“I think I’ve got something,” said Catherine after a few minutes. She put down her brush and picked up a pair of tweezers, using them to pluck a tiny sliver from the bottom of the housing. “We’ll have to get it under the microscope to be sure, but I think we’re finally ready to re-create the crime scene.”
“Hey, Monkeyboy,” said Greg. “I see you made bail.”
Bill Wornow stepped inside the warehouse, closing the door behind him. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans and looked more than a little cautious. “Yeah. Did you find the, uh-”
“The fingers?” said Catherine. “Yes, they were exactly where you said they were. Thank you.”
“Sure. I just want you to know-I’ve never done anything like that before, okay? I mean, I was panicking. Thinking back on it, I feel kinda sick.”
Catherine smiled. “You were in a tight spot. You didn’t want all your hard work going to waste.”
“Yeah. This project, it just means so much to me… So, why’d you ask me to come here?”
“We just thought,” said Greg from the top of the gantry, “that you might want to see how your partner actually died.”
Wornow stared up at him. “Really? Y ou know what happened?”
“Pretty sure,” said Catherine. “Come on up, we’ll show you.” She climbed up the ladder beside the gantry. Wornow hesitated for a second, then followed her.
“Okay,” said Greg. “So it’s late at night. Hal’s up here, tinkering away. He’s wired on meth-no surprise there-so his attention maybe isn’t what it should be.”
“Did Hal usually wear a necklace?” asked Catherine. “One with a black chunk of rock on the end of it?”
“Yeah, he did,” said Wornow. “He got it in Hawaii, never took it off.”
“Well, he did that night,” said Greg. “Maybe it was getting in his way, maybe he didn’t want to get wax on it-but whatever the reason, he took it off and hung it on a nail, right there.” He pointed.
“Then he went back to whatever he was doing,” said Catherine. “At one point, he was using one of these portable butane torches-maybe to smoke some more meth, even though we didn’t find a pipe. Of course, that’s the sort of thing that might get disposed of if someone else noticed it…” She cocked an eyebrow at Wornow. He swallowed but didn’t say anything.
“But when he was done with the torch,” said Greg, “he didn’t bother turning it off. He just set it down. At the edge of this table-and right beneath the necklace.”
“Did you know about the cyst on Kanamu’s spine?” asked Catherine.
“Cyst? No. I knew he had a bad back, though. He said he hurt it in a fall back in Hawaii. Someplace called Hualalai-he was always complaining about it.”
Catherine nodded. “Well, that fall resulted in a condition called syringomyelia. One of the symptoms is an inability to detect extremes of temperature with the hands or feet.”
“Which is exactly what was being produced,” said Greg, “in the chunk of obsidian dangling from the end of the necklace. It got hotter and hotter, until the solder that attached it to the chain melted. At that point the rock dropped to the table. It probably made a noise when it hit, which got Kanamu’s attention.”
Catherine walked over to the table. “So he came over. He saw the rock lying on the table but didn’t understand how it had gotten there. So he picked it up.”
“Normally, you pick up a really hot object, you drop it right away,” said Greg. “But Kanamu’s syringomyelia had destroyed his ability to detect temperature. He actually turned around and took several steps toward the rim of the volcano. That’s when he noticed the smell.”
Catherine pointed at the disassembled grinder. “He’d been using the grinder to work on something, because the motor was running. When he realized that what he was smelling was his own flesh burning, he reacted instinctively-he flung the obsidian away.”
“And right into the flywheel of the grinder,” said Greg. “Which spat it back at him much harder than he’d thrown it. So hard that when it hit his forehead, it not only ricocheted but splintered-leaving a very hot shard in his skull, while the rest of the obsidian went straight up.”
“And Hal Kanamu went over the edge,” said Catherine. “Despite the heat, it knocked him cold. And into the volcano he went.”
Wornow stared at Greg, then Catherine. “So it was an accident?” he said. “A one-in-a-million accident?”
Greg shrugged. “That’s what it looks like to us. And that’s what we’re going to be putting in our report.”
Wornow shook his head in disbelief. “Man. I can’t… I mean, yeah, okay, I guess you’ve got all the facts. But still, it all sounds so…”
“Unlikely,” said Catherine. “Believe me, Mr. Wornow-in our line of work we run into the unlikely all the time.”
“And it was all because of that damn chunk of rock,” said Wornow. “You know, this project has had all kinds of bad luck from the beginning. I used to joke that we were cursed, but Hal didn’t like that.” Wornow walked over to the rim of t he volcano, stared down into its now empty mouth. “Hal told me that anyone who removes lava from the islands was said to be cursed by Pele. He thought he could get away with it, though. Told me we’d be fine as long as we were respectful-that she’d protect us. He was going to put that rock into the volcano itself when it was done, had a whole ritual all planned out. Guess he waited too long…”
“I know a little bit about Hawaiian mythology myself,” said Greg. “And the curse you’re talking about? It isn’t part of it. It was invented by a park ranger who was trying to stop tourists from taking souvenirs.”
“Urban legend, as opposed to volcanic,” said Catherine. “Your friend was the victim of bad judgment, not an angry goddess.”
Wornow sighed. “Yeah, I know. But either way, he’s still dead.”
Riley drew her gun and advanced on the abandoned greenhouse.
She knew she was exposed. The smallest tear in the newsprint covering the windows was enough to let anyone watch her without being seen, and if they had a gun… well, out here in the desert there was no one to hear a shot.
She went back the way she came, ducking around the corner of the building housing the offices and flattening herself against the wall. Quickly, she considered her options: she could call for backup, she could check it out herself, or she could leave.
Calling for backup because she simply heard a noise would get her branded a rookie forever. Leaving just wasn’t an option.
She changed direction, creeping past the locked front entrance and the rolling steel door and around the other corner. She could see a long brick wall with windows set into it; keeping her head below the level of the glass, she kept moving.
At the far end of the wall, she peeked around the corner. Most of this side of the greenhouse was also covered with newspaper, but the first third had sheets of plywood nailed over it instead. Shards of broken glass lay scattered on the ground beneath. One of the sheets looked as if it had come loose at one end or been torn partially free.
The wind gusted, catching the plywood like a sail. It strained one way, then swung back with a loud thump as the gust died away.
Riley replayed the noise in her head, compared it to the one she’d heard a moment ago. They matched.
She sighed. It was a very quiet sigh, though, and she didn’t put down her gun. Instead, she moved closer.
There were footprints in the dirt around the opening.
She peered through the crack, pushing it open wider with one hand. The smell that met her nostr ils was immediate and powerfuclass="underline" decomp, but mixed with something else. Something herbal.
She sneezed violently and backed away from the opening. Whatever was in there, she wasn’t going any farther without a respirator.
She headed back to her vehicle to call it in.
“Well, well,” said Brass, leaning against the fender of one of the black-and-whites parked outside the greenhouse. “The gang’s all here. Doc, good to see you up and around.”