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nestled just below a slit in a small metal dome; a small hexagonal knob
extended from the dome on a spindly shaft, and by twisting the knob I could
roll the wick up or down with gears that were hidden within the dome. Twisting
the wick slowly down, I watched it gradually disappear, like sand edging
downward into the neck of an hourglass as time begins to run out. As the
wick s edge threatened to vanish through the small metal sleeve between the
reservoir of oil and the glass chimney, the flame shrank to a pale blue
flicker along the charred edge of woven cotton. I twisted the knob in the
other direction, and the wick slowly rose, the flame blooming bright yellow
again, its edge as sharp and solid as the edge of a full moon. How is it, I
wondered, that something as nebulous as burning oil can look so solid? Why
isn t it ragged and flickering, like the flames of a fireplace or campfire?
Why is there no fuzzy transition from glow to not-glow? And why can t my own
life feel so well defined, so neatly edged, anymore?
I lifted the oil lamp by its narrow neck, where the metal collar and wick
mechanism screwed onto the glass base. Halfway up the base, at its widest
part, oil sloshed within the clear container. The wick a flat ribbon of
woven white cotton undulated within the liquid, like a tapeworm preserved in
alcohol. The lamp s neck felt small and vulnerable in my grasp, and I forced
myself to ease the tension in my grip, lest it snap in my hand, sending the
glass base and its flammable contents crashing onto the kitchen s tile floor.
I made my way through the house by lamplight, like some restless ghost from a
campfire story, checking each outside door to be sure it was dead-bolted. Then
I went into my bedroom, locked the door, and sat in my bed, my back against
the headboard. I set the oil lamp on the nightstand beside me, scooting its
useless electric companion to the far edge to make room. Then I slid open the
nightstand drawer and took out the handgun Steve Morgan had loaned me. I
studied it the tiny blue-black pyramids machined into the grip, the
matter-of-fact words and numbers etched into the barrel, the small, precise
button of the safety, which I clicked back and forth, off and on, in a
hypnotic pattern that was nearly as regular as the ticking of a clock.
I told time that way until a pale gray light seeped through the window,
gradually erasing the reflection of the lamp s glow, replacing it with the
shapes of raindrops and bits of shredded leaves on the outside of the panes.
CHAPTER 33
THE ANTHROPOLOGY DEPARTMENT WAS LOCKED AND dark when I arrived not
surprising at eight o clock on a summer Sunday morning. Without bothering to
shower or even change my rumpled clothes, I had eased my truck down the narrow
service drive that ringed the base of the stadium, parking at the foot of the
stairs beside the bone lab. Once inside, I flipped on the fluorescent lights
overhead, then impulsively flipped them off again. Enough light filtered
between the stadium s girders and through the grimy windows to guide me across
the lab, and for what I needed to do, semidarkness was better than the glare
of the fluorescents.
The slide sorter was still plugged in, and the cranial X-ray of Freddie
Parnell still lay atop the frosted glass. I switched on the light, and the
homeless man s ghostly skull lit up. I studied the overall contours awhile,
then focused on the scalloped edges of the frontal sinus. The contours
resembled a coastline, but it was an unknown country I was trying to steer
toward. Retrieving the tray of cranial fragments from the Cooke County fire
scene, I sighed in despair. It wasn t a matter of simple navigation; what I
had to do what Miranda had been struggling for days to do was reassemble a
second map, the map of tiny, charred bits we d plucked from the smoldering
ruins of the cabin. If we couldn t piece together more of that second map,
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we d never be able to tell whether its landmarks matched Parnell s or not.
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