Bloodstream

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Where do the frogs go?” he asked.

  She turned to him. “What?”

  “The frogs. And the fish and things. I mean, the ducks all migrate, they get away from here. But what do the frogs do? Do you think they just freeze up like green Popsicles?”

  He’d meant to make her laugh, and he was glad to see a smile appear on her face. “No, they don’t become Popsicles, silly. They bury themselves in the mud, way at the bottom.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water. “We used to have lots and lots of frogs around here. I remember catching bucketfuls of them when I was little.”

  “Used to?”

  “There aren’t so many now. Mrs. Horatio says …” Again, that pause of remembered loss. Again, that sad sigh before she continued. “She said that it could be acid rain.”

  “But I heard plenty of frogs this summer. I used to sit here and listen to them.”

  “I wish I’d known about you then,” she said wistfully.

  “I knew about you.”

  She looked at him in puzzlement. Reddening, he averted his gaze. “I used to watch you in school,” he said. “Every lunchtime in the cafeteria, I’d be looking at you. I guess you didn’t notice.”

  He felt his face flush hotter, and he stood up, his gaze on the water, avoiding hers. “You ever go swimming? I used to come here every day.”

  “This is where all the kids hang out.”

  “So where were you last summer?”

  She gave a shrug. “Ear infection. The doctor wouldn’t let me swim.”

  “Bummer.”

  There was a silence. “Noah?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you ever feel like … not going home?”

  “You mean like running away?”

  “No, it’s more like staying away.”

  “Staying away from what?”

  She didn’t answer his question. When he turned to look at her, she had already risen to her feet and was hugging her arms to her chest. “It’s getting cold.”

  Suddenly he too noticed the chill. Only the rock retained any warmth, and he could feel it quickly dissipating as the sun dropped behind the trees.

  The surface of the water rippled, then flattened to black glass. The lake seemed alive at that moment, a single fluid organism. He wondered if everything she’d said about the lake was true, if it really did moan on winter nights. He supposed it could happen. Water expands as it freezes—a scientific fact. The ice would solidify at the surface first, a fine crust that slowly thickens through the dark months of winter, layer building upon layer. And far below, deep in the bottom mud, the frogs would burrow with nowhere else to go. They would be trapped beneath the ice. Entombed.

  Sweat filmed Claire’s face as she strained at the oars. She felt them drag evenly through the water, felt the satisfying lurch of the rowboat as it cut across the surface of the lake. Over the months her rowing had grown smoothly efficient. Back in May, when she’d first dipped oars into water, it had been a humbling experience. One or both oars would whip wildly across the water, throwing up spray, or she’d favor one oar over the other and would end up rowing in circles. Control was the key. Power, perfectly balanced. Fluid movements, gliding, not splashing.

  She had it down, now.

  She rowed to the center of the lake. There she raised the oars, lay them in the boat, and sat back to drift. The sun had just dropped behind the trees, and she knew the sweat would soon feel like rime against her skin, but for these few moments, while she was still flushed from exertion, she enjoyed dusk without noticing its chill. The water rippled, black as oil. On the opposite shore, she saw the lights of houses where suppers were being prepared, where families came together in warm and complete universes. The way we three used to be when you were alive, Peter. Not shattered, but whole.

  She stared across at the glow of those houses, her longing for Peter suddenly so overwhelming it hurt her to breathe. On summer days, when they had gone rowing in their neighborhood pond, Peter had always been the one to wield the oars. Claire would perch in the bow and admire his graceful rhythm, the way his muscles stood out and his smiling face glowed with perspiration. She’d been the pampered passenger, magically ferried across the water by her lover.

  She listened to the ripples slap the hull, and could almost imagine Peter was sitting across from her now, his gaze focused sadly on hers. You have to learn to row alone, Claire. You must be the one to guide the boat.

  How can I, Peter? I’m already foundering. Someone’s trying to drive me from this place. And Noah, our darling Noah, has grown so distant.

  She felt tears chilling on her face. Felt his presence so clearly, she thought if she could just reach out, he’d be there. Warm and alive, flesh and blood.

  But he wasn’t there, and she was alone in the boat.

  She continued to drift, nudged toward land by the wind. Overhead the stars grew brilliant. Now the boat slowly rotated and she saw, in the distance, the northern shoreline, where seasonal cottages stood dark and boarded up for the winter.

  A sudden splash made her sit up in surprise. Turning, she stared at the nearby shore, and made out a man’s silhouette. He was standing on the bank, his thin frame slightly bent, as though peering down at the water. He jerked and lunged sideways. There was another loud splash, and his silhouette dropped from sight. It could be only one person.

  Quickly Claire wiped the tears from her face and called out: “Dr. Tutwiler? Are you all right?”

  The man’s head popped back up into view. “Who’s there?”

  “Claire Elliot. I thought you’d fallen in the water.”

  He finally seemed to locate her in the gloom and he gave a wave. She had met the wetlands biologist only a few weeks before, soon after he’d moved into the Alford cottage, which he was renting for the month. They’d both been rowing on the lake that morning, and as their boats drifted past each other through the mist, they had waved in greeting. Ever since, whenever she rowed past his cottage, they would say hello. Sometimes he’d bring out jars with the latest addition to his amphibian collection. The frog dweeb, Noah called him.

  Her boat drifted closer to shore, and she saw Max’s glass jars lined up on the bank. “How is your frog collection coming?” she asked.

  “It’s getting too cold now. They’re all heading for deep water.”

  “Have you found any more six-legged specimens?”

  “One this week. It really makes me worry about this lake.”

  Now her rowboat had reached the shore and bumped up against the mud. Max stood above her, a spindly silhouette, moonlight reflecting off his glasses.

  “It’s happening in all these northern lakes,” he said. “Amphibian deformities. A massive die-off.”

  “How did the lake samples turn out? The ones you collected last week?”

  “I’m still waiting for the results. It can take months.” He paused, glancing around at the sudden sound of chirping. “What’s that?”

  Claire sighed. “My beeper.” She’d almost forgotten it was still clipped to her belt. She saw a local exchange on the luminous readout.

  “It’s a long row back to your house,” he said. “Why don’t you use my telephone?”

  She made the call from his kitchen, the whole time staring at the glass jars sitting on his countertop. These were not cucumbers floating in brine. She picked up a jar and saw an eye staring back at her. The frog was strangely pale, the color of human flesh, mottled with purplish blotches. Both hind legs branched into two, forming four separate flippers. She looked at the label: “Locust Lake. November 10.” Shuddering, she put down the jar.

  On the phone, a woman answered, her voice slurred, obviously drunk. “Hello? Who’s this calling?”

  “This is Dr. Elliot. Did you page me?” Claire winced as the receiver was slammed down. She heard footsteps, then recognized Lincoln Kelly’s voice, speaking to the woman.

  “Doreen, can I have my phone?”

  “Who are all these w
omen calling you?”

  “Give me the phone.”

  “You’re not sick. Why’s the doctor calling?”

  “Is that Claire Elliot?”

  “Oh, it’s Claire now. First names!”

  “Doreen, I’m going to drive you home in a minute. Now let me speak to her.”

  At last he came on the line, sounding embarrassed. “Claire, are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about what just happened.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, and thought: You have enough things in your life to worry about.

  “Lucy Overlock suggested I give you a call. She’s finished the dig.”

  “Any interesting conclusions?”

  “I think you’ve already heard most of it. The burial’s at least a hundred years old. The remains were of two children. Both of them had obvious signs of trauma.”

  “So it was an old homicide.”

  “Apparently. She’s presenting the details tomorrow, to her undergraduate class. It may be more than you care to hear, but she thought I should invite you. Since you’re the one who found the first bone.”

  “Where’s the class held?”

  “In the museum lab, at Orono. I’m driving there, if you’d care to ride with me. I’ll leave around noon.”

  In the background, Doreen whined, “But tomorrow’s Saturday! Since when do you work on Saturday?”

  “Doreen, let me finish this call.”

  “That’s how it always is! You’re always too busy. Never here for me—”

  “Put on your coat, and get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

  “Hell, I can drive myself.” A door slammed shut.

  “Doreen!” said Lincoln. “Give me back those car keys! Doreen!” His voice came back on the line, hurried. Frantic. “I have to go. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Noon. I’ll be waiting.”

  8

  “Doreen tries,” said Lincoln, his gaze fixed on the road. “She really does. But it’s not easy for her.”

  “Or for you either, I imagine,” said Claire.

  “No, it’s been hard all around. It has been for years.”

  It had been raining when they left Tranquility. Now the rain was thickening to sleet, and they heard it tick-ticking against the windshield. The road had turned treacherous as the temperature dropped to that dangerous transition between freeze and thaw, the blacktop collecting a frosting of watery ice. She was glad Lincoln was behind the wheel, not her. A man who has lived forty-five winters in this climate knows enough to respect its perils.

  He reached down to turn up the defroster and streaks of condensation began to clear from the glass.

  “We’ve been separated two years,” he said. “The problem is, she just can’t let go. And I don’t have the heart to force it.”

  They both tensed as the car ahead suddenly braked and began to fishtail, sliding from one side of the road to the other. It barely pulled out of its skid in time to avoid an oncoming truck.

  Claire sat back, her heart pounding. “Jesus.”

  “Everyone’s driving too damn fast.”

  “Do you think we should turn around and go home?”

  “We’re more than halfway there. Might as well keep going. Or do you want to call it off?”

  She swallowed. “I’m okay with this if you are.”

  “We’ll just take our time. It means we’ll probably be home late.” He glanced at her. “What about Noah?”

  “He’s pretty self-sufficient these days. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Lincoln nodded. “He seems like a great kid.”

  “Yes he is,” she said. And amended her answer with a rueful smile. “Most of the time.”

  “Guess it’s not as easy as it looks,” said Lincoln. “I hear that all the time from parents. That raising a kid is the hardest job in the world.”

  “And it’s a hundred times harder when you’re doing it alone.”

  “So where’s Noah’s dad?”

  Claire paused. The answer to that question almost had to be forced out. “He died. Two years ago.” She barely registered his murmured response of, “I’m sorry.” For a moment, the only sound was the windshield wiper scraping sleet from the glass. Two years, and she still had trouble talking about it. She still couldn’t bring herself to use the word widow. Women should not be made widows at the age of thirty-eight.

  And laughing, loving, thirty-nine-year-old men should not die of lymphoma.

  Through the freezing mist, she saw emergency lights flashing ahead. An accident. Yet she felt strangely safe riding in this man’s car. Protected and insulated from harm. They inched past a string of emergency vehicles: two police cruisers, a tow truck, and an ambulance. A Ford Bronco had slid off the road and now lay on its side, glistening with rime. They drove past it in silence, both of them sobered by that stark reminder of how quickly life can be altered. Ended. It was one more gloomy note to an already depressing day.

  Lucy Overlock arrived late to her own class. Fifteen minutes after her two graduate and ten undergraduate students stood assembled in the university museum’s basement lab, Lucy herself strode in, her slicker dripping. “With this weather, I probably should have canceled,” she said. “I’m glad you all made it anyway.” She hung up her rain gear, under which she wore her usual jeans and flannel shirt, practical attire considering their surroundings. The museum basement was both dank and dusty, a cluttered cavern that smelled like the artifacts it contained. Along both walls were shelves lined with hundreds of wooden boxes, contents labeled in faded typescript: “Stonington #11: shell implements, arrowheads, miscellaneous.” “Pittsfield #32: partial skeletal remains, adult male.”

  At the center of the room, on a broad work table draped with a plastic tarpaulin, lay the new additions to this neatly catalogued charnel house.

  Lucy flicked on a wall switch. Fluorescent lamps hummed on, their unnatural glare illuminating the table. Claire and Lincoln joined the circle of students. The lights were unforgiving, casting the faces around the table in harsh relief.

  Lucy removed the tarp.

  The skeletal remains of the two children had been laid out side by side, the bones placed in their approximate anatomical positions. One skeleton was missing its rib cage, one lower leg, and the right upper extremity. The other skeleton appeared to be largely intact except for the missing small bones of the hands.

  Lucy took her position at the head of the table, near the skulls. “What we have here is a sampled assemblage of human remains from dig number seventy-two at the southern end of Locust Lake. The dig was completed yesterday. For reference purposes, I’ve tacked the site map over there, on the wall. As you can see, the site is located right on the edge of the Meegawki Stream. That area had heavy rains and flooding this past spring, which is probably the reason this gravesite became exposed.” She looked down at the table. “So, let’s begin. First, I want all of you to examine the remains. Feel free to pick them up, look them over carefully. Ask any questions you have about the site. Then let’s hear your conclusions as to age, race, and length of burial. Those of you who took part in the dig—please hold your tongues. Let’s see what the others can deduce on their own.”

  One of the students reached for a skull.

  Lucy stepped back and quietly circled the table, sometimes glancing over her students’ shoulders to watch them work. This assembly made Claire think of some grotesque dining ritual: the remains laid out like a feast on the table, all those eager hands reaching for the bones, turning them under the light, passing them to other hands. At first there was no conversation, the silence broken only by the occasional whisk of a tape measure being extended, retracted.

  One of the skulls, missing its mandible, was handed to Claire.

  The last time she’d held a human skull was in medical school. She rotated it beneath the light. Once she could name every foramen, every protuberance, but like so many other facts crammed into her memo
ry during four years of training, those anatomical names had been forgotten, displaced by more practical data like billing codes and hospital phone numbers. She turned the skull upside down and saw that the upper teeth were still in place. The third molars had not yet erupted. A child’s mouth.

  Gently she set down the skull, shaken by the reality of what she’d just cradled in her hands. She thought of Noah at age nine, his hair a whorl of dark curls, his face silky smooth against hers, and she stared at that skull of a child whose flesh had long since rotted away.

  She was suddenly aware of Lincoln’s hand, resting on her shoulder. “You all right?” he asked, and she nodded. His gaze was sad, almost mournful under the harsh lights. Are we the only ones haunted by this child’s life? she wondered. The only ones who see more than an empty shell of calcium and phosphate?

  One of the female students, a younger, slimmer version of Lucy, asked the first question. “Was this a coffin burial? And was the terrain field or woods?”

  “The terrain was moderately wooded, all new growth,” answered Lucy. “We did find iron nails and fragments of the coffin, but the wood was mostly rotted away.”

  “And the soil?” a male student asked.

  “Clay, moderately saturated. Why do you ask?”

  “A high clay content helps preserve remains.”

  “Correct. What other factors affect the preservation of remains?” Lucy glanced around the table. Her students responded with an eagerness that struck Claire as almost unseemly. They were so focused on mineralized remains, they had forgotten what these bones represented. Living, laughing children.

  “Soil compaction—moisture—”

  “Ambient temperature.”

  “Carnivores.”

  “Depth of burial. Whether it’s exposed to sunlight.”

  “The age at time of death.”

  Lucy’s gaze shot to the student who’d spoken. It was the young Lucy clone, also dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. “How does the deceased’s age affect the bony remains?”

  “The skulls of young adults remain intact longer than skulls of elderly people, perhaps because of heavier mineralization.”