“Uncle Crowe?”
The question came from the shadows alongside the microscope array. A young woman stepped tentatively into the light, her arms wrapped around her chest, her shoulders slumped. She stared up at him through a fall of long black hair.
It was his niece Kai.
“Are you all right?” Painter asked. It was a stupid question considering the circumstances.
She shrugged, mumbled something under her breath, and joined Professor Kanosh at the table. Painter tracked her. So much for the warm family reunion . Then again, it had been over three years since he’d last seen Kai. It had been at her father’s funeral. In that short span of time, she had grown from a gangly girl to a young woman, but in her face, he could see that she had also grown harder, far more than she should have grown in only three years.
He could guess why. He recognized that guarded stare all too well, half challenging, half wary. Orphaned himself, he knew what it was like to be raised alone, taken in by an extended family that still held you at arm’s length and shuttled you from one home to another.
It was that knowledge that tightened Painter’s chest. He should have done more for her when he had the chance. If he had, maybe they wouldn’t be standing here now.
“Thank you for coming,” Professor Kanosh said, cutting through the tension. He waved Painter to the table. “Maybe with your help we can clear up this mess.”
“I hope so.” Painter eyed the professor’s colleague, not sure how freely he could speak in front of him.
Recognizing his rudeness, the man held out his hand. Still, it was less a welcome than a challenge. While the man looked to be as old as Professor Kanosh, his gray hair had thinned to wisps atop his head, and where the sun had baked Kanosh’s skin to hard leather, his colleague’s face sagged and hung loose, bagging heavily under his eyes. Painter wondered if the man might have had a stroke in the past year or so. Or maybe it was simply a matter of being holed up in this basement lab for most of his working career, far from sunlight and fresh air.
Painter could relate to the wear and tear that put upon a body.
“Dr. Matt Denton,” the man said. “Chair of the physics department.”
They all shook hands. Painter introduced Kowalski as his “personal aide,” which caused the big man to roll his eyes.
Professor Kanosh was polite enough not to question it. “Please call me Hank,” he said, perhaps sensing Painter’s guardedness. “I’ve explained our situation to Matt. I trust him fully. We’ve been friends since high school, going back to when we first served together on a church mission.”
Painter nodded. “Then why don’t you explain the situation again to me.”
“First, let me assure you. I don’t think Kai had anything to do with the blast. The explosive charges she dropped were not the source of that tragedy.”
Painter heard the catch in his voice at the end. He knew the professor had been close to the anthropologist who had died. Kai placed a hand on the older man’s arm, seeming both to thank him and to console him at the same time.
Kowalski rumbled under his breath, “Told you it wasn’t C4 . . .”
Painter ignored him and faced the professor. “Then what do you think caused the explosion?”
The professor stared at him full in the face as he answered. “Simple.” His next words were firm with conviction. “It was an Indian curse.”
10:35 P.M.
Rafael Saint Germaine allowed himself to be assisted from the helicopter. Rotor wash flattened the spread of manicured lawn surrounding the landing site. While other men might blush at needing such help, he was well accustomed to it. Even the short hop from the height of the cabin to the helipad risked breaking a bone.
Since birth, Rafe—as he preferred to be addressed—had suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta, also known as brittle bone disease, an autosomal defect in collagen production, leaving him thin-boned and short in stature. Due to a slight hunch from mild scoliosis and a clouding of his dark eyes, most took him to be decades older than his thirty-four years.
Yet he was no invalid. He kept himself fit enough with calcium and bisphosphonate supplements, along with a series of experimental growth hormones. He also exercised to the point of obsession, making up in muscle for what he lacked in bones.
Still, he knew his greatest asset lay not in bone or muscle.
As he was lowered from the helicopter’s cabin, he raised his eyes to the night sky. He could name every constellation and each star that composed them. His memory was eidetic, photographic, retaining all the knowledge that crossed his path. He often considered his fragile skull as nothing more than a thin shell enclosing a vast black hole, one capable of sucking in all light and wisdom.