Prophet of Bones

by Ted Kosmatka

“These are your log-in times for the duration of your employment at Westing.”

  Paul was careful not to let his face show anything.

  “You’re usually here by eight-thirty, though the time does fluctuate a little. Less than most; you’re fairly consistent. Would you consider yourself a consistent person, Paul?”

  “About normal, I suppose.”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

  The lawyer pulled out another sheet. “SAT scores in the ninety-ninth percentile. You’re a smart guy, Paul.”

  Paul’s mouth dropped open. “How did you get my SATs?”

  “They’re part of your school records. Your school records were made available to your employer upon conditions of your initial interview process. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s the thing about fine print. Nobody really reads it, do they? As I was saying, you’re a smart guy.”

  “Smart enough.”

  “Before here, where did you work?”

  “A college lab.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Cleaning up shit, mostly.”

  The lawyer pulled out another sheet of paper. “Says here you were an animal tech.”

  “Like I said.”

  “Father deceased. Mother lives out of state. No sibs. No extended family.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You see, Paul, I’m just trying to get a feel for who you are. I’m trying to understand you.”

  “That’s flattering.”

  “Would you have any idea why I’m so interested in you?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “There is a problem, Paul.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “A security problem.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We’ve had a breach, you see, which is why they called me. I’m the guy they call when a potentially complicated situation arises, and this is potentially very complicated.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “We have reason to believe that someone broke into the lab during off-hours.”

  “I hope you catch him,” Paul said, then added, “or her.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt we’ll catch him.”

  “I like your confidence.”

  “You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions, do you, Paul?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Have you ever entered the lab at hours other than working hours?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever broken into the lab?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever knowingly or unknowingly unlocked any doors or windows that could allow another individual or yourself to access the facility during off-hours?”

  “How could I tell you if it was unknowingly?”

  “‘Unknowingly’ gives you an out. You could say, ‘You know, I do think I left the door unlocked, but I had nothing to do with the three guys who broke in later.’ That kind of thing. Have you ever unknowingly disabled the security of the lab?”

  “No,” Paul said. “Not that I know of.”

  “Have you ever worked on any unsanctioned projects?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever preformed any testing without the express consent of a supervisor or persons in charge of testing protocols?”

  “No.”

  “Done any testing that was not directly supervised?”

  “No.”

  “How’s your eye, Paul?”

  Paul looked straight at him. “Fuck you.”

  The man in the expensive suit turned to the lawyer. “Are we done here?”

  “We’re done,” the lawyer responded.

  “No.” It was the round-faced man, sitting in the middle. He folded his hands in front of him, his expression very serious. “You can help yourself here, Paul.”

  Good cop, bad cop. Paul knew the formula, as did any watcher of American television. They weren’t cops, but the principle was the same. And it was actually a bit reassuring.

  “We have reason to believe you’re involved in this somehow,” the man went on.

  It was reassuring because it told Paul that he wasn’t totally fucked yet. Power only bothered with good cop when they still had something they needed. But still, the noose was tightening. It was just a matter of time. He had a few days maybe, if he was lucky.

  “You’ve been through a lot in the past months,” the good cop went on. “That’s something we understand, and we can work things out. We just need you to talk to us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re making a bad choice, Paul.”

  “No, he’s not,” the lawyer said. He smiled. He knew that Paul saw the charade for what it was. “It’s not going to matter one way or the other.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Paul said.

  “Are we done here?” the third man said again.

  “Yeah, we’re done.”

  “We’re done,” the lawyer said.

  The third man spoke again: “You’ll need to turn over your laptop for security reasons, Paul.”

  “I understand,” Paul said. “The sooner we get this done, the better.”

  The lawyer chimed in: “I’d agree with that, Paul. It’s just to eliminate you from suspicion, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s up in my office,” Paul offered.

  “What is?”

  “My laptop.”

  “Oh, we know where it is,” the lawyer said. “We already have it.”

  32

  Paul never even went home.

  The highway. The rolling dark.

  For a long time, he wasn’t sure where he was going.

  When he knew, he placed a phone call.

  “Sure,” she said. “I know a place.”

  They talked for a minute, and he hung up the phone. The hours rolled by. He stopped for gas in Ohio.

  He pulled into the lot on Dearborn ten minutes later than he’d expected to. The clock on his dash read 10:45.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He slid into a parking spot, cut the engine, and checked the GPS on his phone one last time. The blue dot and the red dot were on top of each other, so he was in the right place. She’d said the place was dark and quiet, but from where he sat it looked anything but.

  He checked his face in the rearview mirror. A bloodshot eye stared back at him. After an evening of driving, he’d made the mistake of grabbing a quick nap—twenty minutes’ sleep at a rest stop on the side of Highway 94. Waking up had been harder than just going without sleep.

  Paul ran a hand over his wild hair. He was exhausted. The rain was coming down again, a slow drizzle that puddled the streets. He pulled his hood over his head and ran out into the rain. The moisture felt good on his face; it made him feel more awake.

  “Dining alone?” The maître d’ asked. She was short and thin and pierced. From inside, music was thumping.

  “I’m meeting someone,” Paul said. “She’s probably already here. Is it okay if…”

  The maître d’ waved him through.

  Lilli, it turned out, had gotten the dark part right. The restaurant was so dimly lit that he had trouble seeing the faces of people more than a few tables in front of him. He did his best, scanning the room, looking for something familiar. The crowd was young and hip and moneyed. Mid- to late twenties, mostly. City people in city styles. Paul waded into the room, dodging an oncoming waiter with a steaming plate of Italian.

  A raised hand caught his attention. He lifted his chin, and Lilli waved him over to her table in the corner.

  “So you came after all,” she said. Her pixie cut was gelled into a complication of short, flowing spikes. Like fire, if fire were black. Large hoop earrings accentuated the curve of her delicate neck.

  Paul sank into the leather booth, squeezing his bulk behind the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

&n
bsp; “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

  “Traffic,” he said, the start of some excuse. Then he simply told the truth: “I ended up catching a quick nap. It’s been a bad day.”

  “So it would seem,” she said, raising a glass of pink liquid to her lips.

  * * *

  “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. You look like shit, by the way.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  “It must be something pretty important that has you out here again. Something tells me it’s not my good looks.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  “But?”

  “But no,” he said. “There have been some recent developments.”

  “More of your photographs?” she said, then sipped.

  “A drink,” Paul said. “A drink first.” He waved down their waitress, who came to their table carrying a glass carafe of clear liquid.

  “Sparkling water?” she asked.

  “I’d like my water to sparkle, yes,” Paul said. “And I’ll have a Coors.” He turned to Lilli. “You want another?”

  “I’m good,” she said, holding up her tall glass. “This is my second.”

  When the waitress had left, Paul pulled a small plastic bag from inside the pocket of his hoody. “I brought something for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  He set the baggie on the table. “You might be more right than you know.”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  Paul nodded. “That depends. Do you think it’s a bone sample?”

  “The way to a girl’s heart. Where did you get it?”

  “The shipping department at Westing. It’s a sample that was on its way to that address you gave me.”

  “Why bring it to me?”

  “This is what you said you needed, right? Bone collagen, to tell more about the bones in the photo.”

  “There are certain tests, yes, in regard to ecological niche. So this is a sample from those bones?”

  “Maybe not those bones exactly, but I suspect it’s from the same dig.”

  “You suspect? Something tells me that you came by this sample by less than legitimate means.”

  “If you want to back out, I understand.”

  “Back out? Nobody ever said I was in.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  Paul looked at her closely. “If you want to walk away from this, I wouldn’t blame you at all. I’m probably crazy to bring it to you. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I know,” she said. “Just tell me this: is it important?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said.

  “How important?”

  “I’ll put it this way. I’m not going back to my job after this.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was sure, but I’ll still do it. I can get it done in an afternoon. Besides, this cloak-and-dagger stuff is way more interesting than my usual day-job bullshit.”

  “What’s your usual day-job bullshit?”

  “Working with specimens. Paperwork. Dealing with interoffice headaches.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Is that angst I detect?”

  “Angst is psychological lupus,” she said. “It’s the mind’s immune system turning on itself.”

  “You’ve thought that out.”

  She smiled. “Angst is what’s wrong when there is nothing wrong.”

  “I thought that was depression?”

  “No, most people who are depressed are depressed because their lives suck. Don’t look at me like that—it’s true. My sister was depressed. She was doing a job she hated, in a relationship with a guy she hated. Voilà, depression. She quit her job and now she’s a broke, happy lesbian. Depression is the mind’s way of telling you that you’re not doing what you should be doing. Can I see the sample?” She held out her hand.

  Paul gave her the baggie. It held a small disk of bone, wrapped in plastic. “So this is enough to test?”

  She weighed the baggie in her hand and made a quick inspection of the contents. “Yeah, this should be enough.”

  The waitress came with Paul’s beer. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Do they know you took it?” Lilli asked once the waitress had left.

  “Not yet. How soon before you’ll have your results?”

  “Depends when I can get lab time. A few days, probably.”

  Paul took a long pull of his beer. Behind him, the restaurant noise rose in pitch, a rowdy group entering the room. Drunken college kids fresh from a bar and now looking for food before resuming their bar crawl. He’d never been them. That carefree. He lowered his eyes back to his beer, noting the bubbles rising in the amber liquid.

  “You’re not going to get in trouble for this at work?” Paul asked.

  “No, it’s a small thing,” she said. “Nobody will notice. I practically run that part of the lab.”

  “I don’t want to cause you any problems.”

  “I work in a lab where nothing happens. My life didn’t turn out exactly how I’d wanted it to. This is as adventurous as I get.”

  “Your life turned out pretty well, I think.”

  “So what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How’d your life turn out? Other than theft, or illicit dealings in ancient remains, or whatever this is.”

  “Three-quarters of a master’s degree, then on to Westing. Four years in the field, then back and forth to the lab.”

  “You like it?”

  “I did.”

  “But not now?”

  “No, not now. Now I wish I’d stuck with mice. Your turn.”

  “Ah, me.” She sipped her drink. “Graduate studies, then Sri Lanka for a year. A disastrous marriage. A divorce. Teaching. Then lab work.”

  “Marriage?”

  “We wanted different things.”

  “What did he want?”

  “A virgin.”

  Paul choked on his beer.

  “Well,” she said, “among other things.”

  Despite himself, Paul smiled. Back in college, he’d made the mistake of asking if her name meant anything in particular in her native language. For the next year she’d given different answers according to her mood, warning him once, during a mock wrestling match, that her name meant “great vengeance.” Another time, during a study session, she’d declared him the beneficiary of a study partner whose name derived from a word that meant “supernatural patience toward fools.” And once, after a particularly coquettish display of feminine flexibility in her dorm room, she’d offered “virginal” as the literal translation of Lillivati.

  “Ah,” he’d told her. “Like when a bald guy is named Harry.”

  She’d tackled him for that one.

  A few months after they’d broken up, he’d looked her name up on Google. It meant “free will of God.”

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and your husband,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You said what he wanted. What was it that you wanted?”

  “Never what I thought I wanted, it turned out.”

  Paul nodded softly. He understood the feeling.

  “So what’s next?” she asked.

  “For me? Unemployment, probably. At best.”

  She raised her glass. “To unemployment.”

  “To discovery,” Paul said. They clinked glasses and drank.

  Paul finished his beer in three long gulps. “You never asked about my eye.”

  “I was waiting to see how important it was to you.”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “It suits you,” she said finally. “Like the weight.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You were too Abercrombie before. Too pretty, back in college.”


  “You never told me that then.”

  “Well, of course not.” She drained the last of her drink and slapped the glass down on the table perhaps a bit too hard. “Are you ready?”

  Paul dug his keys out of his pants pocket. “Ready if you are.”

  He laid cash down on the table, and they stood and made their way out of the restaurant.

  When they were outside in the chilly night air, she asked him, “Feel like sightseeing?”

  “Sure.”

  “You drive,” she said. She walked around to the other side of his car and climbed in. They pulled out of the lot.

  “Take a left here,” she said. She guided him to the museum.

  They parked in the employee lot. They climbed out of the car and she led him around the side of the building.

  “We’re not going in?” Paul asked.

  “Even better. I’m in the mood for a walk.” They passed beneath a steel brachiosaur, and she took his hand in hers.

  It was a ten-minute walk to Millennium Park. Skyscrapers served as backdrop, glass spires stretching upward into the darkness all around.

  The sculpture, if you could call it that, was impossible not to like. You approached it from a distance, waiting to see yourself in it, a mirrored heaven.

  “Cloud Gate,” he said, reading the sign.

  “Locals call it the Bean.”

  “Some bean.”

  The whole of the Chicago city skyline was reflected in its silvery curvature. A story and a half of oblong, polished steel.

  They followed the shoreline back to the museum, and once there she didn’t lead him to the car. She took him around to the side entrance near the parking lot and let them into the building. A girl of keys, still. They took the elevator to the third floor, to the maze of lab suites and research offices. A place that was off-limits.

  Wood paneling lined the halls, a deep reddish brown.

  He followed her down the narrow corridor. It was an old place of wood and books—and down one sleek, wooden hall, near the research library, behind a locked door, there was the bone room.

  “Do you want to see?” she asked.

  * * *

  An hour later, at her apartment, they were careful about it. Touching slowly first, with their hands. Then the rest of themselves. They started in the front room, on the couch, knocking cushions to the floor.

  Her apartment was tiny, colorful. The dining room table sat a few feet from the front door. Beyond that, the kitchen cubicle—and beyond that, the hall. She led him by the hand, pulling him toward the bedroom.