Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 10

  “Thank you. But if it turns out that it isn’t, er, Bella? I will be grateful to you forever.”

  Jaz lifted her face a little to study Kari. She quirked a wan smile. “You’re a lot like her, y’know.”

  Kari smiled back. “That’s a compliment in my book.” She gave Jaz’s back a final pat. “Come on now, Ms. Brunell. Mr. Lavalle made some coffee for us. I could do with a cup.”

  “I’ll be right there. Need to ditch this sack I’m wearing.”

  “Why? Not your best look? I thought it rather suited you.”

  Jaz groaned. “Give me a break.”

  They found Tobin, Søren, Ruth, and Max in the reception hall. Tobin sat apart, staring at his coffee. Max sat before a plate of assorted pastries and was sampling them with the gleeful gusto only teenagers possess. Søren and Ruth were talking quietly with Mr. Lavalle.

  “I hope we’re not inconveniencing you,” Kari apologized to Lavalle, “or eating someone else’s. . . wow. That’s quite a selection. Beignets, cannoli, Danish, cream puffs . . .”

  “No inconvenience at all. These were brought in an hour ago for your sister’s memorial service tomorrow.” He gestured at the spread. “I was told to expect a dozen mourners, but Mr. Wolfe ordered enough for at least fifty.”

  “In that case . . .” Jaz dumped her wad of gum and made for the éclairs.

  Kari took a deep breath and reached for a cannoli, steadfastly refusing to entertain thoughts about what was happening across the lobby and down the hall in that other room.

  AN HOUR PASSED BEFORE they heard voices in the lobby and a case on wheels squeaking its way across the lobby carpet. Dr. Huber and Wolfe joined them. Wolfe’s two guards followed him into the room. When Wolfe pointed out Mr. Lavalle, they escorted the man from the room and did not return.

  Everyone but Dr. Huber looked to Wolfe for answers, but his hard, unyielding expression gave nothing away. And instead of joining the others who were waiting for Dr. Huber’s report, Wolfe retreated to a far corner of the reception room, flipped open his mobile phone, and made a call. Occasionally, when he raised his voice, a phrase could be overheard.

  “Then find her!” and “Yes, it’s urgent.”

  While Wolfe withdrew to make his call, Dr. Huber spotted the pastries. “Ah! Delightful. May I?”

  “Be my guest,” Kari murmured.

  Dr. Huber selected a raspberry tart. He bit into it and squeezed his eyelids shut. “Oh, bliss! Quite, quite wonderful.”

  He had dispatched the tart and was selecting a second one when he came to himself and realized that the room’s temperature had dropped precipitously . . . and that he was the recipient of chilly and downright hostile stares. Ms. Brunell, the woman with black, purple-tipped hair, actually scowled at him.

  He dropped the tart and wiped his fingers. “I beg your pardon. You are, of course, awaiting the results of my examination.”

  “It is why you’re here,” Ms. Brunell growled.

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” He glanced toward Wolfe, still on his phone in the corner.

  “We’re not waiting for him,” Jaz decided. “Get to it.”

  “Certainly, certainly.”

  Søren gripped Kari’s shoulders, and Max held her arm. Ruth, seated at the table, put her face in her hands. Tobin and Jaz stood side by side, their expressions impassive.

  Huber found his notebook, stood, and began to read. “The subject of the examination was an adult Caucasian female between the ages of twenty-five and fifty.”

  He glanced up in apology. “I am unable to fix the age more accurately than that without a complete exam.”

  He continued. “Because of the constriction of the body as it burned, I was also unable to determine exact height or weight. My estimate, based on the length of femur and tibia, was consistent with a female of five foot nine or ten.”

  Kari’s grip on Søren’s hands tightened.

  “I excised a layer of burned fabric from the subject’s back, no doubt the subject’s clothing. After applying a chemical to aid in debriding the burned epidermis on the subject’s back, I used a high-magnification lens to study the underlying dermis—the connective tissue beneath the epidermis. I took tissue samples, cutting through the dermis layer down to the hypodermis or subcutis—the fatty tissue below the dermis.”

  He looked up. “I found no scars on the subject’s back indicative of recent trauma, no evidence of cuts deep enough to have required stitches. In particular, based on the information you provided, I paid careful attention to the area surrounding the subject’s left shoulder blade. I found no indication of trauma below or near the subject’s left shoulder blade.”

  He was quick to add, “Of course, the absence of trauma is not as definitive as the presence of trauma.”

  “What does that mean?” Søren demanded.

  Tobin seemed to deflate. “It means that not finding the cuts isn’t necessarily the proof we’re looking for.”

  Wolfe had finished his call and joined them. “Let the doctor finish.”

  Dr. Huber nodded. “Thank you. Let me see. Ah, yes, here we are. As I said I would, I performed a complete examination of the body, both posterior and anterior.”

  His brows twitched, signaling puzzlement. “I am a little hesitant to speak with confidence without laboratory confirmation, but . . . the type and severity of the burns on the anterior of the body suggest the direct application of an accelerant or ignitable liquid.”

  He looked up from his book. “Wasn’t this assumed to be a fire resulting from an auto accident, the ignition of gasoline fumes?”

  Jaz ignored his question. “Explain about the accelerant or ignitable liquid.”

  “Perhaps you do not know, but bodies, in and of themselves, are not that flammable. The addition of an accelerant, such as an ignitable liquid, will cause the body to burn hotter than it would without chemical assistance, but only where the IL was applied. Whatever material an IL is applied to will burn hot and leave nothing of said material behind.”

  “So?”

  “Ah, that is the rub. I found very little of the subject’s clothing on the body’s anterior torso, even though I found significant fabric fiber residue from the knees down. The marked difference between the anterior torso and lower body suggests to me that the subject’s torso may have been doused with an ignitable liquid.”

  Kari choked and gagged. Tobin clenched his fists until his finger joints cracked and popped.

  Jaz moved the doctor along by saying, “Please include those findings in the written report. Have you anything else to add?”

  “Yes, yes. My examination of the mouth suggests that the subject had less than optimal dental care in her lifetime. The typical adult has sixteen teeth on the top and sixteen on the bottom. This count does not include the so-called wisdom teeth. The subject in question had no crowns or fillings. The subject was, however, missing three adult molars, the lower right six-year and twelve-year molars—numbers 30 and 31 by the Universal Numbering System, and the lower left twelve-year molar, number 18.”

  Kari, Søren, Ruth, Tobin, and Jaz looked at each other, their questions unspoken. Tobin shrugged. None of them could say, with any confidence, whether or not Laynie had been missing molars—until Wolfe again demanded their attention.

  “Listen up, people. Our friend underwent a full physical exam in October. The physical did not include a dental checkup. However, moments ago, I spoke with the physician who performed the exam. She attests to looking in our friend’s mouth and throat during the course of her exam and . . .”

  Wolfe stopped. Swallowed. Coughed once. He seemed to have something stuck in his throat.

  “What?” Kari shouted.

  Wolfe swallowed down the lump that had choked him. “She attests—and she noted this observation in her records at the time—that she saw evidence of good dental care and that her patient . . . her patient was not missing any teeth.”

  “It’s not Bella,” Jaz breathed. “It’s not her!”

&
nbsp; The room erupted in tears and rejoicing.

  “Not her!” Kari sobbed. She and Søren embraced—Max and Ruth joined them.

  Tobin grabbed Jaz, yanked her to her feet, and crushed her in a hug.

  Before the babble of jubilation got out of control, Wolfe squashed it. “Quiet! I want silence—not a word more, if you please.” He gestured to the pathologist. “Dr. Huber, we thank you for your time and expertise. You may go now.”

  Dr. Huber withdrew an envelope. “The invoice for my services?”

  Wolfe took it. “I’ll handle it.”

  “And you are? I don’t believe we were introduced.”

  “Here’s my card.”

  “But there’s no name on this card—only a phone number!”

  “My direct line.”

  “Really? But this is not at all what I contracted with Ms. Brunell. I would feel more comfortable with payment from Brunell and Brunell—as agreed upon.”

  The cold stare Wolfe turned on the man would have frozen flowing lava. “I am making it my responsibility, my honor, to pay you, rather than this attorney. I personally guarantee you will receive full payment within two weeks. If you are not in receipt of your fee by then, feel free to call me.”

  Huber, less than convinced that he’d ever see his fee, grumbled to himself, pocketed Wolfe’s card, and grabbed the handle of his wheeled case.

  He glanced at the table, still grumbling, when the raspberry tarts caught his eye. “I believe I’ll just have another of these.” He grabbed a napkin, selected a tart, sniffed, then grabbed a second tart. With back stiff, tarts and napkin in hand, he left the room. The irritating squeak of his cart’s wheel marked his movement through the lobby and out the funeral home’s front entrance.

  Silence reigned in the reception room as Wolfe locked the door behind Dr. Huber. Wolfe remained unmoving for several moments, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

  Finally, he spoke. “Mrs. Thoresen.”

  “Director Wolfe?”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Kari nodded. “At the moment, all I have room for is gratitude and great relief.”

  Wolfe sighed. “Yes. I have a heart full of that myself. Still, you must know how very sorry I am to have put you through this ordeal although . . . we’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Kari’s tone changed. Hardened. “Director Wolfe?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Find my sister.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That we will. Tobin? Miss Jessup?”

  “Sir?” Tobin answered.

  Wolfe jerked his head. “You two. With me.”

  Tobin and Jaz followed him out of the building. They huddled near his car, waiting for him to speak. Neither of them had seen Wolfe as shaken as they saw him now.

  “We’ve been well and truly had,” Wolfe finally said.

  “Well, no duh,” Jaz muttered. “And we’ve lost an entire week. An entire week . . .”

  Wolfe withdrew a packet from his suitcoat. “Yes, but we do have this.”

  Tobin asked, “What is that?”

  “If it’s what I hope and pray it is, it’s the intel Cossack intended to pass to Bella.”

  “But . . . how did you come by it?”

  “Cossack had it placed in the casket, under the body. It must be why the casket was under 24/7 two-man guard during transit—and why the shipping instructions required that I, personally, sign for its delivery.”

  As Wolfe shook off his shock, he surged into action. To Jaz and Tobin, he snapped, “Grab your gear from your rental car. You’re coming with me. We’ll read the intel, patch in Seraphim and the task force, and work while we’re on the road.”

  He called to the two guards who had accompanied the casket and pointed them to Tobin and Jaz’s car. “You’re dismissed with my thanks. Take their rental. Turn it in at the airport and return to base.”

  INSIDE THE RECEPTION hall of Lavalle’s Legacy Funeral Home, Kari was again sobbing in Søren’s arms. Max tugged on her elbow. “Mom? Why are you crying? Doesn’t what the doctor said mean that Aunt Laynie isn’t dead?”

  “Not precisely, son,” Søren said softly. “Yes, we now know that the body we almost buried isn’t Aunt Laynie’s. What we don’t know is where Aunt Laynie is . . . or if she is alive or dead.”

  Kari wiped her face. “She cannot be dead. I don’t believe that the Lord would have stopped us from burying this body only to find that she is dead anyway.”

  “Then why are you so sad?”

  Fresh tears sprang to Kari’s eyes. “Because now we don’t know where she is. No one does—not even her agency, despite Wolfe’s promises.”

  Max shook his head. “Mom? That’s not entirely true.”

  He leaned in close to Kari and whispered, “The Lord knows exactly where she is.”

  THE LORD IS MY STRENGTH and my defense . . . He is my God, and I will praise him . . . my father’s God . . . I will exalt him. The Lord is a warrior; the Lord is his name.

  Darkness.

  Deep cold.

  The Lord is my strength and my defense . . . He is my God . . . I will exalt him.

  So cold!

  May these words of my mouth and this meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge.

  Cold. Dark. Empty.

  Can’t stop shivering.

  Lord, where am I?

  Part 2: Sheol,

  the Realm of the Dead

  Chapter 9

  THE SOUND OF MUFFLED, barely audible words drew her, bit by bit, out of her sleep. Slowly, slowly, the whispers brought her to awareness.

  “Whaffever faffens . . . worffy of the gospel of Christ . . . whaffever faffens . . . worffy of the gospel of Christ . . . Whaffever faffens . . . worffy of the gospel of Christ . . .”

  Whatever happens?

  She’d awakened partially once before, only to plummet into senselessness again. She struggled to sort her thoughts, to put them in order and to make sense of . . .

  Where am I?

  The darkness surrounding her was a tangible thing, an impenetrable shroud. No matter how she widened her eyes, utter blackness engulfed and enveloped her.

  Hands? Feet? No movement that she could tell.

  She had opened her eyes, but no other part of her body responded to her command.

  Wait. Did I actually open my eyes? Or did I only think I opened them?

  Panic flexed its claws and tried to bury them in her skull. She opened and scrunched her eyes furiously, hoping to prove to herself that she was opening them. She came close to convincing herself that she could open them.

  But only close.

  She tried again to move—move anything. Move any part of herself. Almost immediately another muffled whisper floated around her.

  “Buff whaffever were gains to me . . . consider loss for the sake of Christ . . .”

  That’s me. Me talking. Trying to. At least my mouth works, although I think there’s some sort of tape over my mouth.

  She wanted to push her tongue out and feel for the tape, but could not part her teeth. Tried to suck in a breath through her mouth. All she could manage was to lift her top lip a fraction and inhale through her teeth.

  They must have poked holes in the tape in case my nose stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe through it.

  Those small efforts had exhausted her.

  I’m so weak. So very weak. Is that it? Why I can’t move . . . or feel?

  She took inventory again. Less desperate. Calmer. More focused.

  The physical weakness. And the cold. Both part of why I can’t move much, but it can’t be all, can it?

  The answer slapped her in the face.

  Drugged. I’ve been drugged. How long? When?

  What happened?

  There it was—she couldn’t recall what had happened to her. Or where she was when it happened.

  Oh, Laynie! Where are you? In a real mess—that’s where you are.

&nbs
p; She laughed softly—and heard herself laugh.

  Okay, mouth and ears work. Not positive about the eyes just yet. Mouth? Oh, yeah. What was it I was saying that woke me up?

  The rasping whisper flowed from her. “Whaffever faffens, conduct yourselves in a manner worffy of the gospel of Christ, Philiffians 1:27.”

  Oh, wow. How many times did I read Philippians? Enough times for the Holy Spirit to bring a portion of it up from my subconscious when I needed it.

  “Fank you, Lord.”

  The fog over her thoughts receded a bit more. She blinked her eyes several times. Yes, I can open them, but I think that wherever I am is enclosed. Confined.

  She sniffed. Heard herself sniff. And smelled something . . . something “off,” something rank, but she was unable to put a name to it.

  Focus on your feet, she told herself. Concentrate.

  She couldn’t move them. Do my feet feel anything?

  Yes. Cold. Numbing cold.

  I’m cold all over. So cold, that I’ve lost sensation?

  That didn’t make sense.

  She struggled to lift her head. It was too much effort. However, she must have gotten it off whatever surface she was lying on, because when she stopped trying, her skull thumped back down.

  Progress. I can move my head an inch or less. Try . . . try rubbing two fingers together.

  She focused on the index and second finger of her right hand. Nothing. She tried curling her fingers—

  What did I just feel?

  Her index finger had touched something. Oh. It’s the tip of my thumb. She rubbed her thumb along her forefinger and tried to turn her wrist. Encountered resistance.

  My wrists are tied. Or bound. Taped like my mouth, maybe.

  And some other sensation, like the top of her hand ached a bit.

  Guess that’s progress.

  She sniffed again, trying to recall, to identify the unpleasant odor. Then it hit her. Sweat. And urine.

  I’ve been here long enough for my bladder to let go.

  The sharp claws of panic sprang to life. Have they left me here? To die?

  Her heart thudded in her chest, and she opened her mouth—rather, tried to. Another whisper floated out. “I consider everything . . . a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord . . . for whose sake I have lost all things.”