Grave Secrets

by Kathy Reichs

  Lucas’s agitation was growing. I was doing this all wrong.

  “Hundreds of thousands suffer from Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, crushed spinal cords. We could have helped them.”

  “That was Zuckerman’s goal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yours was to fatten your wallet.”

  “Why not?” Spittle glistened at the corners of his mouth. “Mechanical hearts. Pharmaceuticals. Patents on orthopedic hardware. A smart doctor can make millions.”

  “By killing or just stealing embryos?”

  Hadn’t I asked that eons earlier?

  “Zuckerman would have taken forever mixing eggs and sperm in her little dishes. My way was quicker. It would have worked.”

  I wanted to close my eyes.

  “You know it’s over,” I said.

  “It’s over when I say it is.”

  I wanted to stop hearing and sleep.

  “Zuckerman’s death will be solved. Her lab has been seized.”

  “You lie.” The bottom rim of his eye twitched.

  “Two detectives are on their way here. I was to meet them.”

  Lucas wet his lips.

  I hammered on, barely conscious of what I was saying.

  “The truth is coming out about Chupan Ya. We’re putting on record what happened to those poor people.” My knees began to buckle. “And the blackmail’s over. Díaz’s involvement in the massacre has been exposed. He won’t be your patsy anymore.”

  Lucas’s fingers tightened on the grip of the pistol.

  “Jorge Serano is in custody. They’ll cut him a deal and he’ll give you up.”

  A derisive laugh. “Give me up for what, stealing a few dead embryos?”

  “For murdering Patricia Eduardo.”

  Lucas’s gaze remained level and unblinking.

  “That skeleton’s long gone. Its identity will always be conjecture.”

  “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 Gutiérrez 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 Díaz, Alejandro Bastos, or André Specter. Díaz 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 taquería 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.”

  “Don’t mention it. I got Galiano back out of bed to see if we could track you down.”

  “I’m sure he was thrilled.”

  “The Bat’s flexible. We called FAFG. They had people working late but hadn’t seen you. I mentioned that you had raised a Zuckerman-Lucas connection, and Bat decided to chat up Lucas. Lucas wasn’t at home, so we thought we’d check the morgue. We spotted Zuckerman’s Volvo in the morgue parking lot, then the partly open bay door.”

  “Where was the regular security staff?”

  “Lucas had sent them home. We think he planned to do a hurry-up post on Maria Zuckerman.”

  “Out of unbearable grief for his fallen colleague.”

  Ryan nodded. “When we hit the autopsy room, Lucas’s brains were decorating the wall. You were unconscious, so we poured your pretty little butt into an ambulance, then headed back to sweat Serano.”

  Ryan brushed bangs from my forehead, regarded me with an expression I couldn’t read.

  “Lucas had ordered Serano to dispose of you. His method of choice was going to be asphyxiation. You accommodated by taking the shower of the century. The jackhammers provided sound cover. Commando boy laced your Coke, planned to wait in the closet for the big swoon, then apply your pillow. Problemo. A maid showed up. Serano blew out of there muy pronto.”

  “You’ve spoken with housekeeping?”

  Ryan nodded. “Maid thought it was me.”

  “What the hell did Serano slip me?”

  “Who knows? Serano hasn’t said. We told the paramedics you had food poisoning. They pumped your stomach, and the hotel staff had discarded the can.”

  “Knocked me on my ass.”

  “That was the idea. Docs think the Pepto and Imodium blunted some of the effect, and kept you conscious. Also, you had upchucked some.”

  He tickled a spot under my chin.

  I batted his hand away. Win
ced.

  “How’s the wrist?”

  “Just a sprain.”

  Ryan took my hand and kissed the fingertips.

  “You had us worried, cupcake.”

  Embarrassed, I changed the subject.

  “Lucas had Nordstern killed?”

  “Looks like Nordstern came here legit to write about Clyde Snow and his human rights work. In digging up material on Chupan Ya and other massacres, Nordstern got his hands on old army records naming Alejandro Bastos and Antonio Díaz. At some point he would have exposed Díaz, and Lucas would have lost his leverage. Lucas might have had him popped for that.

  “More likely it had to do with Patricia Eduardo. Seems Nordstern was an equal opportunity snoop. Once he got to Guatemala City, he either read or heard about the missing girls, and started looking into the disappearances. When he found that one of the four was an ambassador’s kid, he sniffed off on that trail. When he discovered Chantale had problems and the ambassador was a sleaze, he wanted details.”

  “Why go to Montreal?”

  “At that point he was on the same page we were. Thought he’d have the story of the decade if he could tie Specter to the body in the tank. Great stuff. Sophisticated diplomat. Naïve young girls. Sex. Murder. Mysterious death. Septic tanks. Diplomatic immunity. Foreign intrigue. I don’t think he knew Patricia Eduardo was pregnant.”

  Ryan stroked the back of my hand as he spoke.

  “God knows how he thought the ES cells fit in. We found a receipt from the Paraíso in Nordstern’s expense folder.”

  “He actually stayed there?”

  “Inquiring minds accept no limits. That’s how Nordstern got to know Jorge Serano.”

  “Who led him to Zuckerman.”

  “Which led him to an interest in ES cells.”

  “Which is what got him killed, if the Díaz thing didn’t.”

  We were both quiet a moment. Then, “What’s happening with Chantale Specter?”

  “Restitution to the MusiGo store, then rehab.”

  “Lucy Gerardi?”

  “Parental lockdown. Without Chantale’s help she can’t break out.”

  I was almost afraid to ask.

  “The internal investigation?”

  “The department and I are copacetic on Señor Vicente.”

  “I’m glad, Ryan. It was a good shoot.”

  Nurse K came in to check my IV.

  “Where’s Galiano,” I asked when she’d left.

  The flicker of a frown.

  “He’ll be by.”

  Ryan snugged an arm under my shoulders, pulled me to him, and laid his cheek on the top of my head.

  I felt a comfortable warmth flood over me.

  “When I saw you lying on that floor last night, next to a gun and a body, I was overcome by a great sense of loss.”

  I was too surprised to speak. Perhaps the best course. Whatever I said would probably be wrong.

  “I realized something.”

  Ryan’s voice sounded odd. He pressed my head to his chest.

  “Or maybe I just finally admitted it to myself.”

  Ryan nuzzled my hair.

  What? Admitted what?

  “Tempe—”

  His voice faltered.

  Ohmygod! Was he going to use the L word?

  Ryan cleared his throat.

  “I’ve seen too much of the underside of life to have much confidence in people. I don’t really believe in happy endings.” I felt him swallow. “But I’ve come to believe in you.”

  He settled me back on the pillows and kissed my forehead.

  “We need to rethink where we are with each other.”

  I wanted to talk, to pursue this line of thought. My eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Think about it.” Cornflower eyes pierced straight to my soul.

  You bet.

  The next time I woke, Mateo and Elena were peering down at me. Elena’s face was so wrinkled with worry she looked like a shar-pei.

  “How are you?”

  “Right as rain.”

  Mateo and I laughed. It hurt like hell.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Something Molly said.”

  They assured me the Chupan Ya work was proceeding well, told me the villagers were planning a funeral. Mateo had just spoken with Molly. She was barreling toward full recovery.

  Again, hard as I tried, I couldn’t stay awake.

  Galiano was the next phantom to appear by my bed.

  With flowers.

  The place was taking on the air of a funeral parlor.

  “You were right-on about the attack on your colleagues.”

  “Molly and Carlos?”

  Galiano gave a nod. He looked as well-groomed as Ryan.

  “Jorge Serano’s copped to that hit.”

  “Why them?” I asked.

  “Mistaken identity. Lucas sent Serano after you. He wanted to disrupt the recovery team by knocking off the headliner. He thought that was you.”

  A cold, sick feeling swirled in my chest. Guilt? Sorrow? Anger?

  “Why disrupt the work at Chupan Ya?”

  Galiano gave a half shrug. “Lucas didn’t want to lose his firewall.”

  “Díaz.”

  Galiano nodded. “Or maybe Lucas feared Díaz knew too much, that if the DA was arrested for his role in the massacre, the little worm might begin to bargain.”

  “The twisted bastard.”

  “When Lucas found out I’d requested permission to bring you into the Paraíso investigation, he had another reason to want you out of the picture.”

  Galiano took my hand. His skin felt rough and cool. He kissed my fingers.

  First Ryan and now Galiano. I was beginning to feel like the pope.

  He pressed his lips to my palm.

  O.K. Not the pope.

  “I’m glad you’re O.K., Tempe.”

  I was not O.K. I was getting less O.K. by the second. What was it with my libido and these two guys?

  “Go on.”

  “Serano was already tied in to Lucas, since he was the one who dumped Eduardo’s body in Papa’s septic tank. He agreed to do the Sololá shooting.”

  “Why did he dispose of her so close to home?”

  “I asked him that. The moron thought the body would be reduced to nothing in a matter of weeks. When the drains at the Paraíso backed up and Papa began poking around, Little Jorge nearly shit his pants.”

  “Who killed Patricia Eduardo?”

  “Lucas.”

  “Why?”

  “Patricia Eduardo was seeing a married man, became pregnant, and went to Zuckerman for help. Zuckerman may have seen a donor cell opportunity. In the process, Eduardo somehow stumbled onto the ES cell operation.

  “Eduardo and Zuckerman fought, and Eduardo might have threatened to blow the whistle. Zuckerman told Lucas. Lucas took Patricia out of the equation and enlisted Jorge Serano to get rid of the body. Now Serano is using that knowledge to cut himself a deal. He’s been in transmit mode since we picked him up.”

  “Does he know Lucas and Zuckerman are dead?”

  “We might have forgotten to mention that.”

  “How did Serano get involved in all this?”

  “Let’s just say Jorge’s lifestyle exceeded his earning power in a free labor market.”

  “Being Lucas’s gorilla paid well?”

  “It beat pushing broom at the Paraíso. Lucas didn’t want to dirty his hands. Jorge wanted money.”

  “What about Nordstern?”

  “Lucas got outside help to cap Nordstern. Figured Jorge was a little green to send onto foreign shores.”

  “Do you think Nordstern really knew what was going on with the stem cells?”

  “We found some interesting stuff on his laptop. Nordstern did a lot of digging on ES cells, and on the U.S. decision to limit funding. Most of the downloads took place either during or after Nordstern’s sojourn at the Paraíso.”

  “After Serano unwittingly led him to Zucker
man’s clinic.”

  “A little breaking and entering wouldn’t have been beneath Nordstern. He probably crept to the lab, rifled Zuckerman’s files, figured out what she and Lucas were doing. Probably guessed they were planning to make a black market fortune.”

  “When did all this start?”

  “Years ago. Zuckerman experimented with mixing eggs and sperm to derive embryonic stem cells. You get donated eggs and sperm and mix them together until they hook up and start to grow. Then you destroy the embryos and maintain the stem cells in culture.”

  I waited.

  “Apparently Lucas got impatient with Zuckerman’s lack of progress and insisted they try another technique.”

  “Cadavers.”

  Galiano nodded. “Lucas stole tissue during routine autopsies.”

  “Christ.”

  “But the success rate is better with kids.” Galiano stared into my eyes. “You don’t get many kids at a morgue. Nordstern’s laptop had a slew of articles on Guatemala City’s street children.”

  “Nordstern thought Lucas was murdering orphans for their tissue?” Anger and revulsion crimped my voice.

  “We’ve found no evidence, but we’re looking.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  We both fell silent. A cart rumbled down the corridor. A robotic voice paged Dr. Someone.

  “What about Miguel Gutiérrez?”

  “Just a brain-fried hump who couldn’t have the girl he wanted.”

  “Claudia de la Alda.”

  Galiano nodded.

  “It’s all so sad, isn’t it?” I said.

  With no forewarning he leaned over and kissed me. His lips felt soft and warm, his crooked nose rough against my skin.

  “But I also met you, corazón.”

  31

  BY MID-JUNE WE HAD COMPLETED OUR CHUPAN YA work.

  Twenty-three sets of remains had been returned to their families. The village had interred its dead with great ceremony, much wailing, and an enormous sense of relief. Clyde Snow had flown down from Oklahoma, and the entire FAFG team had attended. There was the feeling of a tough job well done. We had stood up for something, had lit one match in the darkness.

  But there was a lot of darkness. I thought of Señora Eduardo and Señora De la Alda, and of their daughters.

  I thought of oppression, greed, psychosis. Of decent people gone forever.

  Hector Lucas, Maria Zuckerman, and Carlos Vicente were dead. Jorge Serano and Miguel Angel Gutiérrez were in jail.