One Grave Less

gunfire. No knives hurled at her.
    The room showed signs of a struggle. Things were in disarray. A chair lay overturned. Several boxes of supplies had been knocked about.
    It was there that Diane saw a shoe attached to a foot sticking out from behind the boxes. She hurried over. A woman in khaki slacks and a yellow shirt lay on the floor, her face turned away from Diane, one arm across her abdomen. Her other arm was to her side. She had short dark blond hair.
    Diane knelt beside her and felt for the pulse in her neck. It was faint, but she was still alive. She slid the boxes away from the woman and moved around to look at her face. Diane was startled. She knew her—Simone Brooks—one of the team who worked with her in South America at World Accord International.
    Simone had been an interviewer, a very good one. She met her fiancé, Oliver, in WAI. He was killed in the massacre along with Diane’s daughter, Ariel, and many of their friends. His was one of the few bodies that was found.
    They told Diane afterward that when Simone found Oliver—clearly dead, clearly slaughtered—she held on to him and refused to let go of him. They had to drag her away. Diane had been barely aware of it. She had her own devastating grief to deal with. She also had to be dragged away from her search for Ariel, dragged away from her hopes that Ariel was still alive and that the bloody little shoes didn’t mean she was dead.
    Diane had heard that Simone eventually went to work for a detective agency somewhere. What was she doing here?
    “Simone?” said Diane. “Can you hear me?”
    Simone groaned and turned her head. After a moment she opened her eyes and closed them again.
    There was a little blood, but without a closer look Diane couldn’t determine where it had come from. She hurriedly examined Simone for wounds and discovered that her hand was cut severely across the palm. Diane had seen that type of wound many times. It happens when you stab someone and your hand slips from the handle onto the blade.
    “What the hell?” Diane whispered. Had Simone stabbed the victim in the other room?
    Simone groaned again, opened her eyes, and fixed them on Diane’s face. She appeared sluggish.
    The cut was the only open wound Diane could find. She gently felt Simone’s scalp. On her right parietal was a knot. The skin wasn’t broken, but Simone flinched when Diane touched it. The knot and her lethargic manner suggested she was suffering from a concussion.
    “It’s me, Diane, Simone. Lie still. Help is coming.”
    Simone looked confused and tried to speak. Nothing came out.
    “Just lie still,” said Diane.
    Diane reached for her phone to call for help. Suddenly, Simone’s bloody hand was on Diane’s arm.
    “Us . . . ,” Simone whispered.
    “What?” said Diane, leaning closer, trying to hear what she said.
    “One of us . . . It was one of us . . . ,” she whispered.
    “What was one of us?” Diane said. But Simone had lapsed back into unconsciousness.
    Diane punched in 911 on her cell phone and announced who and where she was. As she spoke she heard the EMT paramedics who had been called arriving next door in the exhibit room.
    “I need another ambulance,” she said into the phone. “We have another victim.”
    “Another ambulance? This is the first call we’ve received from the museum,” said the calm female voice. “You have two people injured and need help. Is that correct?”
    Diane was silent for a moment, confused.
    “Yes, that is correct, but my security people also called about ten minutes ago.”
    “We have no record of another call. No ambulance has been dispatched to your location.”
    “But the paramedics are here,” Diane said.
    Just as she spoke she heard a commotion in the other room. By the time she stood up and started in that direction, she smelled something burning and saw smoke coming under the door.

Chapter 3
    Ariel Fallon. Diane Fallon’s adopted daughter. The prisoner knew Diane Fallon in passing. They had presented papers at the same professional conferences in forensic anthropology. She had heard about Fallon’s terrible loss, but not all the details. She knew of the daughter murdered by renegades. Everyone in the small community of forensic anthropologists had heard some version of the story. If the two of them could get out of this jungle alive, Diane Fallon was in for one of the greatest shocks—and joys—of her life.
    So this was Ariel Fallon, in the flesh. Ariel wore different