Cross Bones (17 page)

“I’d like to haul his ass back to Canada.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not unless we charge him. Then we can formal y request extradition through external affairs.”

“Have you got enough to charge him?”

“No.”

“He’d fight it anyway.”

“Yes.”

Ryan chin-gestured the skeleton. “What’s happening with Masada Max?”

“Carbon fourteen puts his birthday somewhere around the time of the Bethlehem star.”

“No shit.”

“I’m trying to send him back to Israel.”

I told Ryan about my conversation with the IAA.

“What got your sonar pinging?”

I thought about that.

“Jake told me not to talk to anyone in Israel until I’d spoken with him.”

“So why cal ?”

“LaManche wants the skeleton gone.”

“Why not level with Bloom?”

“Jake’s caution, I suppose. I’m not sure. A little voice just told me to wait and talk to Blotnik.”

“Probably a good bet.”

“There’s something else.”

I told him about Morissonneau.

Ryan’s brows dipped. He was about to speak when both my cel and his beeper erupted.

Ryan took the gizmo from his belt, checked the number, and pointed at my desk phone. I nodded and stepped into the adjoining lab.

“Temperance Brennan.”

“Tovya Blotnik cal ing from Jerusalem.” Santa voice. Rich and jol y as hel .

“I’m delighted to hear from you, sir. I wasn’t expecting your cal before morning.”

“Ruth Anne Bloom phoned me at home.”

So much for the ban on interruptions.

“Thank you for taking the time,” I said.

“Not at al . Not at al . It’s a pleasure to accommodate foreign col eagues.” Blotnik chuckled. “You work for a coroner in Canada?”

I explained my position.

“Right, then. What’s this about a skeleton from Masada?”

I described the photo that had started it al . Then, using no names, I told Blotnik how the skeleton had been stolen from the Musée de l’Homme by Yossi Lerner, then hidden by Avram Ferris and Sylvain Morissonneau.

I outlined the radiocarbon results.

I did not mention Hershel Kaplan. I did not mention the Joyce book, or the reason behind the theft and concealment of the bones. I did not mention the samples I’d sent off for DNA testing.

I did not mention the fact that Ferris and Morissonneau were dead.

“You obtained this photo how?” Blotnik asked.

“From a member of the local Jewish community.” True enough.

“Probably al nonsense.” The jovial chuckle now sounded forced. “But we can’t ignore this, now can we?”

“I think not.”

“And I’m sure you’re quite anxious to be rid of this mess.”

“I’ve been authorized to release the bones. If you’l provide a shipping address, I’l arrange with FedEx—”

“No!”

No chuckle there.

I waited.

“No, no. I can’t put you to al that trouble. I’l send someone.”

“From Israel to Quebec?”

“It’s no problem.”

No problem?

“Dr. Blotnik, archaeological materials are transported international y al the time. I’m perfectly happy to package the materials and use any shipping service you select—”

“I must insist.”

I said nothing.

“There have been some unfortunate outcomes recently. Perhaps you’ve heard of the James ossuary?”

The James ossuary was the ancient stone coffin mentioned in the Internet links. I vaguely recal ed something in the news a few years back about damage to an ossuary on loan to the Royal Ontario Museum.

“The James ossuary was the piece broken in transport to Toronto?”

“Smashed would be a better word. En route from Israel to Canada.”

“It’s your cal , sir.”

“Please. This is best. I’l be back in touch shortly with the name of the envoy.”

Before I could reply Blotnik cut me off.

“The skeletonis in a secure location?”

“Of course.”

“Security is of the utmost importance. Make sure no one has access to those bones.”

I returned to my lab as Ryan was cradling the receiver.

“Kaplan’s not talking,” he said.

“And?”

“Guy in major crimes over there says he’l turn up the heat.”

Ryan noticed that I was disconnected from the conversation.

“What’s up, sunshine?”

“I don’t know.”

Ryan’s expression reshaped subtly.

“Too much cloak and dagger over this skeleton,” I said. “Even if itis the missing Masada skeleton. If thereis a missing Masada skeleton.”

I recounted my conversation with Blotnik.

“A five-thousand-mile trip seems a bit drastic,” Ryan agreed.

“A bit. Antiquities are routinely shipped around the globe. There are companies that specialize in doing just that.”

“How about this.” Ryan placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “We have a nice dinner, go back to your place, maybe slip into something derived from the art of dance.”

“I didn’t order the tap pants.”

My gaze drifted to the window. I felt anxious and restless, and didn’t know why.

Ryan stroked my cheek. “Nothing’s going to change overnight, Tempe.”

Ryan was dead wrong.

17

THAT NIGHTIDREAMED OF THE MAN NAMED TOVYABLOTKIN.He was wearing dark glasses and a black hat, like Belushi and Aykroyd in their Blues Brothers act. Blotkin was on his haunches, scraping with a trowel. It was dark, and each time his head moved moonlight glinted off his lenses.

In my dream Blotkin plucked something from the ground, rose, and offered the object to a second figure whose back was to me. The second figure turned. It was Sylvain Morissonneau. He was holding a smal black canvas.

Light seeped from Morissonneau’s fingertips as he scratched dirt from the canvas. Slowly, a painting emerged. Four figures in a tomb: two angels, a woman, the risen Jesus.

Jesus’ features dissolved leaving only a skul , gleaming and bril iant white. A new face took shape above the orbits and orifices, like fog congealing in mountain terrain. It was the face of Jesus that had hung over my grandmother’s bed. The Jesus with gimmicky I’m-fol owing-you-everywhere eyes. The Jesus that had frightened me throughout my childhood.

I tried to run. I was fixed in place.

The Jesus mouth opened. A tooth floated out. The tooth grew and spiraled toward me.

I tried to bat it down.

My lids flew up.

The room was dark save for the digits on my clock radio. Ryan snored softly beside me.

My dreams are normal y not Freudian puzzlers. My subconscious takes events and weaves them into psychedelic tapestries. Morissonneau’s comment about the dreamlike quality of Burne-Jones’s paintings? Whatever the trigger, this one had been a beaut.

I looked at the clock. Five forty-two.

I tried sleeping.

At six-fifteen I gave up.

Birdie trailed me to the kitchen. I made coffee. Charlie wolf-whistled, broke off, and rummaged in his seed dish.

I took my mug to the sofa. Birdie settled in my lap.

Outside, two sparrows poked fruitlessly at the courtyard snow. I knew how they felt.

More questions than answers on the skeleton. No explanation of how Sylvain Morissonneau died. No progress on Ferris.

No idea why Jake hadn’t returned my cal s.

Or had he?

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I retrieved my purse, returned to the sofa, and dug out my cel phone.

Jake had cal ed. Twice.

Damn! Why hadn’t I heard?

I’d been engaged in festivities with Ryan.

Jake had left a simple message. Twice.Cal me.

I punched in Jake’s number. He answered right away.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got international coverage,” I said. “Al this speed-dialing to Jerusalem would force me to mortgage the place on St. Bart’s.”

“You’ve got a place on St. Bart’s?”

“No. But I’d like one.” Birdie reoccupied my lap. “The carbon-fourteen results came back. The skeleton’s two thousand years old.”

“Have you contacted anyone?” Jake asked.

“The IAA. I had to, Jake.”

“Who did you speak with?” Tight.

“Tovya Blotnik. He wants to send an envoy to Montreal to col ect the bones.”

“Does Blotnik know you took samples for DNA testing?”

“No. You do know those results wil take longer?”

Jake ignored my question.

“Does he know about the odd tooth?”

“No. I thought you might want to talk about that first. Jake, there’s something else.” I told him about Morissonneau.

“Holy crap. Do you think the guy’s ticker real y clocked out?”

“I don’t know.”

Empty air. Then, “Did Blotnik say anything about a tomb or an ossuary?”

“He mentioned a James ossuary.”

More empty air. Charlie fil ed it on my end with a line from “Strokin’.” I wondered briefly what the cockatiel had witnessed the night before. Jake’s voice brought me back.

“You’re sure he said James ossuary?”

“Yes. What’s the big deal with this James ossuary?”

“Never mind that for now. Tempe, listen to me. Listen careful y. This is important. Don’t mention the DNA samples. Al right? Can you hold back on that for a bit?”

“Why?”

“Can you please trust me and promise you won’t mention the DNA testing for now?”

“At this point there’s nothing to mention.”

“And I don’t want you to give that skeleton to Blotnik.”

“Jake, I—”

“Please. Can you do this for me?”

“Not if you won’t tel me what’s going on. Whyshouldn’t I cooperate with the IAA?”

“I can’t discuss this by phone.”

“If Masada is the place of origin, legal y I must return the skeleton to Israel. I have no choice.”

“Bring it yourself. I’l pay your expenses.”

“I can’t dance off to Israel right now.”

“Why not? I’l deal with Blotnik.”

“Bring it myself?”

What would I tel LaManche? Ryan? Who would take care of Birdie? Charlie?

Jesus, I was thinking like my mother.

“I’l have to think about this, Jake.”

“Screw thinking. Just come to Israel and bring the skeleton.”

“You don’t seriously believe I’ve got the bones of Jesus?”

Long pause. When Jake spoke again his voice was different, lower and more guarded.

“Al I can say is that I’m onto something big.”

“Big.”

“If I’m right, it’s mammoth. Please, Tempe. Book a flight. Or I can do it for you. I’l meet you at Ben-Gurion. Don’t tel anyone you’re coming.”

“I don’t want to spoil your George Smiley moment, but—”

“Say you’l make the trip.”

“I’l think about it.”

I was doing that when Ryan appeared. He’d pul ed on jeans. Just jeans. The jeans hung low.

My libido sat up.

Ryan noticed it do so.

“I could lose the Levi’s so you can ogle the naughty bits.”

Eye rol .

“I made coffee.”

Ryan kissed my head, yawned, and disappeared. Birdie jumped down and padded after him.

I heard rattling, then the refrigerator. Ryan reappeared with my AAFS mug, dropped into an armchair, and thrust both legs ful length.

Charlie whistled a line from “Dixie,” then screeched, “Strokin’!”

“Did I hear conversation?” Ryan asked.

I waggled the cel phone. “Jake wants me to deliver Morissonneau’s skeleton to Israel. He’s pretty insistent.”

“Land of sun and fun.”

“And suicide bombers.”

“And that.” Ryan blew across his coffee. “Do you want to go to Israel?”

“I do and I don’t.”

“I love a woman who knows her mind.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the Holy Land.”

“Things are slow. Your lab wouldn’t implode if you disappeared for a week.”

“What about the boys?” I swept a hand at Birdie and Charlie. “What if Katy needed me?”

I felt instantly stupid. My daughter was twenty-four and a thousand miles away. And a short drive from her father.

“Violence got you nervous?”

“I’ve traveled to dicier places.”

“Why not go?”

I had no answer.

Iwas needed at the lab.

Two kids found bones in a trunk in their uncle’s attic. Cold case! Cal the cops!

The bones were human. Female, white, thirty to forty years at the time of her death.

Important detail. Every bone had been dril ed with tiny holes. Some holes stil sported wires.

The knee bone’s connected to the ankle bone. The ankle bone’s connected to the foot bone.

You get the picture. Unc was a retired physician. The kids’ unknown was a teaching skeleton.

My report was completed by 9:05.

After lunch, my thoughts veered to Jake and his guarded mention of a major discovery. What discovery? And why such concern for Masada Max, as Ryan had taken to cal ing the skeleton? Max couldn’t possibly be Jesus. Max had been too old at the time of his death.

Or too young. Wasn’t that the premise of the Joyce book?

Both Jake and Blotnik had made reference to the James ossuary. Several Internet articles had mentioned it.

Curious, I did some cyber-surfing.

It yielded the fol owing.

An ossuary is a smal stone casket.

Ossuaries served an important function in Jewish burial in first-century Israel. The deceased were entombed and left to decay. One year later, their bones were col ected and permanently interred in ossuaries.

Thousands of ancient ossuaries have been discovered throughout Israel and Palestine. One can be purchased on the antiquities market for a few hundred dol ars.

The James ossuary is a first-century limestone box measuring approximately twenty inches in length. It is inscribed in Aramaic with the words “James, son of Joseph, brother of Jesus.”

When first reported in 2002, the James ossuary made a big splash. According to many, before its discovery, no evidence of Jesus existed outside written texts. The box was heralded as the first physical link to Jesus.

Okay. That’s big.

In 2003, an IAA authentication committee was formed. The committee declared the box legit, the inscription a forgery, based largely on oxygen isotope analysis of patina, an encrustation caused by surface oxidation.