Spider Bones

WHEN I AWOKE, DAWN WAS JUST A PALE HINT ALONG THE HORIZON.

Instantly my thoughts circled to where they’d been just prior to Katy’s scream.

Had I stumbled upon Plato’s unstated motive for stonewalling use of his DNA? Did he fear another man had fathered his sons?

Throwing back the covers, I crossed the floor and opened my balcony door. Breathed deeply.

Overnight, the rain had stopped. The air smelled of salt, damp foliage, and wet sand.

It was 6:37.

Late morning East Coast time.

Anxious for answers, I didn’t bother with coffee, just grabbed a Diet Coke from the kitchen and returned to my room.

Checked a number.

Dialed.

Sheriff Beasley was in his office and took my call.

I minced no words.

“Plato still refuses to give DNA. I find that baffling.”

“What’s his reason?”

“He won’t give one.”

“Plato’s an odd duck.”

“From time to time, I encounter people who won’t submit bodily fluids for testing. Sometimes for religious reasons. Sometimes out of ignorance. Sometimes because they’re guilty as hell. With Plato, I sense that it’s none of those.”

No reply.

“Sheriff Beasley, is there something you’re holding back?”

“What are you talking about?” Guarded.

“You tell me.”

“You’ll need to be more specific, miss.”

Beasley was wasting my time. Those who do so fail to enjoy the sunny side of my disposition.

“How about this? If I made an inquiry into Harriet Lowery’s kidney transplant, would I dig up some curious facts?”

Beasley was silent a long moment before speaking.

“If you’re wanting medical information, you’ll have to speak to Harriet’s doctor.”

“Might you know who that is?” Icy.

More hesitation, then, “Patricia Macken.”

“Might you have contact information for Dr. Macken?”

Beasley exhaled loudly.

“Hang on.”

The sheriff put me on hold for almost five minutes.

“OK.” He read off a number.

“Thank you.” Dickhead. I didn’t say it, but the good sheriff heard it in my tone.

I was about to disconnect when Beasley spoke again.

“Plato may be stubborn and uneducated, but he’s honest, works hard when given the chance.”

“I believe he is.”

“This is Lumberton.” In case I’d forgotten. “Let’s keep this as low-profile as possible.”

Excitement fizzed in my chest. Beasley’s comment was a tell that I was on the right track.

“Of course.”

I disconnected and dialed Macken.

A woman answered, said the doctor was in an examination room and could not be disturbed.

I explained that I was calling about a former patient. Stated that my business was urgent.

The woman promised to deliver my message.

I sat back, satisfied I’d soon have an answer.

Twenty minutes later I was pacing the room. Didn’t physicians have to hustle these days? Eight minutes per patient? Two? A heartbeat? How long could Macken spend with one person?

I dressed. Brushed my teeth. Tied back my hair. Let it down. Checked the phone to be sure the line was working. Ran through some e-mail. Checked again.

At eight forty the damn thing finally rang.

I snatched up the receiver.

“This is Patricia Macken.” Though firm, the voice was clearly that of an older person. One born in Dixie. “I have a message to call this number. My nurse indicated it might be a medical emergency.”

“Not exactly. But thanks for getting back to me. I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work for the medical examiner in Charlotte.” KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. And local. If needed, I’d elaborate, add detail. “I’m calling about a woman named Harriet Lowery.”

“Yes.” Suspicious.

“I believe you treated Mrs. Lowery for kidney disease until her death five years ago.”

“Who did you say you are?”

I repeated my name and affiliation.

“Why is the Charlotte ME interested in a patient who died under a physician’s care in a hospital in Lumberton?”

“Actually, it’s the coroner in Montreal, Canada, who is interested. I consult to that office as well.”

“I’m confused. What does this have to do with Harriet Lowery?”

“In fact, the interest is in her son, John.”

“Spider?”

“Yes.”

“Spider died in Vietnam.”

“Perhaps not.”

An intake of breath told me Macken hadn’t seen that coming.

“Please explain.”

I gave her the basics. The Hemmingford floater, Jean Laurier, identified by fingerprints as John Lowery. JPAC. The Huey crash in Vietnam in 1968. The exhumation in Lumberton. The suspected mix-up of John Lowery and Luis Alvarez.

“My colleagues and I thought we had the confusion sorted out, then DNA sequencing excluded Harriet Lowery as the mother of the Quebec victim.”

Macken said nothing, so I continued.

“Harriet’s DNA was obtained from pathology slides stored at Southeastern Regional Medical Center. As you can imagine, the material was somewhat degraded. We’d like to run another comparison using a sample from Spider Lowery’s father. Plato refuses to submit a swab.”

I paused, allowing Macken the chance to speak. She offered nothing.

“We’re wondering why, Dr. Macken.”

“Perhaps Mr. Lowery knows you are wrong.”

“Everything else indicates that the man who died in Quebec is Spider Lowery. If we’re wrong, DNA from Mr. Lowery could establish that.”

“Why are you calling me?”

Why was I?

“If I could understand Plato’s opposition, I might have a chance at changing his mind.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s a question of paternity, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Neither Spider nor Tom was a suitable donor for Harriet. We both know that happens all the time in families. It means nothing. But in the course of testing for tissue compatibility, I suspect something unexpected turned up. Something devastating for Plato.”

“Meaning?”

“I suspect tests showed Plato was not the father of Harriet’s children.”

Macken took a very long time to answer.

“You’re right, Dr. Brennan. And wrong. The experience almost destroyed Mr. Lowery. But the issue wasn’t paternity.”

“If the—”

“It was maternity.”

“What? Wait. I don’t understand. Harriet wasn’t the mother?”

“Could you hold, please?”

I heard a clunk, footsteps, then the sound of a closing door. The air thickened on the other end of the line.

A scrape, then Macken was back.

“I am going to speak with you further, even though I really should not without authorization form Harriet’s family. I will do it because Harriet has been deceased a good while and because you seem to know many facts already. Mostly, I am going to speak to you further to keep you from going off on a tangent not supported by the facts.

“Testing was less sophisticated in the sixties when Spider offered to donate his kidney. Thirty years later, it was a different world. Not only was Tom ruled out as a donor, DNA sequencing showed that he could not be Harriet’s son.”

I was lost for words.

“Plato and Harriet swore it was nonsense. But the conclusion was undeniable. I had no choice but to speak to the sheriff.”

“Beasley.”

“Yes. He tried to learn what he could. But Harriet and Plato totally shut down. And almost fifty years had passed. Records showed the twins were home-birthed. A midwife assisted, but the sheriff was never able to track her down.

“Though both boys were grown, and Spider was long dead, Sheriff Beasley had to consider the possibilities. After the boys’ birth, the Lowerys spent a long time on government support. Had they perpetrated some sort of welfare fraud? Had they kidnapped one son? Both? Had they been involved in some sort of illegal surrogacy or adoption scheme?

“In the end, Sheriff Beasley decided Spider and Tom had been loved and well cared for. They’d had decent childhoods. What was past was past. He let the matter drop.”

Macken went silent for so long I thought maybe we’d been cut off.

“Hello?”

“I’m here. Five years later Tom was dead. Two years after that it was Harriet. Plato never recovered. I find the whole thing very, very sad, don’t you, Dr. Brennan?”

I nodded, realized she couldn’t see me do it.

“Yes,” I said. And meant it.

While I’d been phoning and pacing and phoning, Ryan had also been busy. When I met him in the kitchen he’d already talked to Lô.

“Lô wants the text from Katy’s blog posting.”

“I’ll get it.”

I ran upstairs, slipped into Katy’s room, and retrieved the printout.

“Given the hostile nature of this”—Ryan flicked the paper I’d handed him—“the guy in the yard, and your little incident down by Waimanalo Bay, Lô thinks we should keep the girls close for a while.”

“He thinks Katy and Lily are in danger?”

“Probably not, but he prefers to play it safe. He’ll send a patrol car past here once every hour.”

“Danger from whom?”

“Obviously, he doesn’t know. Calm down. It’s a courtesy. I’d do the same for visiting law enforcement in Montreal. But you should have showed this to me.” Again, Ryan flicked the printout.

“Agreed.”

Ryan inhaled. Exhaled. Rubbed his hands up and down his face.

“I hope my lamebrain kid wasn’t planning to sneak out last night.”

“With the guy in the yard?”

Ryan nodded. It was clear his parental patience was stretched to the snapping point.

“Do you think Lily might be backsliding?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you searched her room? Questioned her?”

“If I do that and I’m wrong, I could be destroying what little trust I’ve built.”

“If you do that and you’re right you could be saving her life.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ryan shook his head.

A beat passed.

“Heroin’s a mean bastard,” he said.

I reached out and stroked Ryan’s cheek, saddened by his obvious distress.

Danny called at ten.

“Lapasa’s plane lands at two fifteen. Nickie’s driver will meet the flight and take Al from the airport to his attorney’s office.”

“Why not headquarters?”

“Nickie won’t go for that. Lô’s good with the arrangement. He thinks being dragged to a cop shop might cause Lapasa to shut down. Or bolt. Besides, Lô has insufficient grounds for arrest.”

“OK.”

“You’re to be present to scope the guy out.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve seen Xander Lapasa’s file and photos.”

“So have you.”

“You’re an anthropologist. And you live more than fifty miles away.”

I smiled at our old definition of an expert. Someone coming from afar and carrying a briefcase.

“You’ll be in the reception area so you can observe Al up close and personal when he arrives,” Danny continued. “Can you look litigious?”

“I’ll get coaching.”

“Al will be taken to a conference room and told that Nickie wants the meeting recorded. You and Lô will actually be observing.”

“Will Nickie be watching the interview?”

“No. He wants nothing to do with it. Think you can handle the part?”

“They’ll give me an Emmy.”

Lô called shortly thereafter, repeated the instructions, and invited Ryan to tag along.

The attorney, Simon Schoon, was a partner in a firm whose offices occupied the third floor of a modern brick building on Bishop Street, halfway between the Aloha Tower and Hawaii Pacific University.

Ryan and I got there at two. A receptionist greeted us in a marble-floored foyer, indicated chairs, nodded conspiratorially. She had gray eyes, overplucked brows, and the tightest French twist I’ve ever seen. A nameplate on her desk said Tina Frieboldt.

I picked up and pretended to read a copy of National Geographic. Ryan chose Sports Illustrated.

Lô arrived twenty minutes after we did. He waited on the far side of the room, fingers laced, staring at nothing.

At five past three, the elevator dinged. Seconds later, the door opened. A man entered and walked straight to Tina. He was short and stocky with thinning red hair. I guessed from the black jacket and tie that this was the driver.

“Mr. Lapasa is here.”

“Please show him in.”

I flipped a page in my magazine, totally disinterested.

“The gentleman prefers to remain in the hall. It’s a flu thing. He doesn’t want to be around people.”

Damn!

Feigning impatience, I checked my watch. Flipped another page. Shifted in my seat.

Through the open door I could see a man in the corridor.

My heart dropped.

The man had thick black hair and stood at least six feet tall.