the morning after the morgue. With flowers.

“Thanks, Ryan. They’re beautiful.”

“Like you.” Goofy grin.

“I have a black eye, my cheek’s an eggplant, there’s a needle in my arm, and Nurse Kevorkian just shoved a suppository up my ass.”

“You look good to me.”

His hair was matted, he hadn’t shaved in two days, his jacket was smeared where he’d dropped ash and tried to rub it off. He looked good to me, too.

“O.K.,” I said. “Give.”

I was awake but weak. Whatever was in my metabolism had moved on, chased away by drugs, or simply depleted by the passage of time.

“Galiano and I phoned your cell when the judge cut paper for Zuckerman’s clinic. No answer. We tried again when the cops netted Jorge Serano.”

“I was either in the shower or had already left and forgotten the phone.”

“We figured you’d shut the phone off to sleep. When I got back to the hotel, I knocked on your door, tried the handle.”

“Hoping for?”

“Just checking on the health of a friend.”

I jabbed at his stomach. He hopped back.

“That taqueria was your idea.”

“You chose the fish.”

“I distinctly remember passing on the side order of botulism.”

“Apparently it’s included, no charge, though you may be falsely accusing the fish. Anyway, your door was unlocked, your room a mess,” Ryan went on. “I spotted the article on stem cell retrieval from dead bodies, and wondered if you had gone detecting or done something similarly stupid.”

“Thanks.”