Blood Brothers: A Short Story Exclusive by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page A

memories overwhelmed him.
    Summer, 1968
    San Francisco, California
    A NOTHER FUNERAL.
    Morning light from the stained-glass windows painted grotesque patterns on the faces of the young choir at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. But their ethereal voices soared to heaven—clear, beautiful, and tinged with grief.
    Such grace should have brought comfort, but Arthur didn’t need comfort. He wasn’t grieving. He had come as an interloper, a foreigner, a young reporter for the Times of London.
    He studied the large lily-draped photo of the deceased mounted on an easel next to a carved mahogany coffin. Like most of the people in the church, he hadn’t really known the dead man, although everyone in the world knew his name: Jackie Jake, the famous British folksinger who had taken the United States by storm.
    But that tempest was over.
    Ten days ago, Jackie Jake had been found murdered in an alley off San Francisco’s Mission Street. Arthur’s newspaper had flown him from London to cover the death—both because he was their youngest reporter and because he was the only one who admitted to having listened to Jake’s music. But the last was a lie. He had never heard of Jackie Jake until this assignment, but the ruse got him on the plane to California.
    He had come to San Francisco for another reason.
    A hope, a chance . . . to right a terrible wrong.
    As the funeral Mass continued, the crowd shuffled restlessly in the pews. The smell of their unwashed bodies rose in a cloud around them. He’d assessed them when he came in earlier, taking stock of Jake’s fans. They were mostly young women in long skirts and blousy white shirts, many with flowers in their hair. They leaned in postures of utter grief against men with the beards of ascetic hermits.
    Unlike most of the crowd, Arthur had worn a black suit, polished shoes, something that befit a funeral. Despite his desire to shake the iron rule of his childhood household, he could not escape the importance of correct attire. He also wanted to present a professional demeanor for the policemen investigating Jake’s murder. Arthur sensed that their sympathies would not lie with this hippie crowd.
    As the service ended and the mourners began to file out, Arthur spotted his target near the back of the nave, a figure wearing a black uniform with a badge on the front. Arthur contrived to bump against him as he exited.
    “I’m very sorry, Officer,” Arthur said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”
    “Not a problem.” The man had the broad American accent that Arthur associated with California from films and television programs.
    Arthur glanced with a heavy sigh back into the church. “I can’t believe he’s gone . . .”
    The police officer followed his gaze. “Were you close to the deceased?”
    “Childhood friends, in fact.” Arthur held out his hand to cover his lie. “I’m Arthur Crane.”
    The man shook Arthur’s hand with a too-firm grip. “Officer Miller.”
    The officer kept an eye on the exiting crowd, his face pinched with distaste. A man wearing jeans and sandals swept past, leaving a strong smell of marijuana in his wake. The officer tightened his jaw, but did not move after him.
    Arthur played along with his obvious disdain, hoping to tease information out of the officer. “Jackie and I were friends before he came here and got involved with”—he waved his hand at the crowd of hippies—“that lot. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these flower children had killed him. From my experience, it’s a fine line between fan and fanatic.”
    Officer Miller shrugged, his eyes still on the mourners. “Maybe. The killer did leave a flower near his body . . . some type of orchid.”
    And that was how Arthur first found out about the orchids.
    Before Arthur could inquire further, Miller lunged to the side as a rake-thin man grabbed an easel near the door, clearly intending to steal the blown-up photo of the folksinger. The thief’s dark eyes looked wild under