Panacea by F. Paul Wilson

o’clock.
    â€œWell,” Phil said, leaning forward for a closer look, “that clinches it, doesn’t it.”
    â€œSomething is certainly clinched,” Laura said. “But just what remains to be seen.”
    A neck pop. “The killings … they’re related.”
    â€œI prefer to say ‘deaths’ for the time being. But I don’t think there’s any doubt about a relation. But what do these tattoos mean? And why the bisecting lines at different angles?”
    â€œWho knows? Maybe it’s a rank insignia.”
    Laura doubted that—tattoos were not easily changed—but didn’t press the point.
    â€œA gang tat that’s a variant on the caduceus? Don’t they go more for bloody daggers and skulls with flames shooting from the eye sockets?”
    â€œWell, yeah. Usually.”
    â€œThe caduceus reference implies healing and … oh, God.” A thought hit her like a punch.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCaduceus … healing … and the two healthiest corpses I’ve ever seen. There’s a crazy symmetry to it.”
    â€œI’m not following.”
    Just as well that he wasn’t … too crazy.
    â€œI’m rambling. Don’t pay any attention.” She moused up another photo, this one of the vic’s left palm—the one with 536 drawn on it. “Does 536 mean anything in gang terms?”
    â€œNot that I know of.” He leaned closer. “A tattoo ? ”
    â€œNo. Done with a Sharpie. Shortly before his death, from what I can tell.”
    He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. But I can look into it. In the meantime, I’ve got a present for you.”
    He opened the manila folder he’d brought with him and handed her an eight-by-ten color photo. It showed a bare-chested man and a short, dark woman standing before a wall of dense, lush greenery.
    â€œWhere did you get this?”
    â€œBelieve it or not, the vic had a fireproof lockbox. The arson guys found it in what was left of his bedroom. This was inside it. The original is out for fingerprinting. If our guy’s in the system, we can ID him.”
    â€œJust this? No insurance policy or birth certificate?”
    Lawson shook his head. “Not a single identifying document.”
    She stared at the photo again. “Must have been very important to him.”
    â€œI’ll say. Um, correct me if I’m wrong, but that sure as hell looks like our second vic in better times.”
    Laura nodded. The facial resemblance was remarkable, but …
    â€œI wouldn’t say ‘better.’ He looks sick and wasted.”
    Like someone with AIDS … because those sure looked like Kaposi’s sarcoma spots on his chest.
    Phil said, “I meant the living-and-breathing kind of better.”
    Laura stared at the photo and felt her palms grow just a tiny bit sweaty. This was vic number two, no question. In the photo he appeared to be dying of AIDS. But the man in the cooler downstairs had been hale and healthy and carried none of the stigmata of the disease.
    He’d been cured … healed. And his tattoo hinted at healing.
    What was going on?
    â€œYou know something?” Phil said, looking around. “The plants in the picture sorta look like these.”
    Laura snapped out of her mini daze and shifted her gaze from the man to the background.
    â€œGood eye,” she told him. “A couple of them are the same.”
    â€œI just wish we could identify the woman he’s with. They look pretty chummy. She could give us the lowdown on him, I’ll bet.”
    Laura studied her. “She’s Mayan.”
    â€œReally? You mean like the ancient Mexican Mayans? I visited one of their pyramids on a side trip when I was in Cancun. How do you know?”
    Because I’m half Mayan.
    â€œI just know. Trust me on this.” She didn’t want to get into her lineage.
    â€œI