“Della Pratt.”

  “Oh, my. I’m afraid Ms. Pratt tends to be overly protective of my interests.” Lindstrom’s cheeks flamed pink. “Truth is, the woman is a bit sweet on me.”

  Hardly the hostile reception for which I’d prepared.

  “Thank you,” I said, not sheepish, but markedly less bristly.

  “Of course. I apologize for the misunderstanding.” Another sunny grin. The man excelled at it. “This has turned out to be an extremely hectic rotation for me. These boaters.” Extending an arm toward the man lying open on the table. “Ms. Musgrove. A lady driving into the sea near Cockburn Town.”

  “A suicide?” Having no real interest but wanting to compensate for my initial hostility.

  “Tough one. The deceased left no note and had no history of depression. But I’m told there may have been trouble on the home front. It’s one for the cops to sort out.” Then a not-so-subtle hint. “I’m hoping to complete this last autopsy today so I can fly north tomorrow.”

  “I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ve brought bones I’d like X-rayed. Perhaps you can direct me to radiology?”

  He did. Then, “May I ask? Are your cold cases the ones that troubled Ms. Musgrove?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear, dear Ms. Musgrove. Such a terrible loss. And these poor souls.” Again indicating the poor soul he was about to eviscerate.

  “Are you finding anything to explain what happened on that boat?”

  “Not a thing.”

  * * *

  To get those X-rays taken, a phone call had to be made to the Grace Bay station. An explanation provided. Authorization given.

  Once my request was granted, paperwork had to be filled out. Then, my “patients” being dead and therefore low priority, I had to wait.

  All in all, the process took more than two hours. A delay that did nothing to improve my disposition.

  Though I had the copies of the films on a thumb drive, I wanted to view them in a larger format, on a hospital system monitor. Not feeling the love in radiology, I returned to the autopsy room.

  Lindstrom was still there. The corpse was still on the table. Organ samples now floated in labeled jars or lay in slices on a cork cutting board.

  When I hesitated at the door, Lindstrom waved me in.

  “You won’t bother me,” he said, jovial as Santa at the mall.

  “Actually, I might need your access code to view my films.” A problem I should have anticipated, but in my agitation did not.

  “Absoluto.”

  I punched in the sequence Lindstrom provided. Then the file number grudgingly assigned by the radiology tech.

  The first of a half dozen images appeared on the screen. It showed two young and healthy lower arm bones, one set neatly severed above the wrist. Ditto for the second and third images.

  Curious, or wanting a break from his autopsy, Lindstrom joined me and peered over my shoulder.

  “Only radii and ulnae?” he asked as I brought up the fourth plate.

  “Yes.”

  “Someone cut off the left hand?”

  “Yes.” My focus on the screen, I didn’t elaborate.

  “My golly, those are clean cuts. Your doer used one whack-a-doodle sharp blade.”

  “Any suggestions as to tool type?”

  “Machete? Cleaver?”

  Fifth image.

  “What the dingle-donkey is that?”

  24

  A vertebrate long bone is built along the same lines as a pipe. Hard on the outside, hollow in the center.

  The outer compact bone, being dense and able to block most X-ray particles, appears white on a radiograph. The same is true for metals and the majority of contrast media. Structures containing air appear black. Fat, muscle, organs, and fluid appear as shades of gray.

  Lindstrom’s dingle-donkey surprise looked like a tiny comet blazing in Quentin Bonner’s distal left ulna.

  “What is that?” Lindstrom asked again.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it doesn’t belong there.”

  “Care to view the anomaly under magnification?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  “Would you like an assist?”

  “I don’t want to delay—”

  “That fellow isn’t going anywhere.” Lindstrom chin-cocked the man on the table.

  “Thanks.”

  While the pathologist fired up the scope and monitor, I gloved and slipped on an apron. When properly garbed, I maneuvered the ulna under the lens.

  “This is going to be tricky,” I said. “I’ll angle the distal end and rotate until I get the best view of whatever it is.”

  “Say the word and I’ll hold her in place while you adjust focus,” Lindstrom said.

  The man’s hands were as steady as a neurosurgeon’s.

  “Looks like a splinter of metal,” I said when the image settled on the screen. “Probably forced into the shaft when the wrist was severed.”

  “Makes sense. My guess, the hand was removed with a single powerful blow delivered quick and hard.” Lindstrom demonstrated with a vertical chop. “That’s an extraordinarily smooth cut.”

  “May I use your saw?” I asked.

  “Let me clean it.”

  As Lindstrom did that, I snapped pics. When the saw was ready, I buzzed through the bone as near the inclusion as I dared.

  “May I borrow—?”

  Having anticipated my need, Lindstrom handed me a pair of mosquito forceps.

  Moving gingerly, I clamped the visible edge of the splinter between the delicate jaws of the tweezers. At first it wouldn’t budge.

  I tugged harder. No go.

  Forcing the jaws further back onto the object, I squeezed the handles and yanked.

  A slight shimmy, then the bone reluctantly yielded its booty. I pulled the thing free and held it aloft.

  The sliver of metal was flat, roughly rectangular, and measured about one by two centimeters.

  “Must be steel,” Lindstrom said. “To be strong enough to penetrate without bending.”

  Wordlessly, I placed the fragment under the scope. Focused. We both studied the new image.

  “Three of its borders are smooth, the fourth is rough. Looks like a flake broken from something larger.”

  I agreed.

  “Flip her over,” Lindstrom suggested.

  Using the forceps, I did.

  “Is that writing?” Apparently, the man’s eyesight was better than mine.

  “Those dots?”

  “Increase the magnification,” he said. “Please.”

  When I did, the dots crystallized into angles and lines.

  “More.”

  I zoomed higher.

  “Hey, Mem, the vowel O, Tsade,” Lindstrom read aloud. “The rest is missing.”

  I just looked at him.

  Lindstrom shrugged. “I’m blessed with extraordinary vision. Perhaps the reason they pay me the mediocre bucks.”

  “That and your M.D.”

  “And that.”

  “Okay, Hawkeye. Explain what you’re seeing.”

  “Hebrew lettering.”

  A quick snap of excitement sent my heart racing.

  Easy, Brennan!

  “You can read Hebrew?”

  “I can.”

  With a name like Lindstrom? My face must have revealed that unspoken thought.

  “My father was Swedish, my mother Jewish. It’s thanks to her I got saddled with the name Harvey. Pops didn’t like it and called me Ace.”

  “What do the letters spell out?” I asked.

  Rueful grin. “There’s too much missing. Perhaps someone with greater knowledge of Hebrew can help.”

  I was torn.

  Stay and examine the cut surfaces under magnification?

  Set out in hopes of a full translation?

  The scope was now available anytime.

  Decision.

  Identifying tool type could wait.

  I thanked Lindstrom and wished him a safe trip home. Then I printed a hard copy of every image, hurriedly repackaged the arm bones, and raced out the door.

  * * *

  I had a sense of how to get to the synagogue. Still, I wanted guidance.

  Thankful that Google Maps was working in Provo, I scrolled to the app on my iPhone. Not knowing the congregation’s official name, I entered Villa Juba as my destination, figuring I could blunder downhill from the Stribbes’ complex on my own.

  The navigation came back all business, the lady again sounding more British than Musgrove. Wondering why I’d chosen the accent, I mentally dubbed the voice Camilla as I propped the phone upright in the cup holder in the center console.

  The early-morning clouds were now darkening the sky from horizon to horizon, their colors the ugly purple, yellow, and green of an aging bruise. Winding toward the Leeward Highway, I caught glimpses of a violently wrinkled sea. Not far offshore, a dense shroud of rain was turning the water’s surface the deep blue-green of dried sage.

  Awnings snapped on many of the buildings I passed. Crank-up umbrellas were cranked down and secured. The locals sensed a big one coming.

  They were right. Within minutes, drops began pattering the Honda’s unfortunate saffron paint. A few at first, fat and listless.

  I flicked on the wipers. They were as lazy as the vehicle’s AC.

  In one thousand feet, turn left.

  Unexpected. But, trusting Camilla’s knowledge of island geography over my own, I hung a left.

  Lightning flashed.

  Thunder boomed.

  It was as though a switch had been thrown.

  Rain began falling in torrents, overpowering the wipers, and blurring my view of the road. In a heartbeat, the world beyond my headlights ceased to exist. I slowed to a crawl and peered intently through the windshield, wary of driving off the road.

  Ten minutes, later Camilla spoke again.

  In one thous— feet, —rn right.

  Damn. I was losing signal.

  Death-gripping the wheel, I turned.

  Outside my little bubble, the deluge thrummed and the wind whoshed the palms. Now and then a runaway frond cartwheeled across my headlights or careened full force into the glass.

  Inside, the air smelled of water sucked from the ocean. Of salt and seaweed and fish eggs and shrimp.

  In one thou—nd —eet, turn —eft.

  Really?

  I wanted to glance sideways at my phone. To check the map. To see where I was. Too risky.

  Turn left.

  Craning forward, heart thumping, I did as directed, eyes glued to the murky fan of windshield briefly cleared by the overwhelmed wipers.

  —urn left.

  I turned again. Felt the engine grind into a lower gear.

  The Honda was now struggling up a long, steep grade. I didn’t recall the ascent from my previous trips.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Lightning sparked again.

  In the flash I could see that I was on a one-lane track, muddy now and growing muddier by the second. Ditches brimmed with water along both edges. Beyond the ditches, a vast dark emptiness.

  —ontinue for an—ther quarter —ile.

  I did.

  In —ifty feet, —urn left.

  I slowed.

  Turn —eft.

  No! A lone cell in my hindbrain screamed.

  I slammed on the brakes.

  Nerves pulsing with adrenaline, I sat frozen, drops hammering the Honda’s hood and roof and sluicing through the twin beams gamely trying their best.

  My ragged breathing sounded loud in the car.

  Where was I?

  Wait!

  More good advice from my id. Again, I listened.

  Ten minutes. Fifteen. An eon.

  Gradually, the downpour eased, and the cloud cover lightened.

  Nerves quieting back down slightly, I opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  The Turks and Caicos aren’t known for their mountain peaks. No Pico Duarte or Montagne Pelée. Nevertheless, the place where I found myself turned my blood cold.

  I’d hit the brakes on a serpentine track on the spine of a ridge. The drop-off to either side was rocky and deadly.

  Sweet Jesus! Had I turned left, the plunge from this elevation would have been fatal.

  How did this happen? Why had Google Maps led me astray? Had I programmed the system wrong? Had I driven into an area where the signal was not only broken but scrambled?

  The more important question. What to do now? Soldier on, hoping for a place wide enough to make an about-face? Reverse back down the way I came up? Try another system. WAZE? What3Words? Call for help? Would my phone even work?

  Distrustful of all navigation apps, I went with option one. If no reasonable possibility appeared within half a mile, I’d reverse course. Literally.

  Sliding behind the wheel, I crawled forward at a blazing fifteen mph. A quarter mile along the ridge, the road expanded enough for me to make a shaky seven-point turn.

  Go home? Continue to the synagogue as planned?

  Deciding that translation could wait, I pointed the Honda downhill. The first person I encountered gave me directions to Grace Bay.

  * * *

  I was watching a fat orange sun sink below a pearl horizon when the condo’s landline rang. Casting a puzzled glance at my mobile, I got up to answer.

  “Where the blazes have you been?” Harry sounded wired, even for Harry.

  “I’m in the Turks and Caicos.”

  “I know your location. I mean, why does your phone keep rolling me to voice mail?”

  “I must have switched it to silent mode.” Had I?

  “Well, turn the damn thing on.”

  “Okay.” Then, “Ring me.”

  “Why?”

  “To test it.”

  Seconds later the Law & Order theme blasted loud and clear.

  “What goofy ring tone are you using these days?” Harry knew of my quirky habit, and never missed a chance to scoff at my choices.

  I told her. Then added, “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the—”

  “Yeah, yeah. The police who investigate crimes, and the district attorneys who do something else. You watch too much television, big sister.”

  “Apparently, you do, too.”

  “Guilty as charged. It’s my one vice,” she said with not a hint of irony.

  As if, I thought. “How did you know I was in the islands?”

  “Called Ryan. That monsieur is definitely a keeper.” Pronounced miss-your.

  “Are you still dating, is it Benton?”

  Harry’s love life is like a revolving door. Fast in, tumultuous whirl, fast out. As a result, I commit no name to memory until the guy has lasted several months.

  “Boston. Boston Trivino.” Derisive snort. “If the boy had a single brain cell it’d die of loneliness.”

  “I take that as a no.”

  “Sent him packing a couple weeks back.” Then one of Harry’s head-spinning segues. “What are you doing down there?”

  “Looking at cold cases.”

  I left it at that. But my sister has the instincts of a nuclear detector at code red.

  “Don’t dance me around, Tempe. You sound nervous as a horse in a dog-food factory. What’s up?”

  “I had a little incident while driving today.” No way I’d mention the part about almost plummeting to my death.

  “I’m going to send you a meditation link. I find the stuff useful when my nerves are jangled.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Damnation, Tempe. Just give it a spin.”

  “Fine. But not tonight. Right now, I just want to sleep.”

  “Whatever greases your wagon.”

  Lying in bed, I was struck by a realization.

  I hadn’t a clue as to Harry’s real purpose in calling.

  25

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 17

  I was at the hospital by eight. The only sentient being in the pathology department.

  At nine, I phoned Caribbean Chabad House of Provo. After sharing the bare minimum—a criminal investigation, a fragment of metal bearing Hebrew lettering—the rabbi’s wife, Leah Abrams, said she felt it was inappropriate that she or her husband get involved in a police matter.

  Disappointed, I pushed the translation to the back of my mind and spent the morning viewing and photographing the eight bones that had formed Quentin Bonner’s and Ryder Palke’s lower arms.

  As time passed, people came and went. I hardly noticed.

  What I was seeing supported my naked eyeball impression that the perp had not used an axe or a machete to sever his victims’ hands.

  Not a mindblower, still good to have confirmation.

  But other details had me tingling with excitement.

  Anticipating Monck’s skepticism, I sought additional corroboration.

  Vaguely recalling a publication from years back, I booted my laptop and ran a search using three keywords: axe, cuts, bone.

  Bingo! P. McCardle, 2015, Forensic Research & Criminology International Journal. I read the article twice. Almost did an arm pump. Almost.

  There was one more class of characteristics to check.

  After printing hard copy, I returned to the scope. Was repositioning Palke’s right radius when my iPhone sounded.

  “Dr. Brennan.”

  “You were out of pocket yesterday.” Delivered more as statement than question. Had Monck tried to contact me?

  “Long story.” Still unsure how I’d ended up on that ridge. “I’m analyzing the cut marks on Palke and Bonner.”

  “Any progress?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to walk me through it.”

  The line muffled, as though Monck was shielding the mouthpiece. I heard a muted exchange of male voices, then he was back.

  “Sorry.” No explanation.

  “Are you ready?” I slid my notes closer, wanting to get through this and back to my analysis. “The blade’s entry site appears—”

  “Not by phone. I want to see it.”

  “I should finish by mid-afternoon.”

  “Now.”

  “I’m at the hospital. The pathology departm—”

  “No can do. You come here.”