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Women physicians Fiction. OB64 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To StaciYou make it possible and fun. Contentsalso by patricia cornwelltitle pagecopyrightdedicationprologueonetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelvethirteenfourteenfifteensixteenseventeeneighteennineteentwentytwenty-onetwenty-twotwenty-threetwenty-fourtwenty-fivetwenty-sixtwenty-seventwenty-eighttwenty-ninethirtythirty-onethirty-twothirty-three 5.
Where the Red Willow and Wapiti Rivers merge in the Peace Region of northwestern Alberta,dark green waters tumble and foam around fallen trees and gray sandy islets with whitepebble shores. Black spruce and aspens are thick on the hillsides, and saplings grow at steep angles onriverbanks and cliffs, the slender boughs straining toward the sun before gravity bends themand snaps them in half. Dead wood litters the waters edge and collects in nests of split trunks and splinteredbranches that rapids boil around and through, the debris moving downstream in the endlessrhythm of life thriving and dying, of decay and rebirth and death.
There is no sign of human habitation, no man-made trash or pollution or a single edifice Ican see, and I imagine a violent catastrophe seventy million years ago when a herd ofmigrating pachyrhinosauri perished at once, hundreds of them thrashing and panicking asthey drowned while crossing the river during a flood. Their massive carcasses were fed upon by carnivores, and decomposed anddisarticulated. Over time, bones were pushed by landslides and currents of water, becomingglacial deposits and outcrops almost indistinguishable from granitic bedrock and loosestones.
The scenes flowing by on my computer screen could be of a pristine wilderness that hasremained untouched since the Cretaceous Age, were it not for an obvious fact: The video filewas made by a human being holding a recording device while skimming over shallow water,careening at precarious speeds around sandbars and semi-submerged boulders and brokentrees. No recognizable details of the jetboats exterior or interior or the pilot or passengers onboard are shown, only the aft decks metal rail and the shape of someone blacked out by thesuns glare, a sharply outlined solid shadow against bright rushing water and an open bluesky.
It isnt light out yet thisthird Monday of October. Seven stories below my top-floor office, traffic is steady on Memorial Drive, rush hour in thispart of Cambridge well under way before dawn no matter the season or the weather.
Headlights move along the embankment like bright insect eyes, the Charles River ripplingdarkly, and across the Harvard Bridge the city of Boston is a glittery barrier separating theearthbound empires of business and education from the harbors and bays that become thesea. Its too early for staff unless its one of the death investigators, but I cant think of a goodreason for Toby or Sherry or whoever is on call to be on this floor. Actually, I havent a clue who came on at midnight, and I try to remember what vehicleswere in the lot when I got here about an hour ago.
The usual white SUVs and vans and one ofour mobile crime scene trucks, I dimly recall. I really didnt notice what else, was toopreoccupied with my iPhone, with alert tones and messages reminding me of conference callsand appointments and a court appearance today.
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Poor situational awareness caused bymultitasking, I think impatiently. I should pay more attention to whats around me, I chastise myself, but I shouldnt have towonder about whos on call, for Gods sake.
This is ridiculous. Frustrated, I think of my head ofinvestigations, Pete Marino, who cant seem to bother updating the electronic calendaranymore. How hard is it to drag-and-drop names from one date to another so I can see whosworking?
Hes not kept up with it for quite some time and has been keeping to himself. Probably what I need to do is have him over for dinner, cook something he likes, and talk aboutwhats going on with him. The thought of it tries my patience, and at the moment I seem to havenone. Some mentally disturbed person, or maybe evil is the word.
I listen for whoever might be prowling around but hear no one now as I search the Internet,clicking on files, pondering the same details repeatedly as I realize how defeated I feel and howangry that makes me. You got what you wanted this once. There really isnt anything gory or gruesome Ive not seen or cant somehow handle, but Iwas caught off guard last night, a quiet Sunday at home with my husband, Benton, musicplaying, the MacBook open on the kitchen counter in case anything happened that I shouldknow about immediately.
In a mellow mood, I was preoccupied with making one of his favoritedishes, risotto con spinaci come lo fanno a sondrio, waiting for water to boil in a saucepan,drinking a Geheimrat J Riesling that made me think of our recent trip to Vienna and the poignantreason we were there.
I was lost in thoughts of people I love, preparing a fine meal and drinking a gentle wine, 8. I didnt recognize the sender: BLiDedwood stealthmail.
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At first I was simply puzzled by the eighteen seconds of video with no audio, a cut-and-pasted jetboat ride in a part of the world I didnt recognize. The film clip seemed innocentenough, and meant nothing to me as I viewed it the first time.
I was sure someone had e-mailed it by mistake until the recording suddenly stopped, dissolving into a jpg, an image meantto shock. I launch another search engine into cyberspace, unable to find much useful about thepachyrhinosaurus, a thick-nosed herbivorous dinosaur with a horned bony frill and flattenedboss likely used to butt and gore other animals into submission. A uniquely strange-lookingbeast, somewhat like a two-ton short-legged rhino wearing a grotesque bony mask, I suppose,as I look at an artists rendering of one.Image not available Photos not available for this variation.
There is no sign of human habitation, no man-made trash or pollution or a single edifice Ican see, and I imagine a violent catastrophe seventy million years ago when a herd ofmigrating pachyrhinosauri perished at once, hundreds of them thrashing and panicking asthey drowned while crossing the river during a flood. Search results the easiest way to backup and share your files with everyone. ZIP Code:
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