Grave Secrets (37 page)
“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 Zuckerman’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
.”
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.
Mateo and Elena were compiling a full report on Chupan Ya.
Maybe there would be some account for that atrocity.
General Effraín Ríos Montt was president during 1982 and 1983 when hundreds of villages were destroyed and thousands killed. In June 2001, victims of the massacres brought a genocide case against General Montt, now head of the Guatemala congress. The suit faced considerable obstacles. Hopefully we had removed some.
Ten-fifteen. June twenty-first. The first day of summer in the northern hemisphere.
I threw the last few toiletries into my suitcase and surveyed the room. A small weaving I’d bought at the market in Chichicastenango still hung where I’d tacked it above the bed. I retrieved and studied it once more.
The Kabawil is common in Mayan textiles.
Kaba
means two.
Wil
means head. According to myth, the two-headed bird can see day and night, far and near. It is the symbol of present and future, of long- and short-range plans. It represents the alliance between humans and nature.
I tucked the Kabawil into my suitcase.
The Kabawil also represents the alliance between men and women.
I’d spent many nights pondering my alliance with men. Two men, to be precise.
Ryan never returned to the topic he’d broached at my bedside. Perhaps my recovery had assuaged his fears. Perhaps I’d hallucinated the whole exchange. But he had suggested a holiday together.
Galiano also wanted to take me away.
I knew I was beginning to resemble my passport photo. I needed a vacation.
I also knew I was pursuing a course in my personal life that had no resolution, or that I was pursuing no course at all.
I’d made a decision.
Experience is a valuable thing. It enables us to recognize mistakes when we repeat them.
Was I making a mistake?
If I didn’t try, I’d never find out. I desperately wanted to rekindle happiness within me and was taking all the steps. But I feared for my success. This time more than ever my work had left me a wounded person, and recovery would not come quickly.
Each time I thought of Señora Ch’i’p, I felt a great emptiness.
The phone rang.
“I’m in the lobby.”
His voice sounded lighter than it had in weeks.
“I’ve just finished packing,” I said.
“Hope you’re focused on sun and sand.”
“I’m bringing everything.”
“Ready?”
Oh, yeah. My hair was shiny enough to cause glare blindness. I was wearing a babe sundress and sandals. And Victoria’s Secret panties and bra.
And mascara and blush.
I was ready.
Kathy Reichs is an anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina, and for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciares et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec. She is one of only fifty forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology and is on the Executive Committee of the Board of Directors of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina—Charlotte, Dr. Reichs is a native of Chicago, where she received her Ph.D. at Northwestern. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal and is a frequent expert witness at criminal trials. Her first novel,
Déjà Dead,
brought Dr. Reichs fame when it became a
New York Times
bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel.
Death du Jour, Deadly Décisions,
and
Fatal Voyage
also became international bestsellers.
Grave Secrets
is her fifth novel featuring Temperance Brennan.
