St. Andrew the Scot Mission

Quintana Roo, Mexico

February 22

Dr. Emily O'Connor glanced at the invading army of test tubes lined up like good soldiers on the countertop beside her. Almost sixty in all, and not one of them matched the blood sample she'd received from the Mission hours earlier.

She pushed her straight red hair back from her forehead, fingers lingering on a newfound wrinkle, and frowned. Until this moment, she'd been somewhat smug about her good looks and smooth skin. How both made her look much younger than her forty-two years.

It's the climate, she decided, careful how she rubbed this time. The heat and the sun and the wind.

That's why I'm aging so fast. If I stay down here much longer, I'll turn into a prune.

She uncurled from over her microscope and stretched, the early morning sunlight streaming in through the clinic's spotlessly clean windows. Earlier, the air in the room had been thick with the scent of sweaty bodies and frustrated, coffee-scented sighs. Now only Dr. Raoul Chavez, her assistant, remained. Everyone else had left to continue to scour the Mission for the source of the blood.

She rolled her neck and tried to touch her shoulders behind her back as she watched Chavez complete yet another circle around the surgery, up-turning papers here, pushing aside files there, rifling through every drawer, every cabinet. Anywhere else in the Quintana Roo, he would've stirred up a shower of dust, but not here. Here, everything was so clean, so tidy. So in its place. Even the air had a scrubbed clean, sterile feel to it.

Pristine, just like the priest.

Chavez caught her glancing his way and shrugged. "Time to give up. What we're looking for isn't here."

Emily studied him. Past middle age, Chavez was one of those people who seemed born into his position, stamped at birth, sent down fully-grown. A man destined to remain second-tier all his life.

She thought about the predictability of his existence and wondered if it wasn't better to be gifted with no ambition. To be content. She'd never been content. Working at the World Health Organization for less than two years, she already had an overwhelming need to move on. She wanted more. She wanted higher. Finding the source of the alien blood would ensure both.

"It has to be here," she said and pushed back from the counter. The stool legs screeched against the floor, and she smiled, glad to put a dent in the otherwise surrounding sea of perfection. "I know Ramirez. He would have kept samples, files, a journal. Notes scratched in a hymnal." She flicked a fingernail against one of the test tubes. "Keep looking."

Chavez shifted from one foot to the other, weary written across his face. "We've searched everywhere. The surgery, the clinic, the Mission. Even the priest's room. I think whatever evidence was here has been destroyed." A touch of intelligence flickered in the man's eyes. "I think what was mixed in with the test tubes was a mistake, an accident. I don't believe Ramirez meant for you to find it."

Emily shook her head, her chin-length red hair swishing against her jawline. She picked up the small, capped test tube lying beside the microscope, the glass smudgy with fingerprints, the bottom third filled with red blood tinged slightly orange.

Chavez leaned back against the counter, lifted one foot and then the other, giving each a good shake. "Maybe he's protecting someone."

Emily wanted to coach the man on refraining from the obvious but stopped when she saw Mother Bridgett standing in the doorway between the ward and the surgery. Anticipation sent a bolt of adrenaline rushing through her when she noticed the small box in the woman's hands.

Crossing the room, her white skirts sweeping against the worn tile, the mother superior placed the box on the desk in front of her. "I think you've been searching for this."

Emily picked up the box and slid back the lid to reveal the charred remnants of a shattered petri dish and a half-melted glass slide. She looked up at Bridgett, but the woman's expression was unreadable. Choosing the glass slide, she held it up to the light. Fire had destroyed most of what was on it except for a small swatch of singed biological stain.

Her pulse quickened, and her breath went shallow in her chest. Hands shaking a little, she placed the slide under the microscope lens and adjusted the eyepiece.

And there they were. The jagged, scorched remnants of the same blood cells she'd found on the cotton ball in the box sent from the orphanage hours earlier. Each cell a little larger and thicker than a normal human cell. Each looking more like a serving platter than a dinner plate.

"Father Ramirez drew those cells from a child the locals found in the jungle," Bridgett said. "The same child he took with him when he left."

Emily could feel the color drain from her face as disappointment coursed through her veins. "But Pakal—the child."

"Yes." Mother Bridgett regarded her coolly. "At least now your mystery is solved."

"We've been searching for hours." Emily's gaze narrowed in irritated curiosity. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"The Mission—the boys—need to get back to normal. Your presence here is proving to be a distraction. Now that you have what you came for, you're free to leave. Let me know when you're packed. I'll have some of the boys help carry your things to the trucks."

With that, the mother superior turned and left the way she came in.

Emily considered going after the arrogant woman. She'd leave when she was damn good and ready, and that wouldn't be for a while. Not until they'd tracked down and questioned the locals who'd found the girl. Children didn't grow in cabbage patches. Where there was one child, there should be others with, fingers crossed, an extended family.

Adrenaline flowing again, she picked up the SAT phone at her elbow and thumbed in a number she knew by heart. She'd wanted to call him the minute she'd identified the blood but had decided to wait. He'd want to know its source above everything else. The scientific and political implications were staggering. Played out correctly, their respective futures were more than secure. And together, they'd announce to the world what she'd found.

Together.

She bobbed her foot as she listened to the phone ring and ring and ring on the other end of the line. Finally, someone answered.

"Jack, it's Em O'Connor," she started but stopped when she heard his pre-recorded voice on the other end of the line.

She waited impatiently through the recording, drumming her fingernails on the desktop, when she caught a swish of white skirts out of the corner of her eye. She expected to see Bridgett with a gaggle of boys, ready to kick her out. Instead, it was Sister Mary Inez.

Jack's answering machine beeped on the other end of the line.

"Jack," she said, attention torn between the phone and the nun. "Em O'Connor. Remember that alien blood sample you sent me from the Bug Tussle, Texas crash?" It annoyed but also intrigued her, the nun just standing there, a steel basin in her beefy hands. "Hold on," she said, looking at the nun. "Is there something I can do for you, Sister?"

"On the contrary, doctor," Sister Mary Inez said, smiling as she plucked the syringe from the dish, inches of slightly orange-tinted blood drawn up inside its cylinder. "I believe there's something I can do for you."