bones branch off.” Maura took Jane’s hand to demonstrate, turning it palm side up, revealing the scar that would forever remind Jane of what another killer had done to her. A record of violence, marked in her flesh by Warren Hoyt. But Maura made no comment on the scar; instead she pointed to the meaty base of Jane’s palm, near the wrist.
“The carpal bones are here. On the x-ray, they look like eight little stones. They’re just small chunks of bone, held together by ligaments and muscles and connective tissue. These give our hands flexibility, allow us to do a whole range of amazing tasks, from sculpting to playing the piano.”
“Okay. So?”
“This one here, in this proximal row”—Maura pointed to the x-ray, to a bone near the wrist—“it’s called the scaphoid. You’ll notice there’s a joint space beneath it, and then on this film, there’s a distinct chip of another bone. It’s part of the styloid process. When he cut off this hand, he also took off a fragment of the arm bone.”
“I’m still not getting the significance.”
“Now look at the x-ray of the arm stump.” Maura pointed to a different film. “You see the distal end of the two forearm bones. The thinner bone is the ulna—the funny bone. And the thick one, on the thumb side, is the radius. Here’s that styloid process I was talking about earlier. You see what I’m getting at?”
Jane frowned. “It’s intact. On this arm x-ray, that bone is all here.”
“That’s right. Not only is it intact, there’s even a chunk of the next bone still attached to it. A chip from the scaphoid.”
In that chilly room, Jane’s face suddenly felt numb. “Oh man,” she said softly. “This is starting to sound bad.”
“It is bad.”
Jane turned and crossed back to the table. She stared down at the severed hand, lying beside what she had believed—what they had all believed—was the arm it had once been attached to.
“The cut surfaces don’t match,” said Maura. “Neither do the x-rays.”
Frost said, “You’re telling us this hand doesn’t belong to her?”
“We’ll need DNA analysis to confirm it. But I think the evidence is right here, on the light box.” She turned and looked at Jane. “There’s another victim that you haven’t found yet. And we have her left hand.”
SEVEN
July 15, Wednesday. Phase of the moon: New.
These are the rituals of the Saul family.
At one P.M ., Uncle Peter comes home from his half day at the clinic. He changes into jeans and a T-shirt and heads for his vegetable garden, where a jungle of tomato plants and cucumber vines weigh down their string trellises.
At two P.M ., little Teddy comes up the hill from the lake, carrying his fishing pole. But no catch. I have not yet seen him bring home a single fish.
At two-fifteen, Lily’s two girlfriends walk up the hill, carrying bathing suits and beach towels. The taller one—I think her name is Sarah—also brings a radio. Its strange and thumping music now disturbs the otherwise silent afternoon. Their towels spread out on the lawn, the three girls bask in the sun like drowsy felines. Their skin gleams with suntan lotion. Lily sits up and reaches for her bottle of water. As she lifts it to her lips, she suddenly goes still, her gaze on my window. She sees me watching her.
It is not the first time.
Slowly she sets down the water bottle and says something to her two friends. The other girls now sit up and look in my direction. For a moment they stare at me, as I am staring at them. Sarah shuts off the radio. They all rise to their feet, shake out their towels, and come into the house.
A moment later, Lily knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for an answer but walks uninvited into my room.
“Why do you watch us?” she says.
“I was just looking out the window.”
“You’re looking at us.”
“Because you happen to be there.”
Her gaze falls on my desk. Lying open there is the book my mother gave me when I turned ten years
“The carpal bones are here. On the x-ray, they look like eight little stones. They’re just small chunks of bone, held together by ligaments and muscles and connective tissue. These give our hands flexibility, allow us to do a whole range of amazing tasks, from sculpting to playing the piano.”
“Okay. So?”
“This one here, in this proximal row”—Maura pointed to the x-ray, to a bone near the wrist—“it’s called the scaphoid. You’ll notice there’s a joint space beneath it, and then on this film, there’s a distinct chip of another bone. It’s part of the styloid process. When he cut off this hand, he also took off a fragment of the arm bone.”
“I’m still not getting the significance.”
“Now look at the x-ray of the arm stump.” Maura pointed to a different film. “You see the distal end of the two forearm bones. The thinner bone is the ulna—the funny bone. And the thick one, on the thumb side, is the radius. Here’s that styloid process I was talking about earlier. You see what I’m getting at?”
Jane frowned. “It’s intact. On this arm x-ray, that bone is all here.”
“That’s right. Not only is it intact, there’s even a chunk of the next bone still attached to it. A chip from the scaphoid.”
In that chilly room, Jane’s face suddenly felt numb. “Oh man,” she said softly. “This is starting to sound bad.”
“It is bad.”
Jane turned and crossed back to the table. She stared down at the severed hand, lying beside what she had believed—what they had all believed—was the arm it had once been attached to.
“The cut surfaces don’t match,” said Maura. “Neither do the x-rays.”
Frost said, “You’re telling us this hand doesn’t belong to her?”
“We’ll need DNA analysis to confirm it. But I think the evidence is right here, on the light box.” She turned and looked at Jane. “There’s another victim that you haven’t found yet. And we have her left hand.”
SEVEN
July 15, Wednesday. Phase of the moon: New.
These are the rituals of the Saul family.
At one P.M ., Uncle Peter comes home from his half day at the clinic. He changes into jeans and a T-shirt and heads for his vegetable garden, where a jungle of tomato plants and cucumber vines weigh down their string trellises.
At two P.M ., little Teddy comes up the hill from the lake, carrying his fishing pole. But no catch. I have not yet seen him bring home a single fish.
At two-fifteen, Lily’s two girlfriends walk up the hill, carrying bathing suits and beach towels. The taller one—I think her name is Sarah—also brings a radio. Its strange and thumping music now disturbs the otherwise silent afternoon. Their towels spread out on the lawn, the three girls bask in the sun like drowsy felines. Their skin gleams with suntan lotion. Lily sits up and reaches for her bottle of water. As she lifts it to her lips, she suddenly goes still, her gaze on my window. She sees me watching her.
It is not the first time.
Slowly she sets down the water bottle and says something to her two friends. The other girls now sit up and look in my direction. For a moment they stare at me, as I am staring at them. Sarah shuts off the radio. They all rise to their feet, shake out their towels, and come into the house.
A moment later, Lily knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for an answer but walks uninvited into my room.
“Why do you watch us?” she says.
“I was just looking out the window.”
“You’re looking at us.”
“Because you happen to be there.”
Her gaze falls on my desk. Lying open there is the book my mother gave me when I turned ten years
Similar Books
