"What do you consider your biggest sacrifice?…

"What do you consider your biggest sacrifice? Was it the chronic lack of sleep?"

"No! It was the lack of any time for social contact. My classmates had time to interact and discuss the experience. Medical school is quite intense.

During my third year, I was conflicted about whether to go into academic/basic-science medicine or clinical medicine. I would have loved to debate the pros and cons and have the benefit of others' opinions. I had to make the decision myself."

"And how did you make the decision?"

"I realized I liked taking care of people. There was an immediate gratification that I savored."

"So it was the contact with individuals that you found enjoyable and rewarding."

"Yes, and the challenge of coming up with the differential diagnoses, as well as the paradigm for narrowing the field."

"But it was the contact with the people and helping them that you cherished."

"Objection," Tony said. He had been progressively fidgeting. "Repetitious."

"Sustained," Judge Davidson said with a tired voice. "No need to belabor the point, Mr. Bingham. I am confident the jury has gotten it."

"Tell us about your residency training," Randolph said.

"That was a joy," Craig said. He was now sitting up straight, with his shoulders back. "Because of my grade point average, I was accepted to train at the prestigious Boston Memorial Hospital. It was a wonderful learning environment, and suddenly I was being paid, not a lot of money, but some.

Equally important, I was no longer paying tuition, so I could begin to pay off the shocking debt I'd assumed from college and medical school."

"Did you continue to enjoy the necessarily close bonds that had to form between you and your patients?"

"Absolutely. That was by far the most rewarding part."

"Now tell us about your practice. I understand there were some disappointments."

"Not at first! Initially, my practice was everything I had dreamed it would be. I was busy and stimulated. I enjoyed going in each and every day. My patients were challenging intellectually and appreciative. But then the insurance companies began to withhold payments, often needlessly challenging certain charges, making it progressively difficult to do what was best for my patients. Receipts began to fall while costs continued to rise. In order to keep the doors open, I had to increase productivity, which is a euphemism for seeing more patients per hour. I was able to do this, but as it continued, I became progressively concerned about quality."

"I understand that your style of practice changed at that point."

"It changed dramatically. I was approached by an older, revered physician who was practicing concierge medicine but who was having health issues.

He offered me a partnership."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Randolph said. "Perhaps you could refresh for the jurors the meaning of the term 'concierge medicine.'"

"It's a practice style in which the physician agrees to limit the practice size to offer extraordinary accessibility for an annual retainer fee."

"Does extraordinary accessibility include house calls?"

"It can. It's up to the doctor and the patient."

"What you are saying is that with concierge medicine, the doctor can tailor the service to the needs of the patient. Is that correct?"

"It is. Two fundamental principles of good patient care are the principle of patient welfare and the principle of patient autonomy. Seeing too many patients per hour threatens to violate these principles, since everything is rushed. When the doctor is pressed for time, the interview has to be forced, and when that happens, the patient's narrative is lost, which is tragic, since it is often within the narrative that the critical facts of the case are hidden.

In a concierge practice, like mine, I can vary the time I spend with the patient and the location of the service according to the patient's needs and wishes."

"Dr. Bowman, is the practice of medicine an art or a science?"

"It is definitely an art, but it is based on a bedrock of proven science."

"Can medicine be appropriately practiced from a book?"

"No, it cannot. There are no two people alike in the world. Medicine has to be tailored for each patient individually. Also, books are invariably outdated by the time they come on the market. Medical knowledge is expanding at an exponential rate."

"Does judgment play a role in the practice of medicine?"

"Absolutely. In every medical decision, judgment is paramount."

"Was it your medical judgment that Patience Stanhope was best served by your making a visit to her home on the evening of September eighth, 2005."

"Yes, it was."

"Can you explain to the jury why your judgment led you to believe this was the best course of action?"

"She detested the hospital. I was even reluctant to send her to the hospital for routine tests. Visits to the hospital inevitably exacerbated her symptoms and general anxiety. She much preferred for me to come to her home, which I had been doing almost once a week for eight months. Each time it had been a false alarm, even on those occasions when I was told by Jordan Stanhope that she believed she was dying. On the evening of September eighth, I was not told she thought she was dying. I was confident the visit would be a false alarm like all the others, yet as a doctor, I could not ignore the possibility she was truly ill. The best way to do that was to go directly to her home."

"Ms. Rattner testified that you told her en route that you thought her complaints might be legitimate. Is that true?"

"It is true, but I didn't say that I considered the chances to be extremely small. I said I was concerned because I noted slightly more concern than usual in Mr. Stanhope's voice."

"Did you tell Mr. Stanhope on the phone that you believed Mrs. Stanhope had had a heart attack?"

"No, I did not. I told him that it would have to be ruled out with any complaint of chest pain, but Mrs. Stanhope had had chest pain in the past that had proved to be insignificant."

"Did Mrs. Stanhope have a heart condition?"

"I had done a stress test several months previous to her demise that was equivocal. It wasn't enough to say she had a heart condition, but I felt

strongly that she should have more definitive cardiac studies by a cardiologist at the hospital."

"Did you recommend that to the patient?"

"I strongly recommended it, but she refused, particularly since it involved going to the hospital."

"One last question, doctor," Randolph said. "In relation to your office's PP, or problem patient, designation, did that signify the patient got more attention or less attention?"

"Considerably more attention! The problem with patients so designated was that I could not relieve their symptoms, whether real or imagined. As a doctor, I found that a continual problem, hence the terminology."

"Thank you, doctor," Randolph said as he gathered up his notes. "No more questions."

"Mr. Fasano," Judge Davidson called. "Do you wish to redirect?"

"Absolutely, Your Honor," Tony barked. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the podium like a hound after a rabbit.

"Dr. Bowman, in relation to your PP patients, did you not say to your then live-in girlfriend while riding in your new red Porsche on the way to the Stanhope home on September eighth, 2005, that you couldn't stand such patients and that you thought hypochondriacs were as bad as malingerers?"

There was a pause as Craig fixed Tony with his eyes as if they were weapons.

"Doctor?" Tony asked. "Cat got your tongue, as we used to say in elementary school?"

"I don't remember," Craig said finally.

"Don't remember?" Tony questioned with exaggerated disbelief. "Oh, please, doctor, that's a too convenient excuse, especially from someone who has excelled throughout his training at remembering trivial details. Ms.

Rattner certainly remembered as she testified. Perhaps you can remember telling Ms. Rattner on the evening you were served your summons for this lawsuit that you hated Patience Stanhope and that her passing was a blessing for everyone. Is that possibly something you can recall?" Tony leaned forward over the podium as much as his short stature would allow and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I said something to that effect," Craig reluctantly admitted. "I was angry."

"Of course you were angry," Tony exclaimed. "You were outraged that someone, like my bereaved client, could possibly have the gall to question whether your judgment was in keeping with the standard of care."

"Objection!" Randolph said. "Argumentative!"

"Sustained," Judge Davidson said. He glared at Tony.

"We are all impressed with your rags-to-riches story," Tony said, maintaining his disdain. "But I'm not sure what that means now, especially considering the lifestyle your patients have provided you over the years.

What is the current market value of your home?"

"Objection," Randolph said. "Irrelevant and immaterial."

"Your Honor," Tony complained. "The defense presented economic testimony to attest to the defendant's commitment to become a physician. It is only reasonable for the jury to hear what economic rewards have accrued."

Judge Davidson pondered for a moment before saying, "Objection overruled. The witness may answer the question."

Tony redirected his attention at Craig. "Well?"

Craig shrugged. "Two or three million, but we didn't pay that."

"I would now like to ask you a few questions about your concierge practice," Tony said, gripping the sides of the podium tightly. "Do you believe that demanding an annual, up-front payment of thousands of dollars is beyond some patients' means?"

"Of course," Craig snapped.

"What happened to those beloved patients of yours who either could not or did not for whatever reason come up with the retainer fee that was financing your new Porsche and your sex den on Beacon Hill?"

"Objection!" Randolph said. He stood up. "Argumentative and prejudicial."

"Sustained," Judge Davidson barked. "Counsel will restrict his questions to elicit appropriate factual information and will not word his questions to float theories or arguments better left for summation. This is my last warning!"

"I'm sorry, Your Honor," Tony said before turning back to Craig. "What happened to those beloved patients whom you had been caring for over the years?"

"They had to find new doctors."

"Which I'm afraid is often easier said than done. Did you help with this chore?"

"We offered names and numbers."

"Did you just get them out of the Yellow Pages?"

"They were local physicians, with whom my staff and I were acquainted."

"Did you call these physicians?"

"In some cases."

"Which means in some cases you did not call. Dr. Bowman, did it not bother you to abandon your supposedly cherished patients who were desperate, looking to you for their health needs?"

"I didn't abandon them!" Craig spat indignantly. "I gave them choices."

"No more questions," Tony said. He rolled his eyes on the way back to the plaintiff's table.

Judge Davidson looked over his glasses at Randolph. "Does the defense wish to recross?"

"No, Your Honor," Randolph said, half rising out of his chair.

"The witness may step down," Judge Davidson said.

Craig stood, and with a deliberate step, walked back to the defense table.

The judge turned his attention to Tony. "Mr. Fasano?"

Tony stood. "Plaintiff rests, Your Honor," he said confidently before retaking his seat.

The judge's eyes swept back to Randolph.

On cue, Randolph stood up to his full patrician height. "Based on the inadequacy of the plaintiff's case and lack of evidence thereof, the defense moves to dismiss."

"Overruled," Judge Davidson said crisply. "The evidence presented is sufficient for us to go forward. When court reconvenes after a lunch break, you may call your first witness, Mr. Bingham." He then brought his gavel down sharply, and the sound echoed like a gunshot. "Recess for lunch. You are admonished again not to discuss the case among yourselves or with anyone and to withhold any opinions until the conclusion of the testimony."

"All rise," the court officer called out.

Jack and Alexis got to their feet along with everyone else in the courtroom as the judge stepped down from the bench and disappeared through the paneled side door.

"What did you think?" Jack asked while the jury was ushered out.

"I'm continually amazed at the level of Craig's apparent inner anger at these proceedings, that he has such little self-control over his behavior."

"With you being the in-house expert, I'm surprised you're surprised. Isn't it consistent with his narcissism?"

"It is, but I was hoping that with the insight he expressed yesterday at lunch, he'd be able to control himself better. When Tony merely stood up even before he started his questions, I could see Craig's expression change."

"Actually, I was asking your opinion of how Randolph orchestrated the part of the cross-examination we heard."

"Unfortunately, I don't think it was as effective as I would have hoped. It made Craig sound too preachy, like he was giving a lecture. I would have preferred the whole cross to have been punchy and direct, like it was at the end."

"I thought Randolph's cross was pretty effective," Jack said. "I never realized Craig was such a self-made man. Working as hard as he did at gainful employment while going to medical school and still getting the grades he did is very impressive."

"But you're a doctor, not a juror, and you didn't hear Tony's direct. Craig might have struggled as a student, but from the juror's perspective, it's hard to have sympathy now that Craig and I are living in what is probably closer to being a four-million-dollar home, and Tony was very clever on his redirect, the way he brought back Craig's negative feelings about the

patient, the red Porsche, the girlfriend, and the fact that he had to forsake many of his old patients."

Jack reluctantly nodded. He had been struggling to look on the bright side for Alexis's benefit. He tried a different tack: "Well, now it's Randolph's turn in the sun. It's time for the defense to shine."

"I'm afraid there's not going to be much sunshine. All Randolph is going to do is present two or three expert witnesses, none of whom are from Boston.

He said he'll be finished this afternoon. Tomorrow will be the summations."

Alexis shook her head dejectedly. "Under the circumstances, I don't see how he could turn this thing around."

"He's an experienced malpractice attorney," Jack said, attempting to generate enthusiasm he didn't feel. "Experience generally prevails in the final analysis. Who knows. Maybe he has a surprise up his sleeve."

Jack didn't realize he was half-right. There was to be a surprise, but it wasn't going to come from Randolph's sleeve.

18

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006

1:15 P.M.

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"Magazines?" the waif-like young woman questioned. Jack thought she was no more than ninety pounds, yet she was walking a half dozen dogs ranging in size from a gray Great Dane down to a small bichon frise. A clutch of clear plastic poop bags stuck out of her jeans' back pocket. Jack had stopped her after following his established route back down through the Beacon Hill neighborhood. He had it in his mind to buy some reading material in case the wait for the backhoe operator turned out to be overly protracted.

"Let's see," the woman said, scrunching her face in thought. "There's a couple of places on Charles Street."

"One would be fine," Jack said.

"There's Gary Drug on the corner of Charles and Mount Vernon Street."

"Am I going in the right direction?" Jack questioned. At the moment he was on Charles Street, heading toward the park area and the parking garage.

"You are. The drugstore is a block down on this side of the street."

Jack thanked the woman, who was pulled away by her impatient canines.

The shop was a true, ma-and-pop-type store with an old-fashioned cluttered but welcoming ambience. The whole shebang was about the size of the shampoo section in a generic chain drugstore, yet it was a true emporium.

Products that ranged from vitamins to cold remedies to notebooks were tucked into shelving that went from floor to ceiling along the single aisle.

At the far end near the pharmacy counter was a surprisingly wide selection of magazines and newspapers.

Jack had mistakenly agreed to lunch with Alexis and Craig. It turned out to be like being invited to a wake where you were expected to converse with the deceased. Craig was furious at the system, as he called it, at Tony Fasano, at Jordan Stanhope, and mostly at himself. He knew he'd done a terrible job despite the hours of practice he'd been through with Randolph the night before. When Alexis tried to get him to talk about why he had so little control of his emotions, knowing full well it was in his best interest to do so, he flew off the handle, and he and Alexis had a short but nasty exchange. But mostly Craig just sat for the hour in sullen withdrawal.

Alexis and Jack had tried to talk, but the intensity of Craig's irritation gave off vibes that were difficult to ignore.

At the end of lunch, Alexis was hoping Jack would return to the courtroom, but Jack had begged off with the excuse that he wanted to get to the cemetery by two in hopes that Percy Gallaudet had made short work of his contribution in rectifying his buddy's sewer system. At that point, Craig had angrily told Jack just to give up, that the die had been cast, so Jack needn't bother. Jack had responded that he'd gone too far involving too many people to abandon the idea.

With several magazines and a New York Times under his arm, Jack proceeded on to the parking garage, got his sad-looking Accent out into the daylight, and headed west. He had a bit of trouble finding the route that had brought him into the city that morning, but he eventually recognized a few landmarks that indicated he was on the correct road.

Jack pulled into the Park Meadow Cemetery at two ten and parked next to a Dodge minivan in front of the office building. Going inside, he found the frumpy woman and Walter Strasser exactly as he'd left them in the morning.

The woman was typing into a monitor, and Walter was sitting impassively at his desk with his hands still clasped over his paunch. Jack wondered if he ever did any work, since there was nothing on his desk surface to suggest it.

Both people looked in Jack's direction, but the woman immediately went back to her work without a word. Jack proceeded over to Walter, who followed him with his eyes.

"Any sign of Percy?" Jack asked.

"Not since he left this morning."

"Any word?" Jack asked. He marveled that the only way he could tell Walter was conscious was the rare blink and the moving mouth when he spoke.

"Nope."

"Is there any way to contact him? I'm supposed to meet him here sometime after two. He's agreed to dig out Patience Stanhope this afternoon."

"If he said he'd do it, he'll be here."

"Does he have a cell phone? I failed to ask him."

"Nope. We contact him by e-mail. Then he comes by the office."

Jack put one of his business cards on Walter's desk. "If you could contact him to find out when he's going to get to Patience Stanhope, I'd be much obliged. You can call me on my cell phone. Meanwhile, I'll head up to the grave site if you can tell me where it is."

"Gertrude, show the doctor the Stanhope plot on the map."

The wheels on Gertrude's desk chair squeaked as she pushed away from her desk. As a woman of few words, she merely tapped an arthritic index finger at the appropriate spot. Jack glanced at the site. Thanks to the contour lines, he could see it was on the very crest of the hill.

"Best view in the Park Meadow," Walter commented.

"I'll wait there," Jack said. He started for the car.

"Doctor!" Walter called. "Since the grave is scheduled to be opened, there's the issue of the fee, which must be settled before digging commences."

After parting with a significant number of twenty-dollar bills from his bulky stash, Jack returned to the rent-a-car and drove up the hill. He found a small turnout with an arbor shading a park bench. He left his car there and walked over to where he guessed the Stanhope plot was located. It was on the very crown of the hill. There were three identical, rather plain granite headstones. He found Patience's and glanced briefly at the incised inscription.

Getting the magazines and newspaper out of the car, Jack went over to the bench and made himself comfortable. The weather had improved dramatically from the morning. Bright sun beat down with a ferocity that it hadn't had on previous days, as if to remind everyone that summer was just around the corner. Jack was glad to have the shade from the ivy-covered arbor because it was tropically hot.

Jack glanced at his watch. It seemed hard to believe that in less than twenty-four hours he would be married. That is, he admitted, unless there was some unforeseen disaster, such as his not getting there on time. He thought about that for a minute while a blue jay angrily scolded him from a nearby dogwood tree. Jack shook off the idea of not getting to the church on time with a shake of his head.

There was no way it could happen. But the thought was an unpleasant reminder of his need to call Laurie. Yet with the reality of not knowing

when he would get Patience's corpse, he was once again able to put it off.

It had been longer than Jack could remember since he'd spent solitary idle time. He'd found that keeping himself frantically busy, whether at work or at play, was the best way to keep his demons at bay. It had been Laurie who'd patiently coaxed him out of the habit over the last few years, but that was when they were together. This was different, since he was alone. Yet he felt no urge to dwell on the past and what could have been. He was content to think about what was going to be, unless …

Jack shook off the idea for the second time. Instead, he picked up the newspaper and started reading. It was a good feeling being al fresco in the sunshine, enjoying the news with birds singing in the background. The fact that he was sitting in the middle of a cemetery didn't bother him one iota. In fact, thanks to his ironic sense of humor, it added to his pleasure.

Finishing the newspaper, Jack turned to the magazines. After he read several rather long but interesting articles in The New Yorker, Jack's contentment began to wane, especially when he found himself in direct sunlight. He checked his watch and cursed. It was a quarter to four. He stood up, stretched, and gathered the newspaper and magazines. One way or the other, he was going to find Percy and pin him down for a start time.

Knowing that the last shuttle flight to New York was somewhere around nine, he admitted he would not make it. Unless he drove the rent-a-car to New York, which he was not excited about doing for multiple reasons, he would have to stay in Boston for one more night. The idea of staying at the hotel he'd seen at the airport occurred to him, because he had no intention of going back to the Bowmans' without Alexis and the kids being there. As much as he sympathized with Craig, he'd had quite enough of his funk at lunch.

The newspapers and magazines went into the Hyundai through the missing passenger-side window. Jack was halfway around the car when he heard the sound of the backhoe. Shielding his eyes from the sun and peering down through the trees, Jack saw Percy's yellow vehicle start up the cemetery's

sinuous roadway. It had its scoop folded up against its rear like a grasshopper's leg. Jack quickly called Harold Langley.

"It's almost four," Harold complained when Jack told him the exhumation was about to get under way.

"It's the best I could do," Jack said. "I even had to bribe the man as it is."

Jack didn't say he'd also bribed Walter Strasser.

"All right," Harold said with resignation. "I'll be over in a half-hour. I need to make certain things are ready here. If I'm a little late, do not open the vault until I am on-site! I repeat, do not try to take the lid off the vault until I am there to see it happen! I have to identify the coffin and certify it was in that particular vault."

"I understand," Jack said.

Before Percy arrived, the Park Meadow pickup truck drove up. Enrique and Cesar climbed out and unloaded equipment from the truck's bed. With commendable efficiency and minimal conversation, they staked out Patience's grave site, spread out a waterproof tarpaulin like the one Jack had seen that morning at the grave that was being dug, cut and removed the sod, and stacked the rolled lengths on the tarpaulin's periphery.

By the time Percy rolled onto the scene, the site was ready for the backhoe.

Although Percy gave Jack a quick wave, he didn't get out of his cab until he'd positioned the excavating machine to his liking. Only then did he leap out to position his outriggers.

"Sorry I was delayed," Percy called to Jack.

Jack merely waved. He wasn't interested in conversation. All he wanted to do was get the damn coffin out of the ground.

When Percy thought all was in order, he went to work. The scoop dug deeply into the relatively loose soil. The backhoe's diesel roared when the

scoop was drawn inward, then lifted. Percy swung the boom around and began piling the dirt on the tarp.

Percy proved skillful at what he was doing, and within a short time, a wide trench with sharply perpendicular walls began to form. By the time he was down approximately four feet, Harold Langley arrived with the Langley-Peerson hearse. He did a three-point turn and backed the vehicle up alongside the deepening trench. With his hands on his hips, he inspected the progress.

"You're getting close," Harold yelled to Percy. "So ease up."

Whether Percy couldn't hear Harold or chose to ignore him Jack couldn't tell. Whatever the reason, he continued digging as if Harold wasn't there.

After a short time, there was a jarring hollow sound as the scoop's teeth clunked against the vault's concrete top a foot or so beneath the soil at the bottom of the pit.

Harold went berserk. "I told you to ease up," he yelled, frantically waving his hands in an attempt to get Percy to lift the scoop out of the hole. Jack had to smile. Harold looked completely out of place outside the funeral home, in the sunshine with his somber black suit and pasty-colored skin, like a parody of a punk rocker. Spikes of darkly dyed hair, which had been carefully combed and pomaded over his bald crown, angled off from the side of his head.

Percy continued to ignore Harold's increasingly frenzied gestures. Instead, he drew in the scoop, creating a scraping, screeching noise as the scoop's metal teeth dragged along the vault's concrete lid.

In desperation, Harold dashed to the backhoe's cab and pounded on the glass. Only then did the scoop stop and the roar of the diesel abate. Percy opened the door and looked at the livid funeral director with an innocent questioning expression.

"You're going to break the vault's lid or tear off the eyehooks, you …"

Harold yelled, unable to come up with a sufficiently vulgar descriptive noun to express what he thought of Percy. His anger had him tongue-tied.

Content to let the professionals sort out their differences, Jack climbed into his car. He wanted to use his phone, and he thought the car would shield him from the noise of the backhoe's diesel when Percy recommenced digging. The missing passenger-side window faced away from the action.

Jack called Dr. Latasha Wylie. This time, he got her directly.

"I got your message earlier," Latasha admitted. "Sorry I didn't get back to you. Thursdays are our Grand Rounds conference."

"No problem," Jack said. "I'm calling now because they are finally digging up the body as we speak. If all goes smoothly, which I have no reason to suspect, considering the obstacles I've had to deal with to get this far, I'm looking at doing the case between six and seven at the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home. You offered to help. Is that still a possibility?"

"The timing couldn't be better," Latasha said. "Count me in! I've got the bone saw packed and ready to go."

"I hope I'm not taking you away from something more fun."

"The pope was coming in for dinner, but I'll tell him we have to reschedule."

Jack smiled. Latasha had a sense of humor akin to his.

"I'll plan to meet you at the home around six thirty," Latasha continued. "If that's not appropriate for whatever reason, give me a call!"

"Sounds like a plan. Can I offer you dinner after all the fun and games?"

"If it's not too late. A girl needs her beauty sleep."

Jack disconnected. As he'd been speaking, Enrique and Cesar had disappeared into the pit and shovelfuls of dirt had begun flying up into the air. Meanwhile, Percy had started rigging steel cables from the scoop's teeth. Harold had returned to the edge of the pit, staring down into its depths with his hands on his hips. Jack was pleased that he was taking such personal interest.

Switching his attention to his phone, Jack considered calling Laurie. He now knew that he'd missed even what he'd called the worst-case scenario on the phone the night before: getting home that evening. Events had inexorably pushed his departure until tomorrow morning, the day of the wedding. Although his cowardly side tried to talk him into putting off the call until after the autopsy he knew he had to make the call now. But that wasn't the only conundrum: What to tell her about the morning's demolition derby on the Mass Pike was another issue. After a moment's thought, he decided to come clean. He felt the sympathy factor trumped the worry factor, since he could say he was reasonably confident Franco had to be convalescing, at least for a few days, and wouldn't be apt to pop up again.

Of course, that didn't exclude Antonio, whoever he was. Jack could recall an image of the man standing behind and to the side of Franco at the Memorial Drive basketball court confrontation, as well as his sitting in court that morning. Jack had no idea how he fit in with the Fasano team, but the fact that he existed had passed through Jack's mind when Percy had started digging Patience's grave. Unconsciously, Jack had touched the revolver in his pocket at the time just to reassure himself it was there.

Considering the seriousness of the threat communicated to the girls, it wasn't a wild leap of imagination to think of someone showing up and contesting the exhumation.

Taking a fortifying breath, Jack speed-dialed Laurie's number. There was always the hope he'd get her voicemail. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.

Laurie answered quickly.

"Where are you?" she demanded with no preliminaries.

"The bad news is that I'm in a cemetery in Boston. The good news is that I'm not one of the residents."

"This is no time for jokes."

"Sorry! I couldn't help myself. I am in a cemetery. The grave is being opened at this moment."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"I know you are disappointed," Jack said. "I've done everything I could to speed up the process. I'd hoped to be on my way home at this time. It's not been easy." Jack went on to describe the morning's run-in with Franco. He told her everything that had happened, including the bullet lodging in the rent-a-car's windshield support.

Laurie listened in stunned silence until Jack finished his monologue, which had included the need to bribe both the cemetery superintendent and the backhoe operator. He also had mentioned that Craig's testimony had been a disaster.

"It pisses me off that now I don't know whether to be angry or sympathetic."

"If you are asking my opinion, I'd lean in the direction of sympathy."

"Please, Jack. No jokes! This is serious."

"After I finish the autopsy, I'll surely have missed the last shuttle flight tonight. I'll stay in a hotel at the airport. Flights start sometime around six thirty."

Laurie sighed audibly. "I'm going over to my parents' early to get ready, so I'll miss you here at the apartment."

"No problem. I think I'll be able to get into my tuxedo without any help."

"Will you come to the church with Warren?"

"That's my intention. He's inventive the way he always finds parking for his ride."

"All right, Jack. See you at the church." She disconnected abruptly.

Jack sighed and flipped his phone shut. Laurie wasn't happy, but at least he'd gotten the unpleasant chore out of the way. For a moment, he marveled that there was nothing in life that was simple and straightforward.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Jack climbed out of the car. As he'd been talking with Laurie, things seemed to be coming to a head at graveside.

Percy was back inside the backhoe's cab and had the diesel engine cranking.

The scoop was poised over the excavation with attached steel cables stretching downward into the depths. It was apparent the backhoe was putting significant tension on the cables.

Jack walked to the edge of the hole to join Harold. Looking down, he could see that the cables were attached to eyehooks embedded in the vault's lid.

"What's happening?" Jack yelled over the diesel roar.

"We're trying to break the seal," Harold yelled back. "It's not easy. It's an asphalt-like material that's used to make it waterproof."

The backhoe grunted and strained and then eased off only to begin anew.

"What will we do if the seal holds?" Jack questioned. "We'd have to come back another day with the vault company people."

Jack cursed but not audibly.

Suddenly, there was a low-pitched popping noise and a brief sucking sound.

"Well, hallelujah!" Harold said as he motioned for Percy to slow down by flapping his hand.

The vault lid rose up. When it got up to the edge of the pit, Enrique and Cesar grabbed it to keep it steady while Percy swung it away from the grave. Carefully, he set it down on the grass. Percy then climbed out of the cab.

Harold peered into the vault. The lining was mirror-like stainless steel.

Resting inside was the white-gold metallic coffin. There was a good two feet of clearance all around.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Harold said with near religious veneration. "That's a Huntington Industries Perpetual Repose. I don't sell many of those. It's really a sight to behold."

Jack was more interested in the fact that the interior of the vault was as dry as a bone. "How do we get the coffin out?" he asked.

No sooner had Jack posed the question than Enrique and Cesar climbed down into the vault and passed wide cloth straps under the coffin and then through the four side handles. With the diesel back up to power, Percy swung the scoop back over the pit and lowered it so the straps could be attached. Harold opened the back of the hearse.

Twenty minutes later, the coffin was safely inside the hearse, and Harold closed the door.

"Will I be seeing you back at the home straight away?" Harold asked Jack.

"Absolutely. I want to do the autopsy immediately. Also, there's going to be another medical examiner involved. Her name is Dr. Latasha Wylie."

"Very well," Harold said. He got into the hearse's driver's seat, backed out into the roadway, and accelerated down the hill.

Jack settled up with Percy, giving him the bulk of his wad of twenty-dollar bills. He also gave a couple to Enrique and Cesar before getting into his car and beginning to head down the hill. As he drove, he couldn't help but feel pleased. After all the lead-up problems, he was surprised that the

exhumation itself had gone so easily. In particular, no Fasano and no Antonio, and certainly no Franco, had shown up to spoil the party. Now all he had to do was the autopsy.

19

BRIGHTON, MASSACHUSETTS

THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 2006

6:45 P.M.

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To Jack's gratification, things continued to go smoothly. He drove from the Park Meadow to the Langley-Peerson Home without incident, as did Harold with the coffin. When Jack had arrived, Latasha was already there waiting.

She had arrived only five minutes earlier, so the timing was nearly perfect.

Immediately on his arrival, Harold had had two of his beefy employees slide the Perpetual Repose coffin out of the hearse and onto a dolly. The dolly had been rolled into the embalming room, where it now stood.

"Here's the plan," Harold said. He was standing next to the coffin with a bony hand resting on its gleaming metallic surface. Thanks to the bright blue-white fluorescent light in the embalming room, any lifelike color he had was washed out, and he looked as if he should have been inside one of the Perpetual Reposes himself.

Jack and Latasha were standing a few feet away near the embalming table, which was going to substitute as the autopsy table. Both had pulled on Tyvek protective jumpsuits that Latasha had thoughtfully brought from the

medical examiner's office along with gloves, plastic face screens, and a collection of autopsy tools. Also in the room were Bill Barton, a kindly senior gentleman whom Harold had described as his most trusted employee, and Tyrone Vich, a robust African-American man twice Bill Barton's size.

Both had kindly volunteered to stay late and would assist Jack and Latasha in any way needed.

"We'll now open the casket," Harold continued. "I will certify that it indeed contains the remains of the late Patience Stanhope. Bill and Tyrone will remove the clothing and put the body on the embalming table for the autopsy. Once you have finished, Bill and Tyrone will take over to redress the body and return it to the coffin so that it can be re-interred in the morning."

"Will you remain on the premises?" Jack asked.

"I don't think that is necessary," Harold said. "But I live nearby, and Bill or Tyrone can call me if there are any questions."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Jack said, enthusiastically rubbing his gloved hands together. "Let's get the show on the road!"

Taking a crank from Bill, Harold inserted its business end into a flush housing at one end of the metal coffin, seated it, and tried to turn it. The effort brought a fleeting bit of color to his face but failed to turn the locking mechanism. Harold gestured toward Tyrone, who changed places with the director. Tyrone's muscles bulged beneath his cotton scrub shirt, and with an abrupt, torturous screech, the lid began to open. A moment later, there was a short hiss.

Jack looked at Harold. "Is that hissing sound good or bad?" Jack asked. He hoped it was not indicative of gaseous decomposition.

"Neither good nor bad," Harold said. "It speaks to the Perpetual Repose's superb seal, which is not surprising, since it's a top-of-the-line, high-

engineered product." Harold directed Tyrone to the opposite end of the casket, where he repeated the process with the crank.

"That should be it," Harold said when Tyrone was finished. He put his fingers under the edge of the coffin and had Tyrone do the same at the other end. Then, in a coordinated fashion, they lifted the lid and allowed light to wash in over Patience Stanhope.

The interior of the casket was lined in white satin, and Patience was clothed in a simple white taffeta dress. In keeping with the decor, her exposed face, forearms, and hands were covered with a white, cottony fluff of fungus.

Beneath the mold, her skin was marmoreal gray.

"Without a shred of doubt, this is Patience Stanhope," Harold said piously.

"She looks terrific," Jack said, "all decked out and ready for the prom."

Harold cast a disapproving glance in Jack's direction but kept his thin lips pressed together.

"Okay! Bill and Tyrone," Jack said enthusiastically, "slip her out of her party duds, and we'll get to work."

"I will leave you now," Harold said with a hint of reprimand as if talking to a naughty child. "I hope you find this exercise worthwhile."

"What about your fee?" Jack questioned. He suddenly realized he'd not made any arrangement.

"I have your business card, doctor. We will bill you."

"Perfect," Jack said. "Thanks for your help."

"Our pleasure," Harold said, tongue in cheek. His funeral-director sensibilities had been offended by Jack's disrespectful language.

Jack pulled over a stainless-steel table on casters and put out paper and a pen. He had no recording device, and he wanted to write down his findings as he went along. Then he helped Latasha arrange specimen bottles and the instruments. Although Harold had laid out some of the embalming tools, Latasha had brought the more typical pathology knife, scalpels, scissors, and bone clippers along with the bone saw.

"Your thoughtfulness in bringing all this equipment is going to make this a thousand times easier," Jack said as he attached a new scalpel blade to a scalpel handle. "I was planning on making do with whatever they had here, which in hindsight was not a good idea."

"It was no trouble," Latasha said, glancing around the room. "I didn't know what to expect. I've never seen an embalming room. Frankly, I'm impressed."

The facility was about the same size as her autopsy room at the medical examiner's office but had only a single, central, stainless steel table, giving the impression of wide-open space. The floor and walls were light green ceramic. There were no windows. Instead, there were areas of glass block that let in outside light.

Jack's eyes followed Latasha's around the room. "This is palatial," he said.

"When I first conceived of doing this autopsy, I imagined myself using someone's kitchen table."

"Yuck!" Latasha responded. She glanced over at Bill and Tyrone, who were busily disrobing the corpse. "You told me the story about Patience Stanhope and your internist friend on Tuesday when you stopped by. Unfortunately, I've forgotten the details. Could you give me a quick synopsis?"

Jack did better than that. He told the whole story, which included his relationship to Craig as well as the threats he'd received and Craig's children had received about the autopsy issue. He even told her about the incident that morning on the Massachusetts Turnpike.

Latasha was shocked, and her expression reflected it. "I suppose I should have told you this sooner," Jack said. "Maybe you wouldn't have agreed so readily to get involved. But my feeling is that if there was to be trouble at this point, it would have happened before Patience Stanhope came out of the ground."