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“That and your M.D.”
“And that.”
“Okay, Hawkeye. Explain what you’re seeing.”
“Hebrew lettering.”
A quick snap of excitement sent my heart racing.
Easy, Brennan!
“You can read Hebrew?”
“I can.”
With a name like Lindstrom? My face must have revealed that unspoken thought.
“My father was Swedish, my mother Jewish. It’s thanks to her I got saddled with the name Harvey. Pops didn’t like it and called me Ace.”
“What do the letters spell out?” I asked.
Rueful grin. “There’s too much missing. Perhaps someone with greater knowledge of Hebrew can help.”
I was torn.
Stay and examine the cut surfaces under magnification?
Set out in hopes of a full translation?
The scope was now available anytime.
Decision.
Identifying tool type could wait.
I thanked Lindstrom and wished him a safe trip home. Then I printed a hard copy of every image, hurriedly repackaged the arm bones, and raced out the door.
I had a sense of how to get to the synagogue. Still, I wanted guidance.
Thankful that Google Maps was working in Provo, I scrolled to the app on my iPhone. Not knowing the congregation’s official name, I entered Villa Juba as my destination, figuring I could blunder downhill from the Stribbes’ complex on my own.
The navigation came back all business, the lady again sounding more British than Musgrove. Wondering why I’d chosen the accent, I mentally dubbed the voice Camilla as I propped the phone upright in the cup holder in the center console.
The early-morning clouds were now darkening the sky from horizon to horizon, their colors the ugly purple, yellow, and green of an aging bruise. Winding toward the Leeward Highway, I caught glimpses of a violently wrinkled sea. Not far offshore, a dense shroud of rain was turning the water’s surface the deep blue-green of dried sage.
Awnings snapped on many of the buildings I passed. Crank-up umbrellas were cranked down and secured. The locals sensed a big one coming.
They were right. Within minutes, drops began pattering the Honda’s unfortunate saffron paint. A few at first, fat and listless.
I flicked on the wipers. They were as lazy as the vehicle’s AC.
In one thousand feet, turn left.
Unexpected. But, trusting Camilla’s knowledge of island geography over my own, I hung a left.
Lightning flashed.
Thunder boomed.
