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  Dr. Puttesca was younger than she expected. He looked as if he was hardly out of med school, let alone residency. But he had a calm demeanor Helen suspected would be soothing in emergent situations, and his weary hazel eyes nevertheless gleamed with intelligence.

  “Thank you for coming in, Dr. Puttesca. You mentioned on the phone you had something to show me.”

  “Yes.” He shifted in his seat. “Thank you for seeing me. I…well, let me begin at the beginning. One of my colleagues—a friend, Brenda Hatcher, who I knew from my residency, is—was—working as an ER physician in Michigan. Near…uhm…Flint, I think it was. She had a patient less than a week ago who expired while in her care. It was sudden cardiac arrest, very unusual for an otherwise healthy man, and she was, understandably, upset. He was only fifty. The man presented with a severe lesion-like rash, his vitals were shutting down, and he was delirious.”

  Helen felt Gabe’s impatience fairly emanating from the leg that almost brushed against hers, but she kept her expression smooth and encouraging. “And your patient here in Chicago, Sazma Marcko, died from sudden cardiac arrest, not from the knife wound in his torso. Could the SCA have been due to the wound?”

  “Not likely. The wound was serious, but not life-threatening.” Puttesca’s expression became earnest. “But he also presented with a severe lesion-like rash, his vitals were tanking, and he was unresponsive.”

  “You think he had the same condition as your colleague’s patient?” Helen’s interest lasered in on the young physician. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “And, it seems, so did my colleague herself.” Puttesca’s expression turned sober. “She passed away three days ago, and she appears to have suffered from the same evolution of conditions. I’m here because I believe she was exposed to the same entity that caused her patient’s death. I had talked to her on the—online the day of her patient’s death.”

  “What is it?” Gabe asked. “A virus? She caught it from her patient? How?”

  Puttesca’s expression turned slightly sheepish. “Brenda—actually, her patient—believed it was a bug. Or several bugs.” He dug into his rumpled suit coat pocket and withdrew a plastic bag. He hesitated, then shoved it across the table. “I suggest you don’t open it, and definitely don’t touch the contents without protection. I retrieved it when I drove to Michigan yesterday to pay my respects. She told me she had it, and I…well.”

  Helen slid the bag closer, positioning it so Gabe could look at its contents as well. Inside was a strip of sticky yellow flypaper, and attached to it were several insects. Some flies, but the greater number were beetle-like creatures, oblong and slender, with coppery wings and awkward heads and bodies.

  “You and your colleague think these insects caused…what? The cardiac arrest? From a bite?” Helen asked, turning the possibility over in her mind and not certain how she felt about it. The bug certainly didn’t look dangerous, and its mouth was tiny. Beetles didn’t have stingers, so how would something like this bite someone in such a way they’d die?

  “I know it sounds far-fetched, but…well, ‘if you see something, say something.’ Right? The presenting symptoms and resulting sudden cardiac arrest are unique,” Puttesca told her. “Also, there are no other instances reported, so far, other than at Brenda’s hospital…and now mine. Nor on any CDC report. So it doesn’t appear to be a mere virus, and it seems isolated.”

  “So this bug that was in Michigan was also here in Chicago?” Gabe asked. “And bit these people? I suppose there could be a connection, but so what—”

  Helen bolted upright in her chair, interrupting Gabe, and began to fumble for her iPad. “Wait.” With quick fingers, she pulled up the report she’d previously been reviewing, flicking through the notes and photos with her fingertip. “Wait. Here.”

  She set the tablet on the table and jabbed her finger at the picture showing there. “This was found in the cuff of Marcko’s pants, caught up in the fold.”

  She and Gabe, as well as Hyram Puttesca, looked from the plastic baggie to the photo of the remains of an insect and back again.

  “They’re the same.”

  Oh, yes they were. Gabe and Helen looked at each other.

  They didn’t know what it meant, but it had to mean something.

  * * *

  “Eli Sanchez.” Helen pushed the honey-blond hair out of her eyes and looked up from her computer. “He’s the entomologist we used for the Bertonshire case last year,” she said as she scribbled a phone number on a sticky note.

  Gabe wasn’t familiar with the Bertonshire case, but all he needed was the name of the person who could help identify the bug they’d found. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll go see the guy.”

  They’d already showed the baggie and its contents around the office, as well as at a local gardening shop, to see if anyone recognized the type of insect. No one had seen anything like it, and a quick Internet search hadn’t helped either.

  “If the beetle isn’t native to the area, and they both were exposed to it, it could help trace Marcko’s movements—possibly even his origination, and where the Skalas are hiding out nowadays. I’ve got someone checking on the recent whereabouts of that first patient who died—Michael Wiley is his name—back in Michigan. I’m also sending people out to comb the area by Cora Allegan’s house in case there are any matching beetle parts there, though that’s a real long shot with sprinkler systems and that rain we had.” Helen picked up her smartphone and glanced at a new text, then set it back down when she realized he wasn’t leaving. “Anything else?”

  Gabe sat on the edge of her desk. He hesitated, then plunged in. “Can you do something for me? Something just between you and me?”

  Her attention flashed to him then flickered away, and he swore her cheeks turned slightly pink. “Depends what it is.” But before he could make his request, she said, “By the way, I hope it wasn’t a problem about the two hotel rooms.”

  It took him a moment to understand, then, unaccountably, his own face warmed. “Not at all.”

  “I didn’t want to make any assumptions, although it’s pretty clear you—er—well.” She fixed him with steady gray-blue eyes. “Dr. Alexander seems like a good fit for you. She’s smart and attractive and…well, worthy. But it would have been a tad messy to explain why we only needed one hotel room for you and the civilian consultant.” And damned if she didn’t give him a cheeky smile that almost made him feel like a lech.

  “No problem. Really. We…uh…well, anyway.” Gabe gathered his thoughts. He was wholly comfortable when it came to interrogating a suspect, debriefing an operative, interviewing a witness, or making a verbal case to his superiors…but it was a hell of a lot more difficult to discuss one’s current relationship with one’s former lover, who was also a colleague.

  “All right, MacNeil. What’s just between you and me?” Her tone was smooth and professional, her expression impersonal…so why did he feel a little breathless all of a sudden?

  He regrouped. “I need information about Colin Bergstrom’s history. His college years in particular—at Oxford. I need to know if he ever… Helen, he was at Oxford at the same time Viktor Aleksandrov—Marina’s father—was. You need to dig deep.” Gabe met her gaze steadily and saw the immediate dawn of comprehension.

  “I see. And you obviously can’t have anyone on your end look into it. Red flags would shoot up all over the place.”

  “I can’t have anyone look into it—except you. Someone I know I can trust, someone I know won’t let anyone else get wind of the poking around.”

  She nodded. “All right. I agree—we need to know anything and everything about the Skalas, and about anyone who might have a connection to them. Including your girlfriend. Gabe, I like and respect Marina Alexander—she’s kind of a badass with that search and rescue caving thing going on, not to mention the flying aspect—but my gut tells me she’s hiding something.”

  He gritted his teeth. Damned if he hadn’t wondered the same thing—and damned if he
was going to admit it to Helen. “She told us Varden showed up at her house. She contacted me. She’s not hiding anything.”

  “And he was conveniently gone by the time you got there—only two, three hours later. Look, MacNeil, like it or not, she’s inextricably entwined with the Skalas. And they have something priceless, something that could make her career. Something people in her shoes have killed for—”

  “Helen, don’t be—”

  “I’m not saying she’s there, and I’m not suggesting she ever would be, but you’ve got to look at the facts. You do know about her husband, right? Why they got divorced? It was over something like this, some artifact.” Gabe must have managed to hide his surprise, for Helen continued, “If this library is real, this collection that seems to rival that of the lost Library of Alexandria, then it’s something she’d probably do pretty much anything to protect, to have, to study. To get credit for the find. You saw her reaction when she thought the scrolls might have been destroyed.”

  “You’re not saying anything I haven’t already thought, Helen,” he cut in. “Give me a little credit.”

  She shook her head. “This isn’t me being catty, Gabe. This is me being careful, and smart, and looking at all angles. And I hope to hell you are too, because I’d hate to see Marina Alexander finish off what Sophie Ratachoux didn’t.”

  How had she heard about Sophie? And how long had she known? All that had taken place more than five years ago…just before everything happened with Marina and the Skaladeskas. In fact, he’d been recovering from that incident when Bergstrom first sent him after Viktor Aleksandrov.

  Damn. He gave a mental head shake. It was a good thing Helen Darrow was on his side, because she seemed to know everything.

  Helen’s lashes swept down over her expressive hazel eyes, hiding whatever was there. “You’re a good spook, Gabe. I’d hate you to lose it all. Especially over a woman.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Cora awoke in the jungle.

  At first, she couldn’t assimilate her surroundings: the soft, moist patch of knee-high grass, the tall trees arching over her and blocking out all but the smallest bit of light, the dull roar of bird calls and melodies, distant rustling, and the other chattering, clicking, swishing, and sloshing of nature.

  And weaving in and around and over it all…the stillness.

  The solitude.

  Reality set in, and with a cry of shock, she scrambled to her feet, looking wildly about. Where was everyone? Where was she?

  Then she remembered. Her sentence had been imposed:

  You’ll be released into the arms of Gaia. If you survive, so be it. If you do not, I consider it nothing more than our earth exacting her revenge upon you.

  Cora smothered another cry, this one of disbelief and terror, as she realized she really was alone. And on her own.

  At the thought, her insides loosened alarmingly. Her bladder emptied of its own volition, streaming warm liquid down her legs. Her insides jolted sickeningly.

  Cora spun slowly around in the small patch of nowhere. Tall, ominous shadows rose in every direction, of every shape, size, texture, and shade of green. Vines and branches swayed and trembled. The scents of dark, peaty earth and damp moss filled her nostrils, along with sweet floral essence and a sharp, pungent, bitter smell.

  Then she noticed the knife and the bottle of water. They’d been left sitting on the ground near her. And a gun: a handgun.

  Her protection. Her only chance of survival.

  Or a simple, controlled way out.

  She fumbled with the pistol—which looked like it belonged in a Western sideshow—and looked inside the chamber.

  One bullet. One damned bullet.

  She laughed, more hysterical than terrified now, and picked up the blade. A puny shield against the snakes and spiders and canine-sized rodents and the wild cats and all the other dangers that crowded the jungle. Weren’t there poisonous ants too?

  Cora stifled a sob, realizing belatedly she also wore shoes, which were now wet from her own urine.

  Shoes. Track pants. A tank bra. A knife. A bottle of water.

  One bullet.

  Holding the gun, she sank onto the ground beneath the expanse of a large, smooth tree and tried to think.

  At least I’m still alive. At least I have a chance.

  Dad’s looking for me. He’s turning the world upside down.

  I am the CEO of a mega-corporation. I can do this. I can live.

  Forget those bastards.

  I’ll find my way out on my own.

  And they will pay.

  Cora tried to focus, to rack her brain. She’d read that book—or parts of it, anyway—that really popular coffee table or bathroom book from a while ago. Something about “the worst-case scenario” guidebook.

  It talked about what to do when a bear chased you, or when your car went into a lake…but what did one do when one was stuck in the jungle?

  Climb a tree? No. She shuddered. There were snakes in trees. And cats could climb trees, which meant she could come face to face with a…whatever kind of wild cat lived in this place.

  Wherever she was.

  Find water.

  That made sense. She had water in her bottle, but she would need more. And water often led somewhere…a river or stream she could follow, and it might lead her to a town or village or some vestige of civilization.

  It was so quiet. Not a sound that didn’t belong to nature. Not a plane flying overhead, nor the sizzle of a telephone wire, or the distant rumble of machinery.

  Where am I?

  Cora tried to keep her thoughts and feet alike steady as she clambered through the wilderness, searching for some source of water. She became aware of her belly’s emptiness, and the way terror made her numb and clumsy.

  There had to be someone to help her somewhere.

  She tripped and fell, landing splat on her palms on the soft, moist, moss-covered ground. When she looked up, she found herself face to face with two dark, glinting eyes, glaring at her from the shadows.

  Cora screamed and scrambled to her feet, whirling away to bolt blindly into the depths of the jungle. She ran and ran, scraping against rough tree trunks, through dangling vines and over small bushes, stumbling over uneven ground and stirring up a small flock of birds. She kicked a small dirt hill, and a swarm of crawling things erupted as she tore past, slapping umbrella-sized leaves and fernlike branches out of her way.

  She didn’t know how long or how far she ran, in which direction or even whether she’d gone in circles…she just knew, that after running and falling and resting…and then running and stumbling about again, that finally the sunlight had dimmed and a lot of time had passed as she staggered and tripped her way through the rainforest…and she had no more energy. She could go no further.

  She slumped to the ground, heaving and gasping, sweating, bloody, dirty, and shaking. Tears poured from her eyes, her nose was running, and she was scraped and cut from the mad dash.

  I’m going to die.

  Then she looked up and saw something that made her catch her breath.

  A stone wall, half hidden by jungle growth.

  A village? Shelter? Something.

  Something man-made had to be a good sign.

  Cora pulled to her feet, heart pounding, a surge of hope rushing over her. Something on the wall glinted, catching the dappled light that managed to filter through the top-heavy rainforest trees.

  Greenish metalwork laid in the stone wall formed a rectangular shape. It looked as if it framed an entrance or a doorway, but there seemed to be no way to open it. Set into the ground in front of it were bricklike metal pavers, and the same bricks, the same sea-green metallic sheen and overgrown with moss and dirt, were set in the stone wall in a random pattern. What kind of metal—oh, copper. Oxidized copper.

  Heart pounding, she shoved at what must be the entrance, heaving against it with her shoulder. The rough stone and metal scraped her bare skin, but she pushed and prodded until, once more
out of breath, she sagged to the ground.

  It was only then she noticed the small lever, camouflaged behind a stone and cluster of natural growth.

  Cora reached for it, and needed the strength of both arms to tug the lever…bit…by…bit…

  A soft, grinding, groan-like sound told her she’d succeeded in her endeavor, just before the wall began to move.

  “Hello?” she called, poking her head into the darkness. She wasn’t afraid it was an animal’s lair, for how would one find its way inside?

  But maybe someone was in here. Or at least she could use it for a hiding place until she figured out what to do.

  The door opened further, and as she took a step inside, she saw the interior walls, briefly illuminated by the daylight.

  Bright green. More copper. They were made of pure copper. She’d never seen anything like this.

  Cora hesitated, then walked further inside. If this place was a temple, perhaps there were people who came to worship here. Perhaps she could find help.

  A small shaft of light beamed down from above, and she realized after a moment of shock that it was a skylight, high in the ceiling. Many yards out of reach, the illumination was hardly larger than a salad plate, but at least it gave off some cloudy light in the dark space.

  Cora looked around. The walls, ceiling, and floor were the color of the Statue of Liberty—ornate and decorative, weathered—but the area was empty of everything else. No rubble, no animal remains, nothing.

  It looked as if no one had been here for centuries. Maybe millennia.

  What had she found?

  Then she noticed an outline at the other end of the space. A door? Maybe she was in the antechamber to something bigger—a temple?—and that far door led into the actual worship space.

  On either side of the door were two piles of round white stones. They were the only things in the chamber not made from copper. They had been arranged in tall, cone-like piles, as if to flank the door like guards.