Spider Bones: A Novel

by Kathy Reichs

  Danny phoned at nine.

  “Al Lapasa bit.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’ll arrive in Honolulu tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Get out!”

  “Avarice is a wonderful thing.”

  “You think that’s it?” I asked.

  “Who knows,” Danny said.

  I told Ryan, then called Lô.

  He reacted as I had, though in somewhat more colorful prose. He’d talk to Hung, let me know when they had a plan.

  Finally, I brought Hadley Perry up to speed.

  Her surprise was delivered in hues as vivid as Lô’s. As we spoke, I also detected a note of annoyance. Because I was in and she was out of the loop on her case? Because I was with Ryan and she was not? Because the court testimony in which she was engaged was not yet finished and she would remain on the sidelines? Answering Perry’s questions, I felt a smug sense of satisfaction. Petty, but there you have it.

  That night sleep refused to come. My mind kept chewing on the two recent shockers.

  Harriet Lowery’s DNA was not a match for the Hemmingford floater.

  Xander Lapasa might be alive.

  Had Danny and I made too great a leap when comparing the antemortem and postmortem dental X-rays? The partial filling? The mandibular fractures?

  Why had Nickie Lapasa gone along with my plan? What did he hope to gain from Al Lapasa’s presence in Honolulu? Did he actually believe the man was his brother?

  Xander Lapasa went missing in Vietnam in 1968. Had he survived? Lived all those years as Al Lapasa? If so, why had he never contacted his family?

  Or had he?

  What had Xander been doing in Vietnam?

  When did Al Lapasa surface in Oakland? Where was he prior to that?

  What did Nickie know?

  What did Nickie want?

  Why did Nickie refuse to allow a DNA comparison between a Lapasa family member and JPAC’s 1968-979, presumably his brother, Xander?

  Ditto for Plato Lowery. Why did he refuse to submit a sample?

  Plato’s rant suggested that his wife’s death had been wrenching. Had Harriet’s illness scarred the old man so deeply it destroyed his faith in medicine and hospitals?

  What had Plato said? In the end, doctors and science didn’t make one spit of difference.

  I replayed Plato’s words in my mind, trying to better understand his thinking.

  One comment seemed a disconnect. Those fools and their fancy test nearly cost me my family.

  What fools? What test?

  Cost his family? How?

  Now the army comes along wanting to churn the whole mess up again.

  I’d assumed the reference was to Spider’s death. If not, what mess?

  I organized what little I knew about the Lowerys.

  Harriet had passed away five years earlier. She’d suffered from kidney disease all her life, eventually received a transplant. Sheriff Beasley had said that neither son was the donor.

  I pictured Plato clutching his album in my car. Thumping his chest so hard I flinched. My boy!

  Again, on the phone today. Spider was my boy!

  Both sons had offered their mother a kidney. Spider in the sixties, Tom years later.

  Why could neither donate an organ?

  Harriet’s twins were obviously not matches for her. Was that what had Plato so upset? Had testing turned up something the old man didn’t like?

  The thought hit me like a bullet.

  Paternity.

  Had Plato discovered he was not the father of Harriet’s twins? Was he desperate to keep that fact hidden?

  The digits on my clock said 2:18.

  Rain still swished softly in the gutter overhanging my balcony.

  I was twisting the notion this way and that when a scream shattered the silence.

  Heart banging, I threw back the covers and shot from my bed.

  Ryan was barreling up the stairs two at a time.

  Katy was flying through her door.

  The three of us met in the hall.

  “I saw someone!” Katy’s face was adrenaline white. “Rain was coming in. I got up to close the door and there he was.”

  “Where?” Ryan and I spoke as one.

  “Out on the lawn.”

  “A man? A woman?” Ryan asked.

  “A man. I think. He looked pretty big.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Just standing there. Under a tree. When I screamed, he ran off.”

  “Lily!” Ryan rushed toward his daughter’s room.

  The TV was tinting the walls and furniture an eerie blue. Colors danced the glass of the open balcony door, blurry reflections of movement on the screen.

  Lily stood in shadow between the bed and a highboy dresser. In the dimness, her eyes looked way too large.

  Ryan rushed forward. Stopped at arm’s length from his daughter, uncertain.

  “Are you all right?” Ryan’s voice sounded taut and gentle at the same time.

  Lily nodded.

  Ryan scanned the room, assessing. Though the bedding was tangled, Lily was fully dressed.

  Katy and I watched from the doorway.

  Lily stood with her back pressed to the wall.

  Ryan strode onto the balcony and surveyed the landscape below.

  “Who screamed?” Lily asked.

  “I saw someone down by the pool,” Katy said.

  Ryan stepped in and slid the door sideways. Water plumed from the track.

  “Holy hell!” Katy sounded scared. “That posting. Could this be related?”

  Ryan snicked the lock into place, turned, frowned at me.

  Crap!

  I hadn’t told him about the threatening message on Katy’s blog.

  “What posting?” he asked.

  I gave a condensed version.

  “And you didn’t mention this little incident because . . . ?”

  “I got distracted.”

  “Distracted?”

  “First LaManche called with his bombshell about Harriet Lowery’s DNA.” As the excuse left my lips I knew it was lame. “Then there was the news about Al Lapasa.”

  Ryan spoke to Katy.

  “Was the man alone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “I didn’t see. I— I’m sorry. I acted like some B-grade Hollywood heroine.”

  “Can you describe him?” I recognized the altered tone. Ryan had kicked into cop mode.

  Katy shook her head. “It was dark.”

  Ryan walked over and placed a hand on each of his daughter’s shoulders.

  “Look at me.”

  Lily’s eyes rolled up.

  “Why are you dressed at two in the morning?”

  “I fell asleep watching TV.”

  “Watching what?”

  Lily shrugged. “Nothing special. Just stuff.”

  “Do you have any idea who this intruder might be?”

  “I didn’t see the guy.”

  A few beats passed.

  “I’ll double-check the gates and the house.” Ryan shot a look my way. Angry? Troubled? Disappointed? “Let’s all get some sleep.”

  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 m
inced 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.”