Cross Bones (16 page)

I narrowed my eyes.

“I want to hear this.”

“There were two forms of crucifixion—slow and fast. Slow, a prisoner could last up to seven days. Fast, you were dead in twenty-four hours. According to Joyce, Jesus and his fol owers had to time his execution so that fast was the only option.”

“Fast would be my choice.”

“Sabbath was approaching. And Passover. According to Jewish law, no corpse could remain on a cross.”

“But crucifixion was a Roman show.” Ryan went for another enchilada. “Historians agree Pilate was a tyrant and a bul y. Would he have given a rat’s ass about Jewish law?”

“It was in Pilate’s interest to keep the locals happy. Anyway, the plot involved the use of a death-mimicking drug.Papaver somniferum orClaviceps purpurea. ”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

“The opium poppy and ergot, a lysergic-acid producing fungus. In modern lingo, heroin and LSD. Both were known in Judea. The drug would have been administered via the sponge on the reed. According to the Gospels, Jesus first refused the sponge, later accepted it, drank, and immediately died.”

“Only you’re saying he lived.”

“I’m not saying it. Joyce is.”

“How do you get a live body down from a cross in front of witnesses and guards?”

“Keep the witnesses at a distance. Bribe the guards. It’s not like there was a coroner standing by.”

“Let me get this straight. Jesus is out cold. He’s whisked to the tomb, later spirited away, nursed back to health, and somehow ends up at Masada.”

“That’s what Joyce says.”

“What was this wingnut doing in Israel?”

“Nice to see you’re keeping an open mind. Joyce went to research a book on Masada. But the Israeli authorities denied him access.”

“Maybe the Grosset incident is a figment of Joyce’s imagination. Or a story he invented out of spite.”

“Maybe it is.” I helped myself to the last of the salsa. “Or maybe it’s real.”

Nothing much happened for the next few days. I finished the Joyce book. I finished the Yadin book.

Jake was right on that account, too. Yadin described the remains from the Herodian period. He discussed the Romans who’d occupied Masada briefly after 73C.E. , and Byzantine monks who’d settled there in the fifth and sixth centuries. He gave detailed information on the period of the Jewish revolt, including an elaborate discussion of the three skeletons found in the northern palace. Wide-angles, close-ups, diagrams, maps. But just one photo and a few paragraphs on the cave skeletons.

Curious.

On Sunday, Ryan and I went skating on Beaver Lake, then gorged on mussels at L’Actuel on rue Peel. I hadla casserole marinière au vin blanc. Ryan hadla casserole à l’ail. I’ve got to credit the boy. He can handle garlic that would kil a marine.

On Monday I logged into my e-mail and found a report from the radiometric-testing lab.

I hesitated. What if the skeleton was only a century old? Or medieval, like the shroud of Turin?

What if it dated to the time of Christ?

If it did, it did. So what? My estimate of age at death made the individual too old to be Jesus. Or too young, if you believed Joyce.

I double-clicked to open the file.

The lab had found sufficient organic material to triple-test each bone and tooth sample. The results were presented as raw data, then calibrated to a date in years before present, and to a calendar date range, given asC.E. orB.C.E. Nothing political y incorrect about archaeology.

I looked at the dates derived from the tooth.

Sample 1: Mean Date (BP—years before present) 1,970 +/- 41 years

Calendar date range 6 BCE—76 CE

Sample 2: Mean Date (BP—years before present) 1,937 +/- 54 years

Calendar date range 14 CE—122 CE

Sample 3: Mean Date (BP—years before present) 2,007 +/- 45 years

Calendar date range 47 BCE—43 CE

I looked at the femoral dates. Total overlap with the dental dates.

Two mil ennia.

The skeleton dated to the time of Christ.

I experienced a moment of total blankness. Then arguments and questions bumper-car-ed through my brain.

What did it mean?

Who to cal ?

I dialed Ryan, got his voice mail, and left a message tel ing him the bones were two thousand years old.

I dialed Jake. Voice mail. Same message.

Now what?

Sylvain Morissonneau.

The urge expel ed al momentary uncertainty. Grabbing jacket and purse, I bolted for the Montérégie.

Within an hour I was at l’Abbaye Sainte-Marie-des-Neiges. This time I went straight through the orange door into the lobby separating the library from Morissonneau’s office corridor. No one appeared.

Muffled chanting floated from somewhere to my right. I started toward it.

I’d gone ten yards when a voice stopped me.

“Arrêtez!”More hiss than speech. Halt!

I turned.

“You have no right to be here.” In the dim light, the monk’s eyes looked devoid of pupils.

“I’ve come to see Father Morissonneau.”

The hooded face stiffened.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

“Why do you disturb us in our sorrow?” The dead black eyes bore straight into mine.

“I’m sorry. I must speak with Father Morissonneau.”

Something flicked in the gaze, like a match flaring behind darkly tinted glass. The monk crossed himself.

His next words sent ice up my spine.

16

“DEAD?”

Not a flicker in the gargoyle stare.

“When?” I sputtered. “How?”

“Why have you come here?” The monk’s voice wasn’t cold or warm. It was neutral, devoid of emotion.

“Father Morissonneau and I met not long ago. He seemed fine.” I made no effort to mask my shock. “When did he die?”

“Almost a week ago.” Flat, revealing nothing beyond the words.

“How?”

“You are family?”

“No.”

“A journalist?”

“No.”

I dug a card from my purse and handed it to him. The monk’s eyes slid down, back up.

“On Wednesday, March second, the Abbot failed to return from his morning walk. The grounds were searched. His body was found on one of the paths.”

I sucked in air.

“His heart had failed.”

I thought back. Morissonneau had looked perfectly healthy. Robust, even.

“Was the abbot under the care of a physician?”

“I am not at liberty to share that information.”

“Did he have a history of coronary disease?”

The monk didn’t bother to answer that.

“Was the coroner notified?”

“The Lord God reigns over life and death. We accept his wisdom.”

“The coroner doesn’t,” I snapped.

Strobe images. Ferris’s shattered skul . Morissonneau stroking a box of old bones. A Burne-Jones paintingThe Resurrection. Words about jihad.

Assassination.

I was growing frightened. And angry.

“Where is Father Morissonneau now?”

“With the Lord.”

I gave the monk a screw-you look.

“Where is his body?”

The monk frowned.

I frowned.

A robed arm unfolded and gestured in the direction of the door. I was being ushered out.

I could have argued that the priest’s death should have been reported, that by failing to do so the monks had broken the law. This didn’t seem the time.

Mumbling condolences, I hurried from the monastery.

On the drive back to Montreal, my fear escalated. What had Jake said about the skeleton Morissonneau had given me? Its discovery could be explosive.

Explosive how?

Avram Ferris had possessed the skeleton and he’d been shot. Sylvain Morissonneau had possessed the skeleton and he was dead.

Now I possessed the skeleton. Was I in danger?

Every few minutes my eyes jerked to the rearview mirror.

Had Morissonneau real y died of natural causes? The man had been in his fifties. He’d looked perfectly fit.

Had be been murdered?

My chest felt tight. The car seemed hot and cramped. Though the weather was frigid, I cracked a window.

Ferris had died sometime over the weekend of February twelfth. Kessler/Kaplan had entered Israel on the twenty-seventh. Morissonneau had been found dead on March second.

If Morissonneau’s death was due to foul play, Kaplan couldn’t have been involved.

Unless Kaplan had returned to Canada.

Again, I checked my rear. Nothing but empty highway.

I’d visited Morissonneau on Saturday, the twenty-sixth. He’d died four days later.

Coincidence?

Perhaps.

A coincidence the size of Lake Titicaca.

Time to cal the Israeli authorities.

The lab was relatively calm for a Monday. Only four autopsies were in progress downstairs.

Upstairs, LaManche was leaving to lecture at the Canadian Police Col ege in Ottawa. I stopped him in the corridor and shared my concerns over Morissonneau’s death. LaManche said he’d look into it.

I then explained the carbon-14 results on the skeleton.

“Given an estimated age of roughly two thousand years, you are free to release the bones to the proper authorities.”

“I’l get on it,” I said.

“Without delay. We have such limited storage space.”

LaManche paused, remembering, perhaps, the Ferris autopsy and its overseers.

“And it is best to avoid offending any of our religious communities.” Another pause. “And, remote as the possibility may be, international incidents can arise from the most harmless of circumstances. We would not want that to happen. Please, do this as soon as possible.”

Remembering my promise, I phoned Jake. He was stil not answering. I left a message informing him that I was about to contact the Israeli authorities concerning turnover of Morissonneau’s skeleton.

I sat a moment, wondering which agency to phone. I hadn’t asked Jake because I’d promised to speak with him again before I made the cal . Now he was unavailable, and LaManche wanted the case resolved.

My thoughts took a detour. Why was Jake so uneasy about my speaking to Israel? What was he afraid of? Was there someone in particular he wanted out of the loop?

Back to the question at hand. I was certain the Israel National Police would have no interest in a death two mil ennia back. Though Israeli archaeology was not my bailiwick, I knew most countries have agencies to oversee the preservation of cultural heritage, including antiquities.

I logged on to the Internet, and Googled the words “Israel” and “antiquities.” Almost every listing included a reference to the Israel Antiquities Authority.

Five minutes of surfing got me a number.

I checked the time. Eleven-twentyA.M. Six-twentyP.M. in Israel. I doubted anyone would be working this late.

I punched the digits.

A woman answered on the second ring.

“Shalom.”

“Shalom.This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Hebrew.”

“You’ve reached the offices of the Israel Antiquities Authority.” Heavily accented English.

“I’m cal ing from the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal, Canada.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m forensic anthropologist for the medical-legal lab in Montreal.”

“Yes.” Boredom tinged with impatience.

“Remains have come to light here under somewhat unusual circumstances.”

“Remains?”

“A human skeleton.”

“Yes?” Slightly less bored.

“There is evidence to suggest this skeleton may have been unearthed at Masada during Yigael Yadin’s excavation in the sixties.”

“Your name, please?”

“Temperance Brennan.”

“Hold please.”

I did. For a ful five minutes. Then the woman came back on. She did not sound bored.

“May I ask how this skeleton came into your possession?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’l explain the situation to the proper authority.”

“The IAA is the proper authority.”

“Who is the director, please?”

“Tovya Blotnik.”

“Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Blotnik.”

“He’s gone for the day.”

“Is it possible to reach—”

“Dr. Blotnik dislikes interruptions at home.”

For some reason, I felt reluctant to divulge the ful story. Jake’s admonition not to cal before contacting him? LaManche’s reference to international relations? Irrational gut reaction? I didn’t know, but there it was.

“I mean no disrespect. But I would prefer to speak with the director.”

“I am physical anthropologist for the IAA. If the bones are to come here, Dr. Blotnik wil direct me to handle the transaction.”

“And you are?”

“Ruth Anne Bloom.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bloom, but I’l need verification from the director.”

“That’s a highly unusual request.”

“I’m stil making it. This is a highly unusual skeleton.”

Silence.

“May I have your contact information?” Glacial.

I gave Bloom my cel and lab phone numbers.

“I’l pass on the message.”

I thanked her and hung up.

Logging back on to the Internet, I Googled Tovya Blotnik. The name came up in conjunction with several articles addressing a controversy over an ancient stone coffin cal ed the James ossuary. In each, Blotnik was cited as director-general of the IAA.

Okay. Blotnik was kosher. So why the hindbrain heads-up to be cautious with Bloom?

The fact that Lerner and Ferris thought the skeleton in my lab was Jesus Christ? The fact that Jake asked me not to do what I was doing?

I wasn’t sure. But again, there it was.

I was shooting the last few pictures of Morissonneau’s skeleton when Ryan reappeared, looking like the cat that swal owed Big Bird. I waved him into the lab.

“They’ve got him,” he said.

“I’l bite,” I said.

“Hershel Kaplan.”

“How’d they catch him?”

“Genius failed to pay for a bauble.”

“He stole something?”

“Slipped a necklace into his pocket. Al a terrible mistake. He intended to pay.”

“Of course. What now?”