В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
She would attempt to show interest, then lapse into nonresponsiveness, almost as though I were not there. Nothing amused her. She made not a single purchase.
Anne’s depression had plunged to depths greater than the Marianas Trench.
All day, I gave her hugs and said soothing things. Otherwise, I had no idea what to do. She was not talkative, which for her is an unnatural state.
At dinner, Anne barely picked at her sushi, focused instead on more alcohol poisoning. Once home, she again pleaded weariness and withdrew to her room.
I’d never seen my friend so down, couldn’t judge the seriousness of her condition. I knew something was terribly wrong, but to what extent could I interfere? Maybe the mood slump would just play itself out.
I fell asleep troubled and dreamed of Anne on a dark, empty beach.
My Thursday morning e-mail contained the Carbon 14 results from Arthur Holliday.
I stared at the subject line, fingers frozen over the keyboard.
I’d been anxious for the report. Why the hesitation?
Easy one.
I didn’t want to know that lives barely past childhood had again been taken by—what? Some freak with a head full of porn who can find sexual gratification only through physical submission? Some psycho-creep with a video camera who then needs to destroy the evidence? Or mutated macho-scum who view women as disposable items, to be discarded after perverse abuse? They were all out there.
I almost wanted Claudel to be right. I wanted the bones to belong to the past. To daughters laid to rest by grieving families in another era. But I knew better, and I knew I had to face the evidence if I was to help identify the victims.
Deep breath.
I hit the download command, then opened the Acrobat file.
The transmission consisted of five pages: a cover letter, the report of radiocarbon analyses, and three graphs calibrating the individual radiocarbon ages to calendar years.
I looked at the measured and conventional radiocarbon ages, then scrolled through the calibrations curves.
Images flooded my brain.
I printed the report, and headed for the lab.
LaManche was in his office. Since our last meeting either he or his secretary had added a ceramic Christmas tree to the chaos on his desk.
I tapped the door lightly with my knuckles.
LaManche looked up.
“Temperance. Please come in. You have heard the news?”
I gave him a puzzled look.
