Chapter 18

   Donald treated the operation like a military exercise, as did Richard and Michael, who’d had even more covert operational experience than he. Getting into the spirit of the affair, the two divers blackened their faces and garments with soil. Perry wasn’t as gung ho, but he was relieved to be taking his fate in his own hands.
   “Is that necessary?” Perry asked when he saw what Richard and Michael had done with the mud.
   “It’s what we did for any night operation in the Navy,” Richard replied.
   The ride in the air taxi was in some respects even more exhilarating at night than it had been during the day. There was significantly less traffic but what traffic there was lurched unexpectedly out of the shadows.
   “This is like a goddamned amusement park ride,” Richard said after a particularly close pass.
   “I wish I could find out how these things work,” Perry commented. “There were only worker clones at the factory Richard and I visited this morning.”
   “That was one colossal waste of time,” Richard said.
   “What do you think about Suzanne?” Donald asked Perry.
   “What do you mean?” Perry responded.
   “Do you think we have to worry about her?” Donald asked. “She could mess up this whole operation.”
   “You mean alert the Interterrans?” Perry asked.
   “Something like that,” Donald said. “She seemed pretty upset back there about the two casualties.”
   “She was upset, but it wasn’t just about the deaths,” Perry said. “She confided to me that Garona disappointed her somehow. And she feels responsible about us being here, as she said. Anyway, I don’t think we have to worry about her. She’ll be okay.”
   “I hope so,” Donald said.
   The craft decelerated, hovered for a moment, then rapidly descended.
   “Stand by, troops,” Donald said.
   As Donald had directed, the air taxi was settling down in the museum’s courtyard. Over the edge of the craft the dim outline of the Oceanus could be seen, silhouetted against the black basalt of the museum.
   “There’s the target,” Donald said. “Once the side of the taxi opens I want everyone flat against the museum wall. Understood?”
   “That’s affirmative,” Richard said.
   The moment the exit appeared the group piled out, ran to the wall, and flattened themselves against it. All eyes swept the immediate area. It was dark, particularly in the shadows, and perfectly still without any signs of life. Behind them the sharply geometric form of the museum soared up into the blackness. The only light on the scene came from the thousands of faux, bioluminescent stars above and a low-level, glow emanating from the museum’s windows. The dark hulk of the submersible was about fifty feet away, sitting on chocks on the flatbed of an antigravity freighter.
   The air taxi’s side seamlessly sealed over and the craft silently rose before disappearing in the darkness.
   “I don’t see a soul,” Richard whispered.
   “I guess the museum’s not much of a night spot,” Michael whispered back.
   “Keep the conversation to a minimum,” Donald ordered.
   “The place is deserted,” Perry said. He let himself relax. “That’s going to make this a whole lot easier.”
   “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Donald said. He pointed to a window to their left. “Perry, you and Michael climb through and come back out through the same one. We’ll either be working on the Oceanus or we’ll be waiting here in the shadows.”
   “Do you think there’s an alarm system in the museum?” Perry questioned.
   “Nah!” Richard said. “There’s no locks or alarms or any of that kind of stuff. Apparently nobody ever steals anything down here.”
   “All right,” Perry said. “We’re off.”
   “Good hunting,” Donald said. He waved as Perry and Michael ran hunched over to just below the window. Grunting and groaning, Perry boosted Michael up so he could get a grip on the sill. Once he was inside, he leaned back out and pulled Perry up. A moment later the two disappeared inside the building.
   Donald redirected his attention to the submersible.
   “Well, are we going over there or not?” Richard questioned.
   “Let’s do it!” Donald said.
   They kept low to the ground as they sprinted over to the minisubmarine. Donald lovingly patted its HY-140 steel hull. In the darkness its scarlet color was a dull gray although the white lettering on the sail stood out sharply. Donald made a slow inspection of the craft with Richard close on his heels. He was impressed with the Interterran repairs; the outside lights and the manipulator arm that had been destroyed in the plunge down the vent shaft looked completely normal.
   “It looks perfect,” Donald said. “All we have to do is get it into the ocean and we’re home free.”
   “None too soon for me,” Richard said.
   Donald went to an outside toolbox, opened it, and took out several wrenches. He handed them to Richard.
   “Start with the starboard side camcorder,” he said. “Just detach it from its housing. I’m going below to check out the battery level. If we don’t have power, we’re not going anywhere.”
   “Roger,” Richard said.
   Donald climbed the familiar rungs, rapidly ascending to the ship’s hatch. He was mildly surprised to find it undogged and slightly ajar. Grabbing it with two hands he raised it all the way. After one last visual sweep around the area, he lowered himself into the opening and clambered down into absolute darkness.
   Once Donald had reached the deck, he moved forward by feel. He was so familiar with the craft, he could literally move around inside with his eyes closed, or so he thought until he tripped over the two books Suzanne had brought along to impress Perry. Donald cursed less for the tripping than for striking his hand against the back of one of the passenger seats while trying to maintain his balance. At least he didn’t fall which could have been lethal in the tight quarters.
   After rubbing his hand to dispel the pain, he inched forward. As he neared the dive station a bit of light filtered in through the four view ports, making his progress easier. Careful not to hit his head on any of the protruding instrumentation, Donald lowered himself into the pilot seat. Outside he could hear Richard clanking against the hull with the wrench.
   The first thing Donald did was switch on the instrument lights. Then, with trepidation, he allowed his eyes to move over to the battery level indicator. He sighed with relief. There was plenty of power. Then, as he was about to check gas pressures, he froze. A noise coming from behind him told him that he was not alone. Someone besides himself was inside the submersible.
   At first Donald held his breath, straining to listen. Cold sweat appeared along his hairline. Seconds passed, though it seemed like hours, but the noise did not repeat itself. Just when Donald began to wonder if his imagination had misinterpreted the sounds of Richard removing the camcorder, a voice came out of the darkness. “Is that you, Mr. Fuller?”
   Donald swung around. His eyes vainly tried to penetrate the darkness. “Yes,” he said with a voice that cracked. “Who’s here?”
   “Harv Goldfarb. Remember me from Central Information?”
   Donald relaxed and took a breath. “Of course,” he said irritably. “What the devil are you doing in here?”
   Harvey inched forward. The lights from the instruments illuminated his deeply creased face. “You got me thinking today,” Harvey said. “You’re the first hope I’ve ever had for getting back. I was afraid you might forget me, so I thought I’d sleep in here.”
   “Mr. Goldfarb, we can’t forget you,” Donald said. “We need you. Did you check out the TV cameras on the outside?”
   “I did,” Harvey said. “I don’t think they’ll be a problem. What is it you are planning on transmitting?”
   “We’re not sure at this stage,” Donald said. “Maybe you or us or even all of us.”
   “Me?” Harvey questioned.
   “Actually we only want the capability to transmit,” Donald said. “It’s the threat that’s important.”
   “I’m getting the picture,” Harvey said. “They let you out because they’re afraid that I’ll expose Interterra over the airwaves.”
   “Something like that,” Donald said.
   “It won’t work,” Harvey said flatly.
   “Why not?”
   “Two reasons,” Harvey said. “First, they’d cut my power before they’d let you out. And second, I won’t do it.”
   “But you said you’d help.”
   “Yeah, and you said you’d take me to New York.”
   “That’s true,” Donald admitted. “Actually we haven’t worked out any of the details.”
   “Details, ha!” Harvey scoffed. “But listen. I live here. I can tell you how to get out. Many a night I’ve dreamed about escaping the monotony of all these interminably pleasant days.”
   “We’re open to suggestions,” Donald said.
   “I gotta be sure you’ll take me along,” Harvey said.
   “We’ll be happy to include you,” Donald said. “What’s your idea?”
   “Will this submarine work?” Harvey asked.
   “That’s what I’m checking,” Donald said. “We’ve got plenty of power, so if we can get it out into the water, it will work.”
   “Okay, now listen,” Harvey said. “Has your orientation gotten around to telling you that the Interterrans live forever? Not in the same body but in multiple bodies?”
   “Yes,” Donald said. “We’ve already visited the death center and witnessed an extraction.”
   “I’m impressed,” Harvey said. “They are moving you right along. So you understand that the process works only if they are extracted before death. In other words, it all has to be planned. You get what I’m saying?”
   “I’m not sure,” Donald admitted.
   “They have to be alive when the memory is extracted,” Harvey said. “Or more properly, their brains have to be functioning normally. If they die by violent means, the story’s over. That’s why they are so terrified of violence, and that’s why there hasn’t been any violence in Interterra for millions upon millions of years. They are incapable of it except by proxy.”
   “So we threaten violence,” Donald said. “We already thought of that.”
   “I’m talking about something more specific than just violence,” Harvey said. “You threaten death specifically. Death without any of their extraction nonsense unless they do what you want.”
   “Aha!” Donald exclaimed. “Now I get you. You’re talking about taking hostages.”
   “Correct!” Harvey said. “Two, four, as many as you can get, and not clones, because they don’t count. And a word of caution: the clones don’t mind violence. They do whatever they are told.”
   “Slick!” Donald commented. “It’s a multiple threat built into one.”
   “Correct,” Harvey said proudly. “And you don’t have to monkey around with this TV camera nonsense.”
   “I like it,” Donald said. “How about you going out and telling Richard to hold up on removing the camcorder. I just want to check the gas pressures, and I’ll be right out.”
   “You promise you’ll be taking me,” Harvey said.
   “You’re going,” Donald said. “Stop worrying.”

   “All right, hold up!” Perry ordered. “Either you know where you are going or you don’t. We’ve been wandering around in here like a couple of dopes for twenty minutes. Where are the goddamn weapons?”
   Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I get lost in museums even in the daytime.”
   “Try to remember something about the gallery,” Perry said.
   “I remember it was long and narrow,” Michael said.
   “What was it near? Can you remember anything like that?”
   “Wait a second,” Michael said. “Now I remember. It was behind a door that said we were supposed to get permission from the Council of Elders to enter.”
   “I haven’t seen many doors,” Perry said as his eyes scanned the immediate area. “And there are none here so obviously we’re not in the right place.”
   “I also remember we’d stopped in a gallery filled with Persian carpets,” Michael said. “It’s coming back to me now. The carpets were beyond the room with all the Renaissance stuff.”
   “That’s a start,” Perry said. “I know where that gallery is. Come on! Follow me for a change!”
   A few minutes later the two men were standing outside the door with the restricted entry admonition. It was located near the window they’d climbed in.
   “Is this it?” Perry asked. “If it is, we’ve come full circle.”
   “I think so.” He reached around Perry, pushed the door open, and glanced inside. “Pay dirt!” he exclaimed.
   “It’s about time,” Perry grumbled as he entered. “The others are going to start thinking we got lost, so we’d better make this snappy.”
   “What should we take?” Michael asked.
   The two men stopped just inside the door while Perry looked up and down the dimly lit room. He was impressed with the room’s length and the subsequent square footage the shelving afforded. “This is more than I expected!” he commented. “We’ve got quite a selection in here.”
   “The older stuff is to the right, newer to the left,” Michael said.
   “I guess it doesn’t matter what we take as long as it functions,” Perry said, “and as long as I find the Luger.”
   “I know one thing I want,” Michael said. He reached over and picked up the crossbow and its quiver. As he did so he nicked his finger. “Jeez, these arrow points are razor sharp.”
   “Those are quarrels, or bolts, not arrows,” Perry said.
   “Whatever,” Michael said. “They’re damn sharp.”
   “Do you remember which way the Luger was?”
   “To the left, Bozo,” Michael said.
   “Don’t call me Bozo,” Perry warned.
   “Well, I just got finished telling you the modern stuff was to the left.”
   Perry set out without responding to Michael’s last comment. It irritated him that he had to put up with the divers. He had never been forced to spend time with two more juvenile idiots in his life.
   Michael turned and went the other way. As long as everything was water-damaged and barnacle-encrusted, he thought the ancient armaments would be better since, in their simplicity, there were fewer working parts for the salt water to foul up. Soon he was in an area with a superb collection of ancient Greek weapons. He gathered an armful of short swords, daggers, and shields along with several helmets, greaves, and a brace of breastplates. What impressed him was the worked gold and the encrusted jewels he could see despite the darkness. Thus encumbered he clanked his way back to the door they’d entered.
   “Any luck yet?” Michael called out to Perry.
   “Not yet,” Perry called back. “Just a bunch of rusted rifles.”
   “I’m going to take this stuff I got back to the window.”
   “All right, I’ll be there as soon as I find the pistol.”
   Michael added the crossbow to his burden and then struggled with the door. No sooner had he taken a step into the hall than he collided with Richard.
   Michael whimpered and dropped everything he was carrying. The heavy gold and bronze implements made a tremendous clatter against the marble floor.
   “Shut up, you ass!” Richard hissed. The racket exploding in the silence of the dark, deserted museum had scared him as much as the unexpected encounter had scared Michael.
   “What do you mean sneaking in here and scaring me shitless?” Michael spat.
   “What the hell’s been taking you so long?” Richard demanded.
   “We couldn’t find the room, okay?”
   Perry appeared in the doorway. “Good God, what on earth are you guys doing? Trying to wake up the entire city?”
   “It wasn’t my fault,” Michael said as he bent down to retrieve his booty.
   “Did you guys find the Luger?” Richard asked.
   “Not yet,” Perry said. “Where’s Donald?”
   “He’s already on his way back to the visitors’ palace,” Richard said. “There’s been a change in plans. The old fart Harvey Goldfarb was hiding in the submersible, and he’s come up with a new and better escape plan for us.”
   “Really?” Perry questioned. “What is it?”
   “We’re going to take hostages,” Richard said. “He says the Interterrans are so afraid of violent death that they’d do anything, including letting us out into the ocean with the submersible, if we got a couple of their people and threaten to do them in.”
   “I like it,” Perry said. “But why did Donald go back before us?”
   “He’s worried about Suzanne, especially now that things look so promising. But he told me to tell you to get a move on it; as soon as you’re ready I’ll call an air taxi to get us back.”
   “All right,” Perry said. “Both of you come on in here. With all of us looking for the damn pistol we should be able to find it a lot faster.”

   The air taxi came to a halt and opened. It was hovering directly in front of the visitors’ palace dining room. Richard and Michael disembarked with some difficulty, both weighed down with an array of ancient armament. All Perry was carrying was the Luger, which he’d finally found.
   The three made their way up the ramp to the door. Both divers had donned the breastplates, helmets, and greaves rather than carry them in their arms. It was enough to be holding the shields, swords, daggers, and crossbow. Perry had tried to talk them out of taking the armor, but they were determined, and he gave up trying to reason with them. Michael and Richard were convinced in their words that the stuff was going to be worth a fortune topside.
   To their surprise the dining room was empty.
   “That’s odd,” Richard said. “He told me to meet him here.”
   “You don’t suppose he’s planning on bugging out of here without us, do you?” Michael questioned.
   “I don’t know,” Richard responded. “The idea never occurred to me.”
   “He’s not going without us,” Perry assured the two divers. “We just saw the Oceanus still parked where it’s always been, and he’s not going anyplace without that.”
   “How about Suzanne’s room?” Michael suggested.
   “I’d say that’s a good possibility,” Perry said.
   The long walk across the lawn was significantly noisy thanks to the continual clatter of the ancient armor.
   “You guys sound ridiculous,” Perry commented.
   “We didn’t ask for your opinion,” Richard said.
   As they rounded the open end of Suzanne’s cottage they saw Donald, Suzanne, and Harvey sitting in contour chairs near the pool’s edge. It was obvious the atmosphere was tense.
   “What’s wrong?” Perry questioned.
   “We’ve got a problem,” Donald said. “Suzanne’s not sure we’re doing the right thing.”
   “Why not, Suzanne?” Perry asked.
   “Because murder is wrong,” Suzanne said. “If we take hostages to the surface world without adaptation, they will die, plain and simple. We brought violence and death here and now we want to escape by it. I say it’s ethically despicable.”
   “Yeah, but I didn’t ask to come here,” Perry said hotly. “I don’t like to sound like a broken record, but we’re being held against our will. I think that justifies violence.”
   “But that’s confusing ends with means,” Suzanne said. “That’s exactly what we’re supposed to be against.”
   “All I know is that I have a family that I miss,” Perry said. “I’m going to see them again come hell or high water!”
   “I empathize with you,” Suzanne said. “Truly! And I feel responsible about the whole situation. And it is true we were abducted. But I don’t want to see any more deaths, nor do I want to see Interterra unwittingly destroyed. We’re ethically obligated to negotiate. These people are so peaceful.”
   “Peaceful?” Richard questioned. “I’d say boring!”
   “I can vouch for that,” Harvey said.
   “Perry, this is Harvey Goldfarb,” Donald said.
   Perry and Harvey shook hands.
   “I don’t know what we’re supposed to negotiate,” Donald said. “Arak made it clear we’re here for good, no buts, ifs, or maybes. A statement like that precludes negotiation.”
   “I think we should let a little more time pass,” Suzanne said. “What’s wrong with that? Maybe we will change our minds, or maybe we’ll be able to convince them to alter theirs. We’ve got to remember that we’ve all brought down here our personalities and psychological baggage geared to the world above, plus we’re so accustomed to seeing ourselves as the ‘good guys’ that it’s difficult to realize when we are the monsters.”
   “I don’t feel like a monster,” Perry said. “I don’t belong here.”
   “Me neither,” Michael said.
   “Let me make another point,” Suzanne said. “For the sake of argument, let’s say we manage to get out of here. What happens then? Do we reveal Interterra’s existence?”
   “It will be hard not to,” Donald said. “Where would we say we’ve been for the last month or however long it’s been?”
   “And what about me?” Harvey said. “I’ve been here for almost ninety years.”
   “That’s even harder to explain,” Donald agreed.
   “We’d also have to have some explanation where we got all the gold and armor,” Richard said. “ ’Cause this stuff’s going with me.”
   “And what about the economic possibilities of our serving as intermediaries?” Perry said. “We could help both sides and end up millionaires many times over. Just the wrist communicators alone will cause a technological sensation.”
   “I rest my case,” Suzanne said. “One way or the other we’d be exposing Interterra. Stop and think about our civilization and its exploitive greed. We don’t like to think of ourselves in that light, but it’s true. We are selfish, both as individuals and as nations. There’d be a confrontation without doubt, and as advanced as the Interterran civilization is, with power and weapons we cannot even imagine, it will be a disaster, maybe even the end of the world as far as secondary humans are concerned.”
   For several minutes no one spoke.
   “I don’t care about all that crap,” Richard said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I want out of here.”
   “No question,” Michael chimed in.
   “Me, too,” Perry said.
   “Ditto,” Donald said. “Once we’re out, we can negotiate with these Interterrans. At least at that point it will be a real negotiation without them dictating to us.”
   “What about you, Harvey?” Perry asked.
   “I’ve been dreaming about getting out for years,” Harvey said.
   “It’s decided, then,” Donald said. “We’re going!”
   “Not me,” Suzanne said. “I don’t want any more deaths on my conscience. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any immediate family, but I’m willing to give Interterra a chance. I know I’ve got a lot of adjusting to do, but I like paradise. It’s worth a bit of self-examination.”
   “I’m sorry, Suzanne,” Donald said, staring her in the eye. “If we go, you go. Your high moral standards are not going to screw up our plan.”
   “What are you going to do, force me to go?” Suzanne demanded irritably.
   “Absolutely,” Donald said. “Let me remind you, field commanders have been known to shoot their own men if the men’s behavior threatens to compromise an operation.”
   Suzanne didn’t respond. Instead she slowly looked around at the others in the room. Her expression was blank. No one made a motion in her defense.
   “Let’s get back to business,” Donald said finally. “Did you get the Luger?”
   “We did,” Perry reported. “It was hard to find, but we managed.”
   “Let me see it,” Donald said.
   As Perry took the pistol out of his tunic pocket, Suzanne bolted from the room. Richard was the first to respond. Dropping what he had in his hands, and disregarding the armor he was wearing, he raced out into the night after her. Thanks to his superb physical shape he was able to close the gap quickly and managed to get hold of Suzanne’s wrist. He pulled her to a stop. Both were panting.
   “You’re playing into Donald’s hands,” Richard managed to say between breaths.
   “As if I care,” Suzanne replied. “Let me go!”
   “He’ll shoot you,” Richard said. “He loves playing this military crap. I’m warning you.”
   Suzanne struggled for a moment in an attempt to free herself, but it was soon clear that Richard was not about to let her go. The others arrived and gathered round. Donald was holding the Luger.
   “You’re forcing me to act,” Donald said menacingly.
   “I hope you realize that.”
   “Who is forcing whom?” Suzanne asked scornfully.
   “Bring her back inside!” Donald said. “We have to resolve this once and for all.” He started back toward the cottage. The others followed with Richard maintaining an iron grip on Suzanne’s wrist. She tried briefly to struggle but quickly became resigned to be dragged back toward her room.
   “Bring her in and sit her down,” Donald called over his shoulder as the group rounded the pool.
   Coming into the light Richard noticed how blue Suzanne’s hand had become. Concerned about her circulation, he loosened his hold. The instant he did, she yanked herself free and straight-armed him with a resounding thump in the center of his chest. Caught off guard, Richard toppled into the deep end of the pool. Suzanne bolted back out into the night.
   With the heavy armor dragging him under the surface, Richard floundered despite his being a powerful and accomplished swimmer. Donald tossed the pistol onto one of the contour chairs and dove into the water. Perry and Michael did what they could from the pool’s edge until they realized that Suzanne had escaped yet again.
   “Get her!” Perry cried. “I’ll help here.”
   Michael took off and the effort expended gave him unqualified respect for the famed hoplites of old, and he wondered how those ancient warriors had managed considering the weight of their armor. He found the breastplate particularly difficult to run in although the heavy helmet and greaves did not help either. Once clear of the cone of light emanating from the interior, he clanked to a halt. Without being dark adapted he was blinded by the darkness. Suzanne was nowhere to be seen although she’d had only a minute or so head start.
   As the minutes ticked by and his eyes adjusted, details of the scene emerged from the gloom but still no Suzanne. Then, sudden movement and a startling patch of bright light off to his right got his attention. When he looked his heart leaped. It was an air taxi that had arrived and opened some fifty yards away in the vicinity of the dining hall.
   Michael took off running again with his strong legs pumping. As he rapidly closed on the craft, he knew it was going to be close. Ahead he could see Suzanne clamber aboard and throw herself onto the banquette with her right hand palm down on the central table.
   “No!” Michael yelled as he launched himself at the taxi’s port. But he was too late. What had been an opening only moments earlier was now the seamless cowling of the air taxi. Michael collided against it and ricocheted off with the clang of metal against metal. The collision knocked him to the ground and the helmet from his head. In the next instant the air taxi ascended with a whoosh, leaving Michael momentarily weightless in its wake. Like a helium balloon he floated free from the ground for almost a foot before falling back like a dead weight.
   The second collision knocked the wind out of him. He writhed on the ground. When he managed to catch his breath, he scrambled to his feet and made his way back to the cottage. By then, the others had gotten the sodden Richard into one of the contour chairs, where he was coughing deeply.
   Donald looked up as Michael charged in. “Where the hell is she?”
   “She got away in an air taxi!” Michael gasped.
   “You let her get away?” Donald cried. He stood up from where he was squatting next to Richard. He was incensed.
   “I couldn’t stop her,” Michael said. “She must have called the damn taxi the second she left here.”
   “Christ!” Donald said. He put a hand to his forehead and shook his head. “Such incompetence! I can’t believe it!”
   “Hey, I did what I could,” Michael complained.
   “Let’s not argue,” Perry chimed in.
   “Shit!” Donald shouted as he stormed around in a circle.
   “I should have decked her,” Richard choked.
   Donald stopped his angry pacing. “We’ve hardly started this operation, and we’ve already got a crisis. There’s no telling what she’ll do. We’ve got to move and move fast! Michael, you get your ass back to the Oceanus and don’t let anyone near it!”
   “Roger!” Michael said. He grabbed his crossbow and quiver and darted back out into the night.
   “We need hostages and we need them fast,” Donald said.
   “What about Arak and Sufa?” Perry said.
   “They’d be perfect,” Donald said. “Let’s call them over here and hope Suzanne hasn’t talked to them first. We’ll have them come to the dining hall.”
   “What about Ismael and Mary Black?” Perry suggested.
   “The more the better,” Harvey said.
   “Fine,” Donald said. “We’ll call them, too. But that’s all the room we have in the Oceanus. ”

   Suzanne’s pulse was racing. She’d never felt such anxiety. She knew she was lucky to have gotten away from the group and couldn’t help wondering what would have happened had she not been able to. She shuddered. They seemed to have become strangers, even enemies in their single-mindedness to escape and their concomitant willingness to murder.
   Despite what she’d said on the spur of the moment back in her cottage, she wasn’t sure how she felt about anything other than her abhorrence at the idea of being a party to more death. Yet despite her confusion, in order to flee by air taxi she’d had to come up with a destination quickly to get the craft to seal. The first place that had come to her mind was the black pyramid and the Council of Elders.
   By the time the air taxi deposited Suzanne at her destination, she was more composed. The transit time had given her an opportunity to think more rationally. She reasoned that the Council of Elders more than anyone should know how to handle the crisis quickly and without injury to anyone.
   As she mounted the causeway leading to the pyramid she noticed the entire area was deserted. As a major Interterran governmental center, she’d assumed there would be people available twenty-four hours a day. But this hardly seemed to be the case even after she’d entered the gigantic structure.
   Suzanne walked down the gleaming white marble corridor. She saw no one. Approaching the huge, paneled bronze doors, she began to wonder what she should do. Knocking seemed ridiculous given the scale of the surroundings. But she need not have been concerned. The doors opened automatically just as they had that morning.
   Walking into the circular colonnaded room beyond, Suzanne advanced to the center and stopped in the same place she’d stood that morning. She looked around at the empty chamber, wondering what to do next.
   The silence was complete.
   “Hello!” Suzanne called. When there was no answer she called again, louder. Then she called out again, this time at the top of her lungs. Thanks to the dome, she heard her voice echo clearly.
   “Can I be of assistance?” a young girl’s voice asked calmly.
   Suzanne turned. Behind her, framed in the huge portal, was Ala. Her fine blond hair was in disarray, as if she’d just been pulled from her bed.
   “I’m sorry to bother you,” Suzanne said. “I’ve come because of an emergency. You must stop my fellow secondary humans. They are about to attempt an escape, and if they do, the secret of Interterra will be lost.”
   “Escape is difficult from Interterra,” Ala said. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. It was a gesture so childlike that Suzanne had to remind herself she was dealing with an individual of extraordinary intelligence and experience.
   “They plan to use the submersible we arrived in,” Suzanne said. “It is at the Earth Surface Museum.”
   “I see,” Ala said. “It would still be difficult, but perhaps it would be best if I send some worker clones to incapacitate the vessel. I will also call the Council for an emergency session. I trust you will be willing to stay and confer with us.”
   “Of course,” Suzanne said. “I want very much to help.” She thought about bringing up the tragic deaths that had already occurred but decided there would be time for that later.
   “This is an unexpected and disturbing development,” Ala said. “Why have your friends decided to try to escape?”
   “They say because of their families and because they have not been given a choice. But they are a very varied group, and there are other issues as well.”
   “It sounds as if they don’t yet realize how very lucky they are.”
   “I think that’s fair to say,” Suzanne agreed.

   An air taxi settled down and opened in the dark and deeply shadowed museum courtyard. Two heavily muscled worker clones disembarked. Both carried sledgehammers, but only one set out for the Benthic Marine submersible. The other kept the air taxi from leaving by maintaining a grip on the edge of the taxi’s opening port.
   The first worker clone wasted no time. Reaching the submersible he went directly to the housing for the main battery pack. With practiced hands he opened the fiberglass access panel to expose the main power connector. Then, stepping back, he raised the sledge over his head in preparation of rendering the unit inoperable.
   But the heavy hammer did not come down in its normal arc. Instead it slipped from the clone’s hands and fell to the ground with a thud the moment a crossbow bolt pierced the clone’s throat. With a gasping sound he staggered back, clawing at the imbedded missile. A mixture of blood and a clear fluid like mineral oil gushed forth, drenching his black coveralls. After a few awkward steps, the clone toppled over onto his back. Several twitches later, he was still.
   Michael cranked the crossbow drawstring back and positioned another bolt. Thus armed he stood up from his hiding place alongside the museum wall and cautiously approached the downed clone. Michael had neither seem nor heard the air taxi: it had landed just out of sight. He felt lucky he’d looked back at the submersible the moment he did, for he had been dozing on and off despite his efforts to stay alert.
   Keeping the crossbow trained on the clone, Michael reached out with his right foot and gave the body a kick. The clone didn’t respond although there was another small surge of blood and fluid from the through-and-through neck wound.
   Taking one hand away from the crossbow to give himself better balance, Michael gave the body one last, good kick to make sure there was no question about its status. To his shock, the crossbow was ripped out of his hand.
   Startled, Michael whirled around to find himself facing a second clone, who’d tossed the crossbow aside and was raising a sledgehammer over his head. Michael instinctively put his hands up although he knew it would be no defense against the coming blow. Back peddling he tripped over the fallen clone and fell across the downed worker, losing his helmet in the process.
   Michael desperately rolled to the side as the hammer came down with jarring force, crunching the already incapacitated clone. As the second clone regained his balance and retracted his weapon for another blow, Michael pushed himself up on one knee and drew his Greek short sword. As the clone again lifted the sledge over his head, exposing his abdomen, Michael lunged forward. With Michael’s full weight behind the thrust the sword buried itself to its hilt. A mixture of blood and clear oil gushed onto Michael’s chest.
   The startled clone dropped the sledge and grabbed Michael’s head with his two hands. Michael felt himself being lifted off the ground. But it didn’t last. The inordinate strength of the clone ebbed, and he toppled over, dragging Michael with him.
   It took almost five minutes for the worker clone’s grip around Michael’s head to relax enough for Michael to extract himself. As he got to his feet he shuddered through a wave of nausea at the smell of the fluid leaking out of the two downed clones. It was like a combination of a slaughter house and an auto repair shop.
   Michael retrieved the crossbow. He had new respect for the danger the clones represented. He’d been surprised the second clone had attacked him, and he reasoned that they must have been given some blanket order. The episode also underlined the fact that the clones had no trouble with violence, just as Harv had warned.

Chapter 19

   “Maybe we should have pulled this off after dinner,” Richard said. “I’m starved.”
   “This is no time for humor,” Perry said.
   “Who’s making a joke?” Richard said.
   “This must be them,” Harvey called from the door, where Donald had ordered him to stay as a lookout. “An air taxi has just dropped down outside.”
   The group was in the dining room waiting for Arak, Sufa, and the Blacks.
   “All right, troops,” Donald said. “This is it. Let’s be prepared.”
   Richard picked up one of the Greek swords. After his dunk in the pool he’d dispensed with the armor. Donald removed the clip from the Luger for the twentieth time, checked it, and replaced it. He made sure a cartridge was in the firing chamber.
   Arak, Sufa, the Blacks, and four large worker clones swept into the room.
   “Okay,” Arak said, slightly out of breath. “Everything is going to be fine, so please just relax.”
   According to plan, Harvey pushed the door closed with a resounding thud. Arak ignored the noise. Harvey walked around the periphery of the room. Along with Perry and Richard he stood behind Donald.
   “First,” Arak said, “you must understand that you cannot escape. We cannot permit it.”
   “Word travels fast,” Donald said. “So Suzanne has already gotten to you.”
   “We were informed by the Council of Elders,” Arak said. “We heard from them just after you requested our presence. Now that we are here, we’d like to request that you return to your individual cottages. I repeat: you cannot escape.”
   “We shall see,” Donald said. “For the time being, we are going to be giving the orders.”
   “That is out of the question,” Arak remarked. Then, turning to the clones, he said, “Restrain them without hurting them, please!”
   Obediently the clones surged forward.
   Donald brandished the pistol and took several steps back. His coconspirators did the same.
   “Don’t come any closer!” Donald commanded.
   “I don’t think they know what a gun is,” Perry said nervously.
   “They are going to learn quickly,” Donald said. While continuing to back up he raised the gun and aimed at the face of the clone coming directly at him.
   “Arak!” Ismael cried. “He’s got a gun. Arak—”
   “Stop, please!” Donald ordered the clones.
   Having been commanded by an Interterran, the clones ignored Donald and continued closing in on the retreating secondary humans. Donald pulled the Luger’s trigger and it fired with a roar. The slug hit the lead clone in the forehead. He wobbled and then collapsed backward to the floor. A clear viscous fluid flowed out of the wound onto the marble. Curiously his legs continued to move as if he were still advancing.
   Arak and Sufa gasped.
   Undaunted, the other clones continued to approach. Donald swung the gun around to the one closing on Perry and fired again. The bullet struck the second clone in the temple. He collapsed as well, though his legs, too, continued moving.
   “Halt, please,” Arak shouted with a quavering voice to the two remaining clones. The clones obeyed instantly. Arak’s face had gone pale and he was shaking. Meanwhile, the scissoring motion of the legs of the two on the ground slowed, then stopped.
   Donald was now holding the pistol with two hands. He swung it around and pointed it at Arak. “That’s better,” he told the terrified Interterran. “Just so we understand one another, you are next.”
   “Please,” Sufa cried. “No more violence. Please!”
   “We’re happy to oblige,” Donald said without lowering the gun. “Just do as we say, and everything will be cool. Arak, I want you to make a few contacts with your wrist unit, then we’ll be leaving here.”

   Suzanne was impressed with the equanimity the elders displayed despite the grave crisis. She, on the other hand, was growing progressively more anxious; the dispatches coming back to the council suggested that her former colleagues were succeeding.
   While the council had convened, Suzanne had been offered food and then returned to the colonnaded hall. Like that morning she was again asked to be in the center although on this occasion she’d been supplied with a chair similar in style though smaller than those occupied by the elders. She was facing Ala with the bronze doors at her back.
   “The problem seems to be getting worse,” Ala said after listening for a moment to her wrist communicator. Her clear, high-pitched voice was not hurried or harried. “The wayward group along with four human hostages are now approaching Barsama with their intact submersible. Arak is awaiting our orders.”
   “I’ve never dealt with such a situation as this in all my lifetimes,” Ponu said. “Four worker clones have been prematurely dispatched. That is disturbing, indeed.”
   “You can stop them, can’t you?” Suzanne blurted. She was beginning to find the calmness of the council unnerving. “And you can do it without injuring them, can’t you?”
   Ala leaned forward toward Suzanne, ignoring her questions. “There is one issue we must be absolutely sure of,” she said calmly. “We have witnessed that your colleagues have surprisingly little compunction about damaging worker clones. What about humans? Would they really be capable of hurting a human?”
   “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Suzanne said. “They are desperate.”
   “It is hard to believe they would do such a thing after they have had an opportunity to experience our culture,” Ponu said. “All our other visitors have unerringly adapted to our peaceful ways.”
   “Perhaps they would, too, given more of a chance,” Suzanne said. “But at this point they are dangerous to anyone who would thwart them.”
   “I’m not sure I believe that,” another elder said. “It’s contrary to our experience, as Ponu mentioned.”
   Suzanne felt frustrated to the point of anger. “I can prove the iniquity they are capable of,” she snapped. “They’ve left ample evidence in two of the cottages.”
   “And what might that be?” Ala asked as serenely as if she were discussing gardening.
   “They have already caused the deaths of two primary humans.”
   Suzanne’s words clearly stunned the council. They sat dumbfounded. “Are you sure of this?” Ala asked. For the first time her voice reflected distress.
   “I saw the bodies a few hours ago,” Suzanne said. “One was bludgeoned and the other drowned.”
   “I’m afraid this tragic news puts the current situation on a different plane,” Ala said.
   I should hope so, Suzanne thought to herself.
   “I recommend we seal the Barsama vent immediately,” Ponu said.
   A murmur of assent filled the chamber.
   Ala raised her wrist communicator and spoke briefly then lowered her arm. “It will be done,” she said.
   “How long will it take to connect the vent to the earth’s core?” Ponu asked.
   “A few hours,” Ala said.

   The doors were enormous, about two stories high and nine feet thick. They began to open inward on silent hinges. Arak was directing the activity with his wrist unit. He was in direct contact with Central Information. Donald was standing behind him with the pistol pressed into his back.
   Perry, Richard, and Michael were off to the side, keeping Sufa, Ismael, and Mary under close guard. Michael was still in his Greek armor, refusing steadfastly to give it up. Harvey was in the passenger portion of the antigravity freighter, which was carrying the Oceanus as its payload. He was ready to direct the craft into the decon chamber behind the great doors.
   “That looks familiar,” Donald said as he caught sight of the stainless steel interior. “It reminds me of the room where we had our unsolicited bath on our way into Interterra.”
   A sudden rumble shook the ground, causing everyone to struggle with their balance. It lasted four or five seconds.
   “What the hell was that?” Perry demanded.
   Harvey poked his head out of the freighter. “We’d better hurry,” he called. “They must be opening a geothermal shaft.”
   “What would that do?” Donald yelled back.
   “Seal the exit vent,” Harvey shouted.
   “Come on, Arak!” Donald growled. “Speed this process up.”
   “I can’t do any more than I’m doing,” Arak said. “Besides, Harvey is right, there won’t be enough time. The port is going to be disabled.”
   “We’re not giving up after coming this far,” Donald warned. “In fifteen minutes Sufa’s going to be shot if we’re not out of here.”
   Another short vibration rumbled through the ground, signifying that the monstrous pressure doors were fully open.
   “Now it’s up to you,” Arak said. He waved to Harvey to bring in the freighter. “When the inner door opens, power into the launch and retrieval chamber. When that floods and the launch doors are open you’re free to ascend the vent.”
   “That’s not the way it is going to happen,” Donald said. “You’re going all the way, Arak. You and Sufa.”
   “No!” Arak cried. “No, please! We can’t. I’ve done what you’ve asked, and we cannot be exposed to the atmosphere without adaptation. We’ll die.”
   “I’m not asking,” Donald said. “I’m ordering.”
   Arak started to protest. Donald responded by pistol-whipping him across the face. Arak screamed and slapped his hands to his face. Blood oozed out between his fingers. Donald pushed him into the stainless steel room.
   The freighter responded to Harvey’s commands, effortlessly gliding into the decon chamber.
   “Come on, you guys,” Donald called to Perry and Richard. “Bring Sufa but leave the others.”
   As soon as everyone was inside, Donald pulled Arak away from Sufa, who was trying to comfort him. The man’s right eye was deeply purple and swollen.
   “Get this outer door closed and the inner one open, Arak,” Donald ordered.
   Arak mumbled into his wrist communicator and the big doors began to close. Another rumble, signaling a second earthquake, echoed through the room; it lasted slightly longer than the first.
   “Come on, Arak,” Donald warned. “Speed this up!”
   “I told you I can’t,” Arak cried.
   “Richard,” Donald called. “Get over here with one of your knives and cut off one of Sufa’s fingers.”
   “No, wait!” Arak sobbed. “I’ll do what I can.”
   Arak spoke into his wrist unit and the swing of the great doors quickened.
   “That’s much better,” Donald said. “Much better indeed.”
   The whole room shook for a moment with the concussion of the doors sealing. Almost simultaneously, inner doors of equal size began to swing open. Beyond was a huge black cavern similar to the one in which the secondary humans had found themselves on their way into Interterra. It had the same briny odor, no doubt from having been filled with salt water long ago.
   As soon as the inner door was fully open, Harvey directed the freighter to carry the submersible within. The others ran after it but were impeded by the mud.
   “Damn,” Perry said. “I forgot about this part.”
   “Get those inner doors closed!” Donald yelled to Arak as they caught up to the freighter. His voice echoed. He handed the gun to Perry. “We need lights. I’m going inside the submersible.”
   “Okay,” Perry said. He slipped his index finger around the trigger. It gave him a strange feeling. He’d never held a handgun, much less shot one.
   As Donald ascended the submersible’s rungs another earthquake hit. He had to hold on to keep from being flung off. In the distance a sputtering sound heralded a geyser of lava.
   “Shit!” Richard exclaimed. “We’re in a goddamn volcano.”
   As soon as the latest tremor stopped, Donald scampered the rest of the way up the ladder and disappeared inside the Oceanus. A moment later the exterior lights came on. It was none too soon; the inner doors were nearing their jambs. Once they were shut the only light sources would be the submersible and the fountain of lava in the distance. It was growing by the second.
   Donald’s head popped out of the submersible. “Let’s go, everybody,” he said. “Power’s up and life support’s on. We’re ready to button up.”
   Arak and Sufa were ordered to climb into the submersible followed by Harvey, Perry, and Michael. Michael finally had to take off the breastplate in order to get down the hatch. Richard was the last in. As he closed the hatch, he saw a surge of water begin to fill the cavern. He also heard popping noises as the water collided with lava to form steam.
   When Richard climbed down the ladder into the submersible, Donald told him to take a seat: he didn’t have any idea how much buffeting they would experience as the cavern filled. A few minutes later the Oceanus was bouncing around like a cork. Everyone held on for dear life.
   “What are we supposed to do at this point?” Donald yelled to Arak.
   “Nothing,” Arak said. “The water will carry the ship up the vent.”
   “So does this mean that we’ve made it?” Donald asked.
   “I guess you made it,” Arak responded sullenly. He reached over and gripped Sufa’s hand.

   Ala slowly lowered her arm. She’d had an ear to her wrist communicator. Although she’d been visibly upset at the word of Sart and Mura’s murders, her expression was again tranquil. In a calm voice she announced, “The Barsama vent was not sealed in time. The submersible has left the lock and is now in open ocean heading due west.”
   “And the hostages?” Ponu queried.
   “Only two are on board,” Ala said. “Arak and Sufa are still with the secondary humans. Ismael and Mary were left behind and are safe.”
   “Excuse me,” Suzanne said, trying to get her attention. What she was hearing seemed impossible. With all the powers and technology she’d imagined the Interterrans to have at their disposal, her erstwhile colleagues had apparently gotten away!
   “I believe we must now deal directly with these people,” Ala said, continuing to ignore Suzanne. “Too much is at stake.”
   “I think we should send them back and be over with this problem,” one of the elders to Suzanne’s left said. Suzanne swung around to face the woman. In contrast to the speaker of the council, this elder appeared to be in her midtwenties.
   “What do you mean send them back?” Suzanne asked incredulously. She felt that, with such a simple solution possible, it was no wonder none of the elders appeared particularly distraught by the developments.
   “I agree we must send them back,” an elder on the opposite side of the room said, disregarding Suzanne. Suzanne turned to look at the speaker, a boy of five or six.
   “Do we have general agreement?” Ala asked.
   A murmur of assent rose up from all the elders.
   “So be it,” Ala said. “We’ll send out a clone in a small intergalactic ship.”
   “Tell them to use the lowest power possible on the grid,” Ponu said as Ala spoke briefly into her wrist communicator.
   “Such an unfortunate episode,” one of the other elders said. “It is a tragedy, indeed.”
   “They aren’t going to be hurt, are they?” Suzanne asked. She refused to give up and, to her surprise, Ala finally responded to this question.
   “Are you asking about your friends?” Ala asked.
   “Yes!” Suzanne said with vexation.
   “No, they will not be hurt,” Ala said. “Just very surprised.”
   “I think Arak and Sufa’s sacrifice should be publicly acknowledged,” Ponu said.
   “With full honors,” the boy child said. There was another general murmur of assent.
   “Won’t Arak and Sufa be sent back, too?” Suzanne questioned.
   “Of course,” Ala said. “They will all be sent back.”
   Suzanne looked from one elder to another. She was totally confused.

   “I see light out the view port!” Perry said excitedly. They had been running for several hours with no conversation and with the instrument lights providing the only illumination. Everyone was exhausted.
   “Me, too,” Richard said from the opposite side of the Oceanus.
   “There better be light,” Donald said. “According to the gauge we’re at a depth of a hundred feet, and it’s dawn up there on the surface.”
   “Sounds reassuring,” Perry said. “How much longer do you think?”
   Donald glanced down at his sonar display. “I’ve been watching the bottom contours. I’d say in a couple of hours at most we’ll be within sight of the harbor islands off Boston.”
   “All right!” Richard and Michael cried simultaneously. They high-fived across the narrow aisle.
   “How much battery time do we have left?” Perry asked.
   “That’s the only problem,” Donald said. “It’s going to be close. We may have to swim the last hundred yards.”
   “That’s fine by me,” Harvey said. “I’d swim all the way to New York if I had to.”
   “What about my armor?” Michael said, suddenly concerned about his booty.
   “That’s your problem, sailor,” Donald said. “You’re the one who insisted on bringing it all.”
   “I’ll give you a hand if you share it with me,” Richard offered.
   “Screw you,” Michael said.
   “No arguments!” Perry said emphatically.
   They traveled in silence for several minutes until Arak spoke up. “You have your freedom from Interterra. Why did you take us, knowing what would happen to us?”
   “Insurance,” Donald said. “I wanted to be certain there would be no interference by your Council of Elders once we’d left Barsama port.”
   “You guys will also come in handy if anyone is foolish enough to doubt our story,” Richard said.
   Michael let out a guffaw.
   “But we shall perish,” Arak said.
   “We’ll take you to Massachusetts General Hospital,” Donald said. He smiled wryly. “I happen to know they like challenges.”
   “It would be to no avail,” Arak said glumly. “Your medicine is too primitive to help.”
   “Well, it’s the best we can do,” Donald said. He started to say something else, but then stopped. His smile faded.
   “What’s the matter?” Perry demanded. As tense as Perry was he was particularly sensitive to Donald’s expression.
   “We’ve got something weird here,” Donald said. He reached out to adjust the sonar display.
   “What is it?” Perry demanded.
   “Check the sonar,” Donald said. “It looks as if something is pursuing us, and it is coming very rapidly.”
   “How rapidly?” Perry asked.
   “This can’t be true,” Donald said with growing urgency. “The instruments are telling me it’s going over a hundred knots underwater!” He whirled about to face Arak. “Is this thing for real, and if so, what the hell is it?”
   “Probably an Interterran interplanetary ship,” Arak said, leaning forward to see the display.
   “They still know you are aboard, don’t they?” Donald demanded.
   “Certainly,” Arak said.
   Donald swung back around to the controls. “I don’t like this,” he snapped. “I’m going to surface.”
   “I don’t think we can,” Perry said. “It just got dark outside. It must be hovering directly over us.”
   The submersible began to shake with a low-frequency vibration.
   “Arak, what the hell are they doing?”
   “I don’t know,” Arak said. “Maybe they are about to draw us up into their air lock.”
   “Harvey, do you have any idea what’s going on?” Donald demanded.
   “Not the slightest idea,” Harvey said. Like the others he was holding on to the sides of his seat to keep from being thrown out of it. The vibration was increasing.
   Donald snatched the Luger and pointed it at Arak. “Contact these bastards and get them to stop whatever they are doing! If not, you are history.”
   “Look,” Perry called out, pointing to the side-scan sonar display. “You can see an image of the craft. It looks like a double-layered saucer.”
   “Oh, no!” Arak exclaimed when he saw the new image. “It’s not an interplanetary ship! It’s an intergalactic cruiser!”
   “What difference does that make?” Donald yelled. The vibration had increased to the point that it was truly difficult to stay in their seats. The heavy steel hull of the submersible creaked and groaned under the stress.
   “They are going to take us back!” Arak cried. “Sufa, they are going to take us back!”
   “It is all they could do,” Sufa sobbed. “It’s all they could do.”
   The vibration stopped with a jarring suddenness, but before anyone could respond, there was a tremendous upward acceleration. All the occupants were pressed into their seats with such force that, for the moment, they could not move or even breathe, and they were rapidly brought to the brink of unconsciousness. The inertial force was accompanied by a strange light that enveloped the submersible’s interior. In the next instant, everything reverted to normal except for a yaw, suggesting a wave action that wasn’t present earlier.
   “My God!” Donald groaned. “What the hell happened?” He moved, but his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, as if the air had become viscous. But the effect lasted only until he’d flexed his joints several times. Then he felt normal. Instinctively, his eyes scanned the instruments. He was surprised to see they were reading normally. But then he glanced at the battery level. To his dismay, the gauge showed the batteries had been drained of what charge they had had, indicating the submersible was on the brink of losing power. Then he saw something else astonishing: they were in only fifty feet of water! No wonder they were being buffeted by waves.
   Donald’s eyes shot over to the sonar display. The Interterran vessel, or whatever it was, had disappeared. Instead Donald could see that the ocean floor sloped upward. It appeared that dry land was a mere hundred fifty feet ahead.
   The other occupants of the submersible were reviving themselves after the bizarre ordeal.
   “I wonder if that’s what astronauts feel when they blast off into space?” Perry moaned.
   “If it is, I’m not interested in going,” Richard said.
   “It’s similar,” Arak said. “But not the same. Of course, you are too unsophisticated to recognize the difference.”
   “Shut up, Arak,” Donald said. “I’ve had enough of you.”
   “Indeed you have,” Arak said. “And you deserve your fate.”
   “Prepare to surface,” Donald said. “We’re running out of power.”
   “Oh, no!” Perry cried.
   “It’s going to be okay,” Donald assured everyone as he used compressed gas to blow ballast. “We’ve got dry land dead ahead.”
   The surge of the submersible increased dramatically as they came up and broached. While there was still a bit of power left, Donald frantically tried to get a LORAN fix. When that didn’t work he tried the Geosat. That didn’t work either. “I can’t understand this,” he said. He scratched his head. It didn’t make sense. “Somebody go up into the sail, crack the hatch, and see if they recognize where we are. We should be somewhere in Boston Harbor.”
   “I’ll go,” Michael said. “This area’s my old stomping ground.”
   “Be careful with this wave action,” Donald warned.
   “As if I haven’t been in boats much,” Michael scoffed.
   While Michael climbed the ladder up into the hatchway, Donald rapidly took everything nonessential off-line to conserve what little power remained in the batteries. But it was no use. The batteries were drained, and a moment later the lights went out, and they lost all headway.
   Up in the sail they heard Michael crack the hatch. Pale morning light shined down into the darkened submersible. They could feel the humid sea air and hear the harsh but welcome cry of seagulls.
   “That’s music to my ears,” Richard said.
   “We’re just off one of the harbor islands,” Michael called out from above. “I don’t know which one.”
   At that moment the submersible struck the sandy bottom with a jolt and began to turn sideways in the surf.
   “We’ve got to get out of here!” Donald cried. “This thing is going to founder.”
   As the secondary humans scrambled out of their seats, Arak and Sufa raised their hands and pressed palms lovingly. “For Interterra,” Arak said.
   “For Interterra,” Sufa repeated.
   “Come on, you two,” Donald yelled to the two primary humans. “This sub’s about to tip over, and when it does it’s going to flood.”
   Arak and Sufa ignored him but instead continued to press palms dreamily.
   “Suit yourselves,” Donald said.
   “Someone bring up my armor,” Michael yelled down the hatch.
   There was a mad scramble up the ladder, especially after the sub careened and a slosh of water came crashing down the hatchway. Topside everyone except Michael jumped into the surf and struck out for nearby shore. Michael tried to go back down the ladder but changed his mind when the boat heeled over completely. It was with some difficulty that he managed to swim free.
   Harvey had to be helped in the wild surf, but everyone except the Interterrans made it to the steeply pitched beach, where they flopped down in the warm sand. Michael was the last to pull himself from the undertow. Richard teased him mercilessly about his sunken Greek armor.
   The weather was superb. It was a mild, hazy summer morning. Warm sunlight sparkled across the water, giving an inkling of what its midday power would be. After the effort in the surf, the group was content to rest, suck in the fresh air, watch the gulls soar, and allow the sun to dry the flimsy satin garments clinging to their bodies.
   “Now I feel sad about Arak and Sufa,” Perry said wistfully. The Oceanus had tipped over on its side and was filled with water. It was already farther off the shore than when they’d disembarked. The wave action was dragging it back out to sea.
   “Not me,” Richard said. “Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”
   “It’s too bad about the submersible, though,” Donald said. “It’s not going to last long out there. It will probably end up on the bottom off the continental shelf. Damn! I was hoping to power it right into Boston Harbor.”
   Just after Donald spoke a particularly big set of waves reared up. After they broke and the foam receded, the submersible was gone from sight.
   “Well, there it goes,” Perry said.
   “After our story is told I’m sure there will be a lot of pressure to salvage it,” Michael said. “It’ll probably end up in the Smithsonian.”
   “Where are we?” Harvey asked. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked back at the low, windswept island. It seemed to be only sand, seashells, and saw grass.
   “We told you,” Donald said. “It’s one of the many Boston Harbor islands.”
   “How are we going to get to town?” Perry asked.
   “A couple hours from now there’ll be pleasure boats all around here,” Michael said. “Once people hear our story they’re going to be fighting over the honor of giving us a ride.”
   “I’m looking forward to a nice dinner where I know what I’m eating,” Perry said. “And a telephone! I want to call my wife and daughters. Then I want to sleep for about forty-eight hours.”
   “I’ll second that,” Donald said. “Come on! Let’s walk around to the windward side. Even from a distance a gander at old Beantown will do my heart good.”
   “I’m with you,” Perry said.
   The group got to their feet, stretched, and started hiking along the beach in the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge. Despite their exhaustion, they began to sing. Even Donald was drawn into the merriment.
   Rounding a point forming the side of a small inlet, the group stopped in their tracks and fell silent. Not more than a couple of hundred feet upwind from them was an old gray-haired man clamming in the shadows. He had beached a moderate-sized skiff. Its lateen sail was luffing in the steady breeze.
   “Isn’t this a happy coincidence?” Perry said.
   “I can taste the coffee and feel those clean sheets already,” Michael said. “Come on, let’s make this old guy a hero. They’ll probably put him on CNN.”
   With a whoop, the group broke into a run. The fisherman panicked at the sight of the pack of bellowing men charging toward him across the dunes. Dashing to his boat, he tossed in his pail and net and tried to flee.
   Richard was the first on the scene, and he raced out into waist-deep water to grasp the boat’s transom and slow its progress.
   “Hey, old man, what’s the rush?” Richard questioned.
   The fisherman responded by releasing his sail. With an oar he tried to fend Richard off. Richard grabbed the oar, yanked it out of the man’s grip, and tossed it aside. The others ran out into the water and latched onto the boat.
   “Not a very friendly chap,” Richard remarked. The fisherman was standing amidships, glaring at the group.
   Harvey retrieved the oar and brought it back.
   “No wonder,” Perry said. He looked down at himself and then at the others. “Look at us! What would you think if four guys dressed in lingerie came running out of the morning mist?”
   The entire group broke down into giddy laughter fueled by exhaustion and stress. It took them several minutes to regain a semblance of control.
   “Sorry, old man,” Perry said between chokes of laughter. “Pardon our appearance and our behavior. But we’ve had one hell of a night.”
   “Too much grog, I suspect,” the fisherman said.
   The fisherman’s response sent them off on another laughing jag. But eventually they recovered enough to convince the man that they were not dangerous and that he would be generously compensated if he gave them a ride into Boston proper. With that decided, the men climbed into the boat.
   It was a pleasant ride especially in comparison with the tense hours in the tight, claustrophobic submersible. Between the warm sun, the soft whisper of the wind in the sail, and the gentle roll of the boat, all but the fisherman were fast asleep before the skiff rounded the island.
   With a steady breeze the fisherman expertly brought the boat into the harbor in good time. Unsure of where his passengers wanted to be dropped off, he gave the nearest person’s shoulder a shake. Perry responded groggily to the prodding and for a moment had trouble opening his eyes. When he did, the fisherman posed his question.
   “I guess it doesn’t matter where,” Perry said. With supreme effort he sat up. His mouth was dry and cottony. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he glanced around the harbor. Then he rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and stared at the surroundings.
   “Where the hell are we?” he demanded. He was confused. “I thought we were supposed to be in Boston.”
   “ ’Tis Boston,” the fisherman said. He pointed to the right. “Them there is Long Wharf.”
   Perry rubbed his eyes again. For a moment he wondered if he were hallucinating. He was looking at a harbor scene of square-rigged sailing ships, schooners, and horse drays along a granite quay. The tallest buildings were wood frame and a mere four or five stories.
   Fighting off a wave of disbelief that bordered on terror, Perry shook Donald awake in a panic, crying that something was terribly wrong. The commotion awoke the others as well. When they took in the scene, they were equally dumbfounded.
   Perry turned back to the fisherman, who was lowering the sail. “What year is this?” he asked hesitantly.
   “Year of our Lord seventeen hundred ninety-one,” the fisherman said.
   Perry’s mouth dropped open. He looked back at the square-rigged sailing ships. “Good God! They put us back in time.”
   “Come on!” Richard complained. “This has got to be some kind of joke.”
   “Maybe they’re making a movie,” Michael suggested.
   “I don’t think so,” Donald said slowly. “That’s what Arak meant when he said they were going to take us back. He meant back in time not back to Interterra.”
   “The intergalactic ships must involve time technology,” Perry said. “I guess that’s the only way travel to another galaxy is possible.”
   “My god,” Donald muttered. “We’re marooned. Nobody is going to believe our story about Interterra, and the technology doesn’t exist to prove it or for us to get back there.”
   Perry nodded as he stared ahead with unseeing eyes. “People are going to think we’re mad.”
   “What about the submersible?” Richard cried. “Let’s go back!”
   “And do what?” Donald asked. “We’d never find it, much less salvage it.”
   “I’m not going to see my family after all,” Perry cried. “We gave up paradise for colonial America? I don’t believe it.”
   “You know, I’ve finally figured out where you lubbers are from,” the fisherman said as he readied the oars.
   “Really,” Perry said, without interest.
   “There’s not a doubt in my mind,” the fisherman continued. “You’ve got to be from that college up the Charles River. You Harvard fellows are always making fools of yourselves.”

Glossary

   asthenosphere A zone within the earth ranging in depth from 50 to 200 km; it is the upper part of the mantle (see below), situated directly below the lithosphere (see below). This area is theorized to be molten and yielding to plastic flow.

   basalt A dark, almost black rock formed from the cooling and solidification of molten silicate minerals. It forms a large part of the oceanic crust.

   bathypelagic An adjective relating to moderately deep ocean depths (2,000-12,000 ft).

   caldera A crater formed by the collapse of a volcano’s summit.

   circadian An adjective relating to a twenty-four-hour cycle.

   dike A tabular rock formation arising from molten rock forced up a cleft or fissure and then solidifying.

   dinoflagellates A type of plankton (see below) that includes many bioluminescent varieties. Dinoflagellates also cause red tide.

   ectogenesis Embryonic development outside the womb.

   epipelagic An adjective relating to the part of the surface ocean in which enough light penetrates to support photosynthesis.

   foraminifera Tiny marine protozoans whose calcerous shells form chalk and the most widely distributed limestone.

   gabbro A dark, sometimes green rock that makes up a significant part of the lowest part of the oceanic crust.

   gamete A male or female germ cell.

   globigerina ooze A cream-colored muck that covers a good portion of the deep ocean floor and is composed mainly of the minute skeletons of foraminifera (see above).

   graben A fault block that has dropped below the height of the surrounding rock.

   guyot A seamount (see below) with a flat top.

   lithosphere The rigid crust of the earth; it includes the sea floor as well as the continents.

   mantle An inner layer of the earth, between the lithosphere (see above) and the central core.

   microsome Any of the various minute subcellular structures.

   Mohorovicic discontinuity An area within the earth where there is a large change in the transmission of seismic waves. It is between 5 and 10 km below the ocean floor and about 35 km below the continents.

   Pangaea A single continent that began breaking up in the Mesozoic era by the action of plate tectonics to form the present-day continents.

   peridotite A dark rock deep within the mantle.

   plankton Microscopic plants (phytoplankton) and animals (zooplankton) that exist in such prodigious numbers that they form the base of the oceanic food chain.

   Richter scale A method of expressing the magnitude of earthquakes.

   seamount An underwater mountain usually formed by volcanic activity.

   thermocline A relatively stable, abrupt temperature change in a body of water.

   zygote A cell formed by the union of two gametes (see above) which has the potential to form a new individual.

Selected Bibliography

   Ballard, Robert, Explorations: A Life of Underwater Adventure. New York: Hyperion, 1995.

   Ellis, Richard, Deep Atlantic: Life, Death, and Exploration in the Abyss. New York: Knopf, 1996. The illustrations alone make this a joy!

   Ellis, Richard, Imaging Atlantis. New York: Knopf, 1998.

   Kunzig, Robert, The Restless Sea. New York: Norton, 1999. An extremely well-written, enjoyable book that gives one a sense of the importance and breadth of oceanography.

   Verne, Jules, Voyage au Centre de la Terre. Paris: 1864. (English translation: Voyage to the Center of the Earth. New York: Kensington, 1999.)

   Verne, Jules, Vingt Mille Lieues Sous les Mers. Paris: 1870. (English translation: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Annapolis, Md.: United States Naval Institute, 1993.)

Blindsight

Robin Cook

Blindsight
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue

Blindsight
by Robin Cook

   To David and Laurel and Their New Life Together

Acknowledgments

   I would like to thank the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office for putting up with me for a week, and particularly Dr. Charles Wetli, whose patience talking with someone trained in Ophthalmology and Surgery instead of Forensic Pathology was extraordinary. I would also like to thank Dr. Charles Hirsch, Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, for his hospitality, and Dr. Jackie Lee for her willingness to share a glimpse into the more personal side of Forensic Pathology.
   Last, but not least, I would like to thank Jean Reeds, whose intuitive sense of psychology makes her support, advice, and criticism inordinately valuable.


   The cocaine shot into Duncan Andrews’ antecubital vein in a concentrated bolus after having been propelled by the plunger of a syringe. Chemical alarms sounded immediately. A number of the blood cells and plasma enzymes recognized the cocaine molecules as being part of a family of compounds called alkaloids, which are manufactured by plants and include such physiologically active substances as caffeine, morphine, strychnine, and nicotine.
   In a desperate but vain attempt to protect the body from this sudden invasion, plasma enzymes called cholesterases attacked the cocaine, splitting some of the foreign molecules into physiologically inert fragments. But the cocaine dose was overwhelming. Within seconds the cocaine was streaking through the right side of the heart, spreading through the lungs, and then heading out into Duncan’s body.
   The pharmacologic effects of the drug began almost instantly. Some of the cocaine molecules tumbled into the coronary arteries and began constricting them and reducing blood flow to the heart. At the same time the cocaine began to diffuse out of the coronary vessels into the extracellular fluid, bathing the hardworking heart muscle fibers. There the foreign compound began to interrupt the movement of sodium ions through the heart cells’ membranes, a critical part of the heart muscle contractile function. The result was that cardiac conductivity and contractility began to fall.
   Simultaneously the cocaine molecules fanned out throughout the brain, having coursed up into the skull through the carotid arteries. Like knives through butter, the cocaine penetrated the blood brain barrier. Once inside the brain, the cocaine bathed the defenseless brain cells, pooling in spaces called synapses across which the nerve cells communicated.
   Within the synapses the cocaine began to exert its most perverse effects. It became an impersonator. By an ironic twist of chemical fate, an outer portion of the cocaine molecule was erroneously recognized by the nerve cells as a neurotransmitter, either epinephrine, norepinephrine, or dopamine. Like skeleton keys, the cocaine molecules insinuated themselves into the molecular pumps responsible for absorbing these neurotransmitters, locking them, and bringing the pumps to a sudden halt.
   The result was predictable. Since the reabsorption of the neurotransmitters was blocked, the neurotransmitters’ stimulative effect was preserved. And the stimulation caused the release of more neurotransmitters in an upward spiral of self-fulfilling excitation. Nerve cells that would have normally reverted to quiescence and serenity began to fire frantically.
   The brain progressively brimmed with activity, particularly the pleasure centers deeply embedded below the cerebral cortex. Here dopamine was the principal neurotransmitter. With a perverse predilection the cocaine blocked the dopamine pumps, and the dopamine concentration soared. Circuits of nerve cells divinely wired to ensure the survival of the species rang with excitement and filled afferent pathways running up to the cortex with ecstatic messages.
   But the pleasure centers were not the only areas of Duncan’s brain to be affected, just some of the first. Soon the darker side of the cocaine invasion began to exert its effect. Phylogenetically older, more caudal centers of the brain involving functions like muscle coordination and the regulation of breathing began to be affected. Even the thermoregulatory area began to be stimulated, as well as the part of the brain responsible for vomiting.
   Thus all was not well. In the middle of the rush of pleasurable impulses, an ominous condition was in the making. A dark cloud was forming on the horizon, auguring a horrible neurological storm. The cocaine was about to reveal its true deceitful self: a minion of death disguised in an aura of beguiling pleasure.

Prologue

   Duncan Andrews’ mind was racing like a runaway train. Only a moment ago he’d been in a groggy, drugged stupor. Within seconds his dizziness and lethargy had evaporated like a drip of water falling onto a sizzling skillet. A rush of exhilaration and energy consumed him, making him feel suddenly powerful. It was as if he could do anything. In a glow of new clarity, he understood he was infinitely stronger and smarter than he’d ever realized. But just as he was beginning to savor this cascade of euphoric thoughts and this enlightened view of his abilities, he began to feel overwhelmed by intense waves of pleasure he could define only as pure ecstasy. He would have shouted for joy if only his mouth could form the proper words. But he couldn’t speak. Thoughts and feelings were reverberating in his mind too rapidly to vocalize. Any fear or misgivings he had been feeling only minutes ago melted in this newfound rapture and delight.
   But like his torpor, the pleasure was short-lived. The blissful smile that had formed on Duncan’s face twisted into a grimace of terror and panic. A voice called out that the people he feared were returning. His eyes darted around the room. He saw no one, yet the voice continued its message. Quickly he looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. It was empty. Turning his head, he looked down the hallway toward the bedroom. No one was there, but the voice remained. Now it was whispering a more dire prediction: he was going to die.
   “Who are you?” Duncan screamed. He put his hands over his ears as if to block the sound out. “Where are you? How did you get in here?” His eyes again raced searchingly about the room.
   The voice didn’t answer. Duncan didn’t know it was coming from inside his head.
   Duncan struggled to his feet. He was surprised to realize he’d been on his living room floor. As he rose, his shoulder bumped against the coffee table. The syringe that had so recently been in his arm clattered to the floor. Duncan stared at it with hatred and regret, then reached for it to crush it between his fingers.
   Duncan’s hand stopped just short of the syringe. His eyes opened wide with confusion mixed with a new fear. All at once he could feel the unmistakable itch of hundreds of insects crawling on the skin of his arms. Forgetting the syringe, Duncan held out his hands with his palms up. He could feel the bugs squirming all over his forearms, but no matter how hard he searched he couldn’t see them. His skin appeared perfectly clear. Then the itch spread to his legs.
   “Ahhhhhh!” Duncan screamed. He tried to wipe his arms, guessing the insects were too small to be seen, but the itching only got worse. With a shiver of profound fear it dawned on him that the organisms had to be under his skin. Somehow they had invaded his body. Perhaps they had been in the syringe.
   Using his fingernails, Duncan began to scratch his arms in a frantic attempt to allow the insects to escape. They were eating him from within. Desperately he scratched harder, digging his nails into his skin until he drew blood. The pain was intense, but the itching of the insects was worse.
   Despite the terror of the insects, Duncan stopped his scratching, as he became aware of a new symptom. Holding up his bloodied hand, he noticed that he was shaking. Looking down at himself he saw that his whole body was shaking, and the tremors were getting worse. For a brief instant he thought about calling 911 for help. But as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed something else. He was warm. No, he was hot!
   “My God!” Duncan managed when he realized that sweat was pouring from his face. With a trembling hand he felt his forehead: he was burning up! He tried to unbutton his shirt but his tremulous hands were incapable. Impatient and desperate, he ripped the shirt open and off. Buttons flew in all directions. He did the same with his pants, throwing them to the floor. But it was to no avail; clad only in his undershorts, he still felt suffocatingly hot. Then, without a moment’s warning, he coughed, choked, and vomited in a forceful stream, spattering the wall below his signed Dali lithograph.
   Duncan staggered into his bathroom. Through sheer force of will he got his shaking body into the shower and turned on the cold tap full force. Gasping for breath, he stood beneath the cascade of frigid water.
   Duncan’s relief was brief. Involuntarily a pitiful cry escaped from his lips, and his breathing became labored as a white-hot pain stabbed into his left chest and ripped down the inside of his left arm. Intuitively Duncan knew he was having a heart attack.
   Duncan clutched his chest with his right hand. Blood from his abraded arms mixed with water from the shower and swirled down the drain. Half-falling and half-staggering, Duncan stumbled from the bathroom and headed for the door of his apartment. Never mind that he was near naked, he needed air. His broiling brain was about to explode. Using his final reserve of strength, he gripped the knob to his front door and yanked it open.
   “Duncan!” Sara Wetherbee cried. She couldn’t have been more startled. Her hand was poised inches from Duncan’s door. She had been about to knock when Duncan yanked it open and confronted her. He was clad in nothing but soggy Jockey shorts. “My God!” cried Sara. “What’s happened to you?”
   Duncan did not recognize his lover of two and a half years. What he needed was air. The crushing pain in his chest had spread throughout his lungs. It felt as if he were being stabbed over and over again. Blindly he lurched forward, reaching out to sweep Sara from his path.
   “Duncan!” Sara cried again as she took in his near nakedness, the bleeding scratches on his arms, his wild, dilated eyes, and the grimace of pain on his face. Refusing to be thrust aside, she grabbed his shoulders and restrained him. “What’s the matter? Where are you going?”
   Duncan hesitated. For a brief moment Sara’s voice penetrated his dementia. His mouth opened as if he were about to speak. But no words came. Instead he uttered a pitiful whine that ended in a gasp as his tremors coalesced into spasmodic jerks and his eyes disappeared up inside his head. Mercifully unconscious, Duncan collapsed into Sara’s arms.
   At first Sara struggled vainly to hold Duncan upright. But she was unable to support him, especially since Duncan’s jerks became progressively more violent. As gently as possible Sara let Duncan’s writhing body fall across the threshold, half into the hall. Almost the moment he touched the floor, Duncan’s back arched up and his jerks rapidly coalesced into the rhythmical throes of a grand mal seizure.
   “Help!” Sara screamed as she glanced up and down the hall. As she might have expected, no one appeared. Aside from the noise Duncan was making, all she could hear was the percussive thump of a nearby stereo.
   Desperate for help, Sara managed to step over Duncan’s convulsing and incontinent body. A glimpse of his bloody and foaming mouth appalled and frightened her. She desperately wanted to help, but she didn’t know what to do save for calling an ambulance. With a trembling finger she punched 911 on Duncan’s living room phone. As she impatiently waited for the connection to go through, she could hear Duncan’s head repeatedly thump against the hardwood floor. All she could do was wince with each sickening sound and pray that help would be there soon.

   Pulling her hands away from her face, Sara checked her watch. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. She’d been sitting on the same vinyl seat in the waiting room of the Manhattan General Hospital for over three hours.
   For the umpteenth time she scanned the crowded room that smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, alcohol, and wet wool. There was a large sign directly opposite her that read: NO SMOKING, but the notice was roundly ignored.
   The injured mixed with those who’d accompanied them. There were wailing infants and toddlers, battered drunks, others clutching a towel to a cut finger or slashed chin. Most stared blankly ahead, inured to the endless wait. Some were obviously sick, others even in pain. One rather well dressed man had his arm around his equally well dressed female companion. Only minutes before he’d been arguing heatedly with a rather intimidatingly large triage nurse who hadn’t been ruffled by his threats to call his lawyer if his companion were not seen immediately. Resigned at last, he too stared vacantly into the middle distance.
   Closing her eyes again, Sara could still feel her pulse hammering at her temples. The vivid image of Duncan convulsing on the threshold of his apartment haunted her. Whatever happened tonight, she knew she would never banish the vision from her mind.
   After having called the ambulance and given Duncan’s address, Sara had returned to Duncan’s side. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d remembered that something should be put in a convulsing person’s mouth to keep him from biting his tongue. But try as she might, she’d not been able to pry apart Duncan’s clenched teeth.
   Just before the EMTs arrived, Duncan finally stopped convulsing. At first Sara had been relieved, but then she noticed with renewed alarm that he was not breathing. Wiping the foam and a bit of blood from his mouth, she tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but she found herself fighting nausea. By then some of Duncan’s hallway neighbors had appeared. To Sara’s relief, one man said he’d been a corpsman in the navy, and he and a companion graciously took over the CPR until the EMTs arrived.
   Sara could not imagine what had happened to Duncan. Only an hour earlier he’d called her and had asked her to come over. She thought he’d sounded a little tense and strange, but even so she’d been totally unprepared for his state once she got there. She shuddered again as she saw him standing before her in the doorway with his bloodied hands and arms and his dilated, wild eyes. It was as if he’d gone insane.
   Sara’s last glimpse of Duncan came after they’d arrived at the Manhattan General. The EMTs had allowed her to ride in the ambulance. Throughout the whole hair-raising trip, they’d maintained the CPR. The last she’d seen of Duncan was when he’d been rolled through a pair of white swinging doors, disappearing into the inner recesses of the emergency unit. Sara could still see the EMT kneeling on top of the gurney and continuing the chest compressions as the doors swung closed.
   “Sara Wetherbee?” a voice asked, rousing Sara from her reverie.
   “Yes?” Sara said as she looked up.
   A young doctor sporting a heavy five o’clock shadow and a white coat slightly splattered with blood had materialized in front of her.
   “I’m Dr. Murray,” he said. “Would you mind coming with me. I’d like to talk with you for a moment.”
   “Of course,” Sara said nervously. She got to her feet and pulled her purse high on her shoulder. She hurried after Dr. Murray, who’d turned on his heels almost before she’d had a chance to respond. The same white doors that had swallowed Duncan three hours before closed behind her. Dr. Murray had stopped just inside and turned to face her. She anxiously looked into the man’s eyes. He was exhausted. She wanted to see some glimmer of hope, but there wasn’t any.
   “I understand you are Mr. Andrews’ girlfriend,” Dr. Murray said. Even his voice sounded tired.
   Sara nodded.
   “Normally we talk to the family first,” Dr. Murray said. “But I know you came in with the patient and have been waiting. I’m sorry it has taken so long to get back to you, but several gunshot victims came in right after Mr. Andrews.”
   “I understand,” Sara said. “How is Duncan?” She had to ask, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
   “Not so good,” Dr. Murray said. “You can be sure our EMTs tried everything. But I’m afraid Duncan passed away anyway. Unfortunately, he was DOA. Dead on arrival. I’m sorry.”
   Sara stared into Dr. Murray’s eyes. She wanted to see a glint of the same sorrow that was welling up inside of her. But all she saw was fatigue. His apparent lack of feeling helped her maintain her own composure.
   “What happened?” she asked almost in a whisper.
   “We’re ninety percent sure that the immediate cause was a massive myocardial infarction, or heart attack,” Dr. Murray said, obviously more comfortable with his medical jargon. “But the proximate cause appears to be drug toxicity or overdose. We don’t know yet what his blood level was. That takes a bit more time.”
   “Drugs?” Sara said with disbelief. “What kind of drug?”
   “Cocaine,” said Dr. Murray. “The EMTs even brought in the needle he’d used.”
   “I never knew Duncan used cocaine,” Sara said. “He said he didn’t use drugs.”
   “People always lie about sex and drugs,” Dr. Murray said. “And with cocaine sometimes it only takes once. People don’t realize how deadly the stuff can be. Its popularity has lulled people into a false sense of security. Be that as it may, we do have to get in touch with the family. Would you know the telephone number?”
   Stunned by Duncan’s death and the revelation about his apparent cocaine use, Sara recited the Andrews’ phone number in a dazed monotone. Thinking about drugs allowed her to avoid thinking about death. She wondered how long Duncan had been on cocaine. It was all so hard to understand. She’d thought she’d known him so well.

Chapter 1

   November
   6:45 a.m., Monday
   New York City
   The alarm of the old Westclox windup never failed to yank Laurie Montgomery from the depths of blessed sleep. Even though she’d had the clock since the first year of college, she’d never become accustomed to its fearful clatter. It always woke her up with a start, and she’d invariably lunge for the cursed contraption as if her life depended on her getting the alarm shut off as soon as humanly possible.
   This rainy November morning proved no exception. As she replaced the clock on the windowsill, she could feel her heart thumping. It was the squirt of adrenaline that made the daily episode so effective. Even if she could have gone back to bed, she’d never have gotten back to sleep. And it was the same for Tom, her one-and-a-half-year-old half-wild tawny tabby who, at the sound of the alarm, had fled into the depths of her closet.
   Resigned to the start of another day, Laurie stood up, wiggled her toes into her sheepskin slippers, and turned on the TV to the local morning news.
   Her apartment was a small, one-bedroom affair on Nineteenth Street between First and Second avenues in a six-story tenement. Her rooms were on the fifth floor in the rear. Her two windows faced out onto a warren of overgrown backyards.
   In her tiny kitchen she turned on her coffee machine. The night before, she’d prepared it with a packet of coffee and the right amount of water. With the coffee started she padded into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.
   “Ugh!” she said as she turned her face from side to side, viewing the damage of another night with not enough sleep. Her eyes were puffy and red. Laurie was not a morning person. She was a confirmed night owl and frequently read until all hours. She loved to read, whether the book was a ponderous pathology text or a popular bestseller. When it came to fiction, her interests were catholic. Her shelves were crammed with everything from thrillers to romantic sagas, to history, general science, and even psychology. The night before it had been a murder mystery, and she’d read until she’d finished the book. When she’d turned out the light, she’d not had the courage to look at the time. As usual, in the morning she vowed never to stay up so late again.
   In the shower Laurie’s mind began to clear enough to start going over the problems that she would have to address that day. She was currently in her fifth month as an associate medical examiner at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. The preceding weekend, Laurie had been on call, which meant that she worked both Saturday and Sunday. She’d performed six autopsies: three one day and three the next. A number of these cases required additional follow-up before they could be signed out, and she began making a mental list of what she had to do.
   Stepping out of the shower, Laurie dried herself briskly. One thing she was thankful about was that today would be a “paper day” for her, meaning that she would not be assigned any additional autopsies. Instead she would have the time to do the necessary paperwork on the autopsies that she’d already done. She was currently waiting for material on about twenty cases from either the lab, the medical examiner investigators, local hospitals or local doctors, or the police. It was this avalanche of paperwork that constantly threatened to overwhelm her.
   Back in the kitchen Laurie prepared her coffee. Then, carrying her mug, she retreated to the bathroom to put on makeup and blow-dry her hair. Her hair always took the longest. It was thick and long and of an auburn color with red highlights she liked to burnish with henna once a month. Laurie was proud of her hair. She thought it was her best feature. Her mother was always encouraging her to cut it, but Laurie liked to keep it beyond shoulder length and wear it in a braid or piled on top of her head. As for makeup, Laurie always subscribed to the theory that “less is more.” A bit of eyeliner to line her blue-green eyes, a few strokes with an eyebrow pencil to define her light, reddish blond eyebrows, and a brief application of mascara and she was nearly done. A dab of coral blush and lipstick completed the routine. Satisfied, she took her mug and retreated to the bedroom.
   By then, Good Morning America was on. She listened with half an ear as she put on the clothes she had laid out the night before. Forensic Pathology was still largely a man’s world, but that only made Laurie want to emphasize her femininity with her dress. She slipped into a green skirt and matching turtleneck. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she was pleased. She’d not worn this particular outfit before. Somehow it made her look taller than her actual height of five foot five, and even slimmer than her hundred and fifteen pounds.
   With her coffee drunk, a yogurt eaten and dried cat food poured into Tom’s bowl, Laurie struggled into her trench coat. She then grabbed her purse, her lunch, which she had also prepared the night before, and her briefcase, and stepped out of her apartment. It took her a moment to secure the collection of locks on her door, a legacy of the apartment’s previous tenant. Turning to the elevator, Laurie pushed the down button.
   As if on cue, the moment the aged elevator began its whining ascent, Laurie heard the click of Debra Engler’s locks. Turning her head, Laurie watched as the door to the front apartment opened a crack and its safety chain was pulled taut. Debra’s bloodshot eye peered out at her. Above the eye was a tousle of gray frizzy hair.
   Laurie aggressively stared back at the intruding eye. It was as if Debra hovered behind her door for any sound in the hallway. The repetitive intrusion grated on Laurie’s nerves. It seemed like a violation of her privacy despite the fact that the hallway was a common area.
   “Better take an umbrella,” Debra said in her throaty, smoker’s voice.
   The fact that Debra was right only fanned Laurie’s irritation. She had indeed forgotten her umbrella. Without giving Debra any sense of acknowledgment lest her irritating watchfulness be encouraged, Laurie turned back to her door and went through the complicated sequence of undoing the locks. Five minutes later as she stepped into the elevator, she saw that Debra’s bloodshot eye was still watching intently.
   As the elevator slowly descended, Laurie’s irritation faded. Her thoughts turned to the case that had bothered her most over the weekend: the twelve-year-old boy hit in the chest with a softball.
   “Life’s not fair,” Laurie muttered under her breath as she thought about the boy’s untimely death. Children’s deaths were so hard to comprehend. Somehow she’d thought medical school would inure her to such senselessness, but it hadn’t. Neither had a pathology residency. And now that she was in forensics, these deaths were even harder to take. And there were so many of them! Up until the accident, the softball victim had been a healthy child, brimming with health and vitality. She could still see his little body on the autopsy table; a picture of health, ostensibly asleep. Yet Laurie had had to pick up the scalpel and gut him like a fish.
   Laurie swallowed hard as the elevator came to a bumping stop. Cases like this little boy made her question her career choice. She wondered if she shouldn’t have gone into pediatrics, where she could have dealt with living children. The field of medicine she’d chosen could be grim.
   In spite of herself, Laurie was grateful for Debra’s admonition once she saw what kind of day it was. The wind was blowing in strong gusts and the promised rain had already started. The view of her street that particular day made her question her choice of location as well as her career. The garbage-strewn street was not a pretty sight. Maybe she should have gone to a newer, cleaner city like Atlanta, or a city of perpetual summer like Miami. Laurie opened her umbrella and leaned into the wind as she trudged toward First Avenue.
   As she walked she thought of one of the ironies of her career choice. She’d chosen pathology for a number of reasons. For one thing she thought that predictable hours would make it easier to combine medicine with having a family. But the problem was, she didn’t have a family, unless she considered her parents, but they didn’t really count. In fact she didn’t even have a meaningful relationship. Laurie had never thought that by age thirty-two she wouldn’t have children of her own, much less that she’d still be single.
   A short cab ride with a driver whose nationality she could not even guess brought her to the corner of First and Thirtieth. She’d been shocked to get the cab. Under normal circumstances a combination of rain and rush hour meant no taxis. This morning, however, someone had been getting out of a cab just as she reached First Avenue. Yet even if she’d not been able to get one, it wouldn’t have been a disaster. That was one of the benefits of living just eleven blocks away from work. Many a day she walked in both directions.
   After paying her fare, Laurie started up the front steps of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. The six-story building was overshadowed by the rest of the New York University Medical Center and the Bellevue Hospital complex. Its facade was constructed of blue-glazed brick with aluminum windows and door casements of an unattractive modern design.
   Normally Laurie paid no attention to the building, but on this particular rainy November Monday it wasn’t spared her critical review any more than her career or her street. The place was depressing. She had to admit that. She was shaking her head, wondering if an architect could have been genuinely pleased by his handiwork, when she noticed that the foyer was packed. The front door was propped open despite the morning chill, and cigarette smoke could be seen languidly issuing forth.
   Curious, Laurie pushed into the crowd, making her way with some difficulty toward the ID room. Marlene Wilson, the usual receptionist, was obviously overwhelmed as at least a dozen people pressed against her desk as they plied her with questions. The media had invaded, complete with cameras, tape recorders, TV camcorders, and flashing lights. Clearly something out of the ordinary had happened.
   After a brief pantomime to get Marlene’s attention, Laurie managed to get herself buzzed into the inner area. She experienced a mild sense of relief when the closing door extinguished the babble of voices and the acrid cigarette smoke.
   Pausing to glance into the drab room where family members were taken to identify the deceased, Laurie was mildly surprised to find it empty. With all the commotion in the outer area, she thought she’d see people in the ID room. Shrugging her shoulders, she proceeded into the ID office.
   The first person Laurie confronted was Vinnie Amendola, one of the mortuary techs. Oblivious to the pandemonium in the reception area, Vinnie was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and studying the sports pages of the New York Post. His feet were propped up on the edge of one of the gray metal desks. As usual before eight in the morning, Vinnie was the only person in the room. It was his job to make the coffee for the coffee pool. A large, commercial-style coffeemaker was in the ID office, a room that served a number of functions, including an informal morning congregation area.
   “What on earth is going on?” Laurie asked as she picked up the day’s autopsy schedule. Even though she wasn’t scheduled for any autopsies, she was always curious to see what cases had come in.
   Vinnie lowered his paper. “Trouble,” he said.
   “What kind of trouble?” Laurie asked. Through the doorway leading to the communications room, she could see that the two day-shift secretaries were busy on their phones. The panels in front of them were blinking with waiting calls. Laurie poured herself a cup of coffee.
   “Another “preppy murder’ case,” Vinnie said. “A teenage girl apparently strangled by her boyfriend. Sex and drugs. You know rich kids. Happened over near the Tavern On The Green. With all the excitement that first case caused a couple of years ago, the media has been here from the moment the body was brought in.”
   Laurie clucked her tongue. “How awful for everyone. A life lost and a life ruined.” She added sugar and a touch of cream to her coffee. “Who’s handling it?”
   “Dr. Plodgett,” Vinnie said. “He was called by the tour doctor and he had to go out to the scene. It was around three in the morning.”
   Laurie sighed. “Oh boy,” she muttered. She felt sorry for Paul. Handling such a case would most likely be stressful for him because he was relatively inexperienced like herself. He’d been an associate medical examiner for just over a year. Laurie had been there for only four and a half months. “Where’s Paul now? Up in his office?”
   “Nope,” Vinnie said. “He’s in doing the autopsy.”
   “Already?” Laurie questioned. “Why the rush?”
   “Beats me,” Vinnie said. “But the guys going off the graveyard shift told me that Bingham came in around six. Paul must have called him.”
   “This case gets more intriguing by the minute,” Laurie said. Dr. Harold Bingham, age fifty-eight, was the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City, a position that made him a powerful figure in the forensic world. “I think I’ll duck into the pit and see what’s happening.”
   “I’d be careful if I were you,” Vinnie said, struggling to fold his paper. “I was thinking of going in there myself, but the word is that Bingham is in a foul mood. Not that that’s so out of the ordinary.”
   Laurie nodded to Vinnie as she left the room. To avoid the mass of reporters in the reception area, she took the long route to the elevators, walking through Communications. The secretaries were too busy to say hello. Laurie waved to one of the two police detectives assigned to the medical examiner’s office who was sitting in his cubbyhole office off the communications room. He, too, was on the phone.
   After going through another doorway, Laurie glanced into each of the forensic medical investigators’ offices to say good morning, but no one was in yet. Reaching the main elevators, she pushed the up button and as usual had to wait while the aged machine slowly responded. Looking down the hall to her right, she could see the mass of reporters seething in the reception area. Laurie felt sorry for poor Marlene Wilson.
   As she rode up to her office on the fifth floor, Laurie thought about the meaning of Bingham’s early presence not only at the office but also in the autopsy room. Both occurrences were rare and they fanned her curiosity.
   Since her office-mate, Dr. Riva Mehta, was not yet in, Laurie spent only minutes in her office. She locked her briefcase, purse, and lunch in her file cabinet, then changed into green scrub clothes. Since she wasn’t going to do an autopsy herself, she didn’t bother putting on her usual second layer of protective, impervious clothing.
   Back in the elevator Laurie descended to the basement level, where the morgue was located. This was not a basement in the true sense because it was actually the street level from the building’s Thirtieth Street side. A loading dock from Thirtieth Street was the route bodies arrived and left the morgue.
   In the locker room, which she rarely used as such, preferring to change in her office, Laurie got shoe covers, apron, mask, and hood. Thus dressed as if she were about to perform surgery, she pushed through the door into the autopsy room.
   The “pit,” as it was lovingly called, was a medium-sized room about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide. At one time it had been considered state of the art, but no longer. Like so many other city agencies, its much-needed upkeep and modernization had suffered from lack of funds. The eight stainless steel tables were old and stained from countless postmortems. Old-fashioned spring-loaded scales hung over each table. A series of sinks, countertops, X-ray view boxes, ancient glass-fronted cabinets, and exposed piping lined the walls. There were no windows.
   Only one table was in use: the second from the end, to Laurie’s right. As the door closed behind Laurie all three gowned, masked, and hooded doctors grouped around the table raised their heads to stare at her for a moment before returning to their grisly task. Stretched out on the table was the ivory-colored, nude body of a teenage girl. She was illuminated by a single bank of blue-white fluorescent bulbs directly overhead. The lurid scene was made worse by the sucking noise of water swirling down a drain at the foot of the table.
   Laurie felt a strong intuition she should turn around and leave, but she fought the feeling. Instead she advanced on the group. Knowing the people as well as she did, she recognized each despite their coverings, which included goggles as well as masks. Bingham was on the opposite side of the table, facing Laurie. He was a stocky man of short stature with thick features and a bulbous nose.
   “Goddamn it, Paul!” Bingham snapped. “Is this the first time you’ve done a neck dissection? I’ve got a news conference scheduled and you’re mucking around like a first-year medical student. Give me that scalpel!” Bingham snatched the instrument from Paul’s hand, then bent over the body. A ray of light glinted off the stainless steel cutting edge.
   Laurie stepped up to the table. She was to Paul’s right. Sensing her presence, he turned his head, and for an instant their eyes met. Laurie could tell he was already distraught. She tried to project some support with her gaze, but Paul averted his head. Laurie glanced at the morgue tech who avoided looking her way. The atmosphere was explosive.
   Lowering her eyes, Laurie watched what Bingham was doing. The patient’s neck had been opened with a somewhat outdated incision that ran from the point of the chin to the top of the breastbone. The skin had been flayed and spread to the side like opening a high-necked blouse. Bingham was in the process of freeing the muscles from around the thyroid cartilage and the hyoid bone. Laurie could see evidence of premortal trauma with hemorrhage into the tissues.
   “What I still don’t understand,” Bingham snapped without looking up from his labors, “is why you didn’t bag the hands at the scene? Could you please tell me that?”
   Laurie’s eyes again met Paul’s. She knew instantly that he had no excuse. She wished she could have helped him, but she didn’t see how she could. Sharing her colleague’s discomfort, Laurie stepped away from the table. Despite having made the effort to get dressed to observe, Laurie left the autopsy room. There was just too much tension to make it worth staying. She didn’t want to make the situation any worse for Paul by giving Bingham more of an audience.
   Returning back upstairs after peeling off her outer layer of protective clothing, Laurie sat down at her desk and got to work. The first order of business was to complete what she could on the three autopsies that she’d done on Sunday. The first of the cases had been the twelve-year-old boy. The second case was clearly a heroin overdose, but she reviewed the facts. Drug paraphernalia had been found with the victim. The victim had been a known heroin addict. At autopsy his arms had showed multiple sites of intravenous injection, old and new. On his right upper arm he’d had a tattoo: “Born to Lose.” Internally he’d shown the usual signs of asphyxial death with a frothy pulmonary edema. Despite the fact that laboratory and microscopic studies were still pending, Laurie felt comfortable with her conclusion that the cause of death was drug overdose and the manner of death was accidental.
   The third case was far from clear. A twenty-four-year-old woman flight attendant had been discovered at home in a bathrobe, having apparently collapsed in the hallway outside her bathroom. She’d been found by her roommate. She’d been healthy and had returned home from a trip to Los Angeles the previous day. She was not known to be a drug user.
   Laurie had done the autopsy but had found nothing. All her findings were completely normal. Concerned about the case, Laurie had one of the medical investigators locate the woman’s gynecologist. Laurie had spoken with the man and had been assured the woman had been entirely healthy. He’d seen her last only months before.
   Having had a similar case recently, Laurie had instructed the medical investigator to go to the woman’s apartment and bring back any personal electrical appliances found in the woman’s bathroom. Sitting on Laurie’s desk was a cardboard box with a note from the medical investigator, saying that the enclosed was all she could find.
   Using her thumbnail, Laurie broke through the tape sealing the box, lifted the flaps, and peered inside. The box contained a blow dryer and an old metal curling iron. Laurie lifted both devices from the box and laid them on her desk. From the lower right-hand drawer of the desk, Laurie lifted out an electrical testing device called a voltohmmeter.
   Examining the blow dryer first, Laurie tested the electrical resistance between the prongs of the plug and the dryer itself. In both instances, the reading was infinite ohms or no current flow. Thinking that perhaps she was again on the wrong track, she tested the hair curler. To her surprise, the result was positive. Between one of the prongs and the casing of the curler, the voltohmmeter registered zero ohms, meaning free current flow.
   Taking some basic tools from her desk, including a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, Laurie opened the hair curler and immediately found the frayed wire that was making contact with the device’s metal casing. It was now clear to Laurie that the poor flight attendant was the victim of low voltage electrocution. As was often the case, the victim had been shocked but had had time to put the offending device away and walk from the room before succumbing to a fatal cardiac arrhythmia. The cause of death was electrocution and the manner of death accidental.
   With the hair curler “autopsied” on her desk, Laurie got out her camera and arranged the pieces to show the aberrant connection. Then she stood up to shoot directly down. As she peered through the viewfinder, Laurie felt pleased about the case. She couldn’t suppress a modest smile, knowing how different her work was from what people surmised. She’d not only solved the mystery of the poor woman’s untimely death, but had potentially saved someone else from the same fate as well.
   Before Laurie could take the photo of the curler, her phone rang. Because of the degree of her concentration, the ringing startled her. With thinly veiled irritation, she answered. It was the operator asking Laurie if she would mind taking a call from a doctor phoning from the Manhattan General Hospital. She added that he’d requested to talk with the chief.
   “Then why put him through to me?” Laurie demanded.
   “The chief is tied up in the autopsy room, and I can’t find Dr. Washington. Someone said he’s out talking with the reporters. So I just started ringing the other doctors’ numbers. You were the first to answer.”
   “Put him on,” Laurie said with resignation. She sank back into her desk chair. She was quite confident it would be a short conversation. If someone wanted to talk with the chief, they certainly would not be satisfied talking to the lowest person in the hierarchy.
   After the call had been put through, Laurie introduced herself. She emphasized that she was one of the associate medical examiners and not the chief.
   “I’m Dr. Murray,” the caller said. “I’m a senior medical resident. I need to talk to someone about a drug overdose/toxicity DOA that came in this morning.”
   “What is it that you’d like to know?” Laurie asked. Drug deaths were a daily phenomenon at the M.E. office. Her attention partially switched back to the hair curler. She had a better idea for the photograph.
   “The patient’s name was Duncan Andrews,” Dr. Murray said. “He was a thirty-five-year-old Caucasian male. He arrived with no cardiac activity, no spontaneous respiration, and with a core body temperature that we recorded at one hundred eight degrees.”
   “Uh huh,” Laurie said equably. Holding the phone in the crook of her neck, she rearranged the pieces of the hair curler.
   “There was massive evidence of seizure activity,” Dr. Murray said. “So we ran an EEG. It was flat. The lab reported a serum cocaine level of 20 micrograms per milliliter.”
   “Wow!” Laurie said with a short laugh of amazement. Dr. Murray had caught her attention. “That’s one hell of a high level. What was the route of administration, oral? Was he one of those “mules’ who try to smuggle the stuff by swallowing condoms filled with cocaine?”
   “Hardly,” Dr. Murray said with a short laugh of his own. “This guy was some kind of Wall Street whiz kid. No, it wasn’t oral. It was IV.”
   Laurie swallowed as she struggled to keep old, unwanted memories submerged. Her throat had suddenly gone dry. “Was heroin involved as well?” she asked. In the sixties a mixture of heroin and cocaine called “speedball” had been popular.
   “No heroin,” Dr. Murray said. “Only cocaine, but obviously a walloping dose. If his temperature was one hundred eight when we took it, God only knows how high it had been.”
   “Well, it sounds pretty straightforward,” Laurie said. “What’s the question? If you’re wondering if it’s a medical examiner case, I can tell you that it is.”
   “No, we know it is an M.E. case,” Dr. Murray said. “That’s not the problem. It’s more complicated than that. The fellow was found by his girlfriend who came in with him. But then his family came in as well. And I have to tell you, his family is connected, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the nurses found that Mr. Duncan Andrews had an organ-donor card in his wallet, and they called the organ-donor coordinator. Without knowing that the case was an M.E. case, the organ-donor coordinator asked the family if they would permit harvesting the eyes since that was the only tissue besides bone that might still be usable. You understand that we don’t pay much attention to organ-donor cards unless the family agrees. But this family agreed. They told us that they definitely wanted to respect the decedent’s wishes. Personally, I think it has something to do with their wanting to believe their son died of natural causes. But, be that as it may, we wanted to check with you people as a matter of policy before we did anything.”
   “The family truly agreed?” Laurie asked.
   “I’m telling you, they were emphatic,” Dr. Murray said. “According to the girlfriend, she and the decedent had talked about the problem of the lack of transplant organs on several occasions and had gone together to the Manhattan Organ Repository to sign up in response to the Repository’s TV appeal last year.”
   “Mr. Duncan Andrews must have given himself some dose of cocaine,” Laurie said. “Was there any suicide note?”
   “No suicide note,” Dr. Murray said. “Nor was the man depressed, at least according to the girlfriend.”
   “This sounds like a rather unique circumstance,” Laurie said. “I personally don’t think honoring the family’s request would affect the autopsy. But I’m not authorized to make such a policy decision. What I can do is find out for you from the powers-that-be and call you back immediately.”
   “I’d appreciate it,” Dr. Murray said. “If we’re going to do something, we have to do it sooner rather than later.”
   Laurie hung up the phone, and with a degree of reluctance, left her disassembled hair curler, and returned to the morgue. Without donning the usual layers, she stuck her head through the door. Immediately she could see that Bingham had departed.
   “The chief left you to carry on by yourself?” Laurie called out to Paul.
   Paul turned to face her. “Thank God for small favors,” Paul said, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. “Luckily he had to get upstairs to the news conference he’s scheduled. I suppose he thinks I’m capable of sewing up the body.”
   “Come on, Paul,” Laurie said by way of encouragement. “Remember Bingham treats everyone like an incompetent at the autopsy table.”
   “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Paul said without conviction.
   Laurie let the door close. She used the stairs at the far end of the morgue to go up to the first floor. There was no sense waiting for the elevator for a single flight.
   The first-floor corridor was crowded with media people, and it was all Laurie could do to get to the double doors leading into the conference room. Over the heads of the reporters she could see Bingham’s shiny bald pate reflecting the harsh lighting set up for the TV cameras. He was taking questions from the floor and perspiring copiously. Laurie knew instantly that there was no way she’d be able to discuss Manhattan General’s problem with him.
   Standing on her toes, Laurie scanned the crowded room for Dr. Calvin Washington, the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. As a six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound black man, he was usually easy to pick out of a crowd. Laurie finally spotted him standing near the door that led from the conference room into the chief’s office.
   By going out into the main reception area, then cutting through the chief’s office, Laurie was able to approach Calvin from behind. When she reached him, she hesitated. Dr. Washington had a stormy temperament. Between his physique and his moods, he intimidated most people, including Laurie.
   Marshaling her courage, Laurie tapped him on the arm. Immediately he spun around. His dark eyes swept over Laurie. He was not happy, that much was apparent.
   “What is it?” he asked in a forced whisper.
   “Could I speak to you for a moment?” Laurie asked. “There’s a question of policy regarding a case over at Manhattan General.”
   After a glance back at his perspiring boss, Calvin nodded. He stepped beyond Laurie and closed the door to the conference room. He shook his head. “This “preppy murder II’ is going sour already. God, I hate the media. They’re not after the “truth,’ whatever that is. They’re nothing but a bunch of gossip hounds, and poor Harold is trying to justify why the hands weren’t bagged at the murder site. What a circus!”
   “Why weren’t the hands bagged?” Laurie asked.
   “Because the tour doctor didn’t think about it,” Calvin said disgusted. “And by the time Plodgett got there the body was already in the van.”
   “How come the tour doctor allowed the body to be moved before Paul got there?” Laurie asked.
   “How should I know!” Calvin exploded. “The whole case is a mess. One screw-up after another.”
   Laurie cringed. “I hate to bring this up, but I noticed another potential problem downstairs.”
   “Oh, and what was that?” Calvin demanded.
   “What I imagine were the victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag on one of the countertops.”
   “Damn!” Calvin snapped. He stepped over to Bingham’s phone and punched the extension in the “pit.” As soon as the phone was answered he shouted that someone would be on the autopsy table himself if the preppy murder II victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag.
   Without waiting for an answer, Calvin slammed the receiver down onto the cradle. Then he glared at Laurie as if the messenger were responsible for the bad news.
   “I can’t imagine a fungus would have destroyed any evidence so quickly,” Laurie offered.
   “That’s not entirely the point,” Calvin snapped. “We’re not out in the boondocks someplace. Screw-ups like this are not to be tolerated, especially not under this glare of publicity. It seems as if this whole case is jinxed. Anyway, what’s the problem at Manhattan General?”
   Laurie told Calvin about Duncan Andrews as succinctly as possible and about the attending physician’s request. She emphasized that it was the family’s wishes to respect the deceased’s desire to be a donor.
   “If we had a decent medical examiner law in this state this wouldn’t even come up,” Calvin growled. “I think we should honor the family’s request. Tell the doctor that in this kind of circumstances he should take the eyes but photograph them prior to doing so. Also he should take vitreous samples from inside the eyes for Toxicology.”
   “I’ll let him know immediately,” Laurie said. “Thanks.”
   Calvin waved absently. He was already reopening the door to the conference room.
   Laurie cut back through the chief’s secretarial area and got Marlene to buzz her through the door into the main hall. She had to weave her way among the media people, stepping over cables powering the TV lights. Bingham’s news conference was still in progress. Laurie pressed the up button on the elevator.
   “Ahhhh!” Laurie squealed in response to a deliberate jab in the ribs. Laurie swung around to chastise whoever had poked her. She expected to see a colleague, but it wasn’t. Before her stood a stranger in his early thirties. He had on a trench coat that was open down the front; his tie was loosened at his collar. On his face was a childlike grin.
   “Laurie?” he said.
   Laurie suddenly recognized him. It was Bob Talbot, a reporter for the Daily News whom Laurie had known since college. She’d not seen him for some time, and out of context it had taken a moment to recognize him. Despite her irritation, she smiled.
   “Where have you been?” Bob demanded. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
   “I guess I’ve been a bit asocial of late,” Laurie admitted. “Lots of work, plus I’ve started studying for my forensic boards.”
   “You know the expression about all work and no play,” Bob said.
   Laurie nodded and tried to smile. The elevator arrived. Laurie stepped in and held the door open with her hand.
   “What do you think of this new “preppy murder’?” Bob asked. “It sure is causing a fuss.”
   “It’s bound to,” Laurie said. “It’s made-to-order tabloid material. Besides, it seems that we’ve already messed up. I suppose it’s reminiscent of what happened with the first case. A little too reminiscent for my colleagues.”
   “What are you talking about?” Bob asked.
   “For one thing, the victim’s hands weren’t bagged,” Laurie said. “Didn’t you hear what Dr. Bingham was saying?”
   “Yeah, but he said it didn’t matter.”
   “It matters,” Laurie said. “Besides that, the victim’s clothes ended up in a plastic bag. That’s a no-no. Moisture encourages the growth of microorganisms that can affect evidence. That’s another screw-up. Unfortunately the medical examiner on the case is one of us junior people. By rights it should be someone with more experience.”
   “Apparently the boyfriend already confessed,” Bob said. “Isn’t this all academic?”
   Laurie shrugged. “By the time the trial rolls around, he might have a change of heart. Certainly his lawyer will. Then it’s up to the evidence unless there was a witness, and in this type of case, there’s seldom a witness.”
   “Maybe you’re right,” Bob said with a nod. “We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to the news conference. How about dinner sometime this week?”
   “Maybe,” Laurie said. “I don’t mean to be coy, but I do have to study if I want to pass those boards. Why don’t you call and we’ll talk about it?”
   Bob nodded as Laurie let the elevator door close. She pressed five. Back in her office, she called Dr. Murray at Manhattan General and told him what Dr. Washington had said.
   “Thank you for your trouble,” Dr. Murray said when Laurie was finished. “It’s good to have some guidelines to follow in this kind of circumstance.”
   “Be sure to get good photos,” Laurie advised. “If you don’t, the policy could change.”
   “No need to worry,” Dr. Murray said. “We have our own photography department. It will be done professionally.”
   Hanging up the phone, Laurie went back to the hair curler. She took a half dozen photos from varying angles and with varying lighting conditions. With the curler out of the way, she turned her attention to the only Sunday case remaining, and the most disturbing for her: the twelve-year-old boy.
   Getting up from her desk, Laurie returned to the first floor and visited Cheryl Myers, one of the medical investigators. She explained that she needed more eyewitnesses of the episode when the boy was hit with the softball. Without any positive finding on the autopsy, she would need personal accounts to substantiate her diagnosis of commotio cordis, or death from a blow to the chest. Cheryl promised to get right on it.
   Returning to the fifth floor, Laurie went to Histology to see if the boy’s slides could be speeded up. Knowing how distraught the family was, she was eager to put her end of the tragedy to rest. She found that families seemed to come to some sort of acceptance once they knew the truth. The aura of uncertainty about a death of unknown cause made grieving more difficult.
   While she was in Histology, Laurie picked up slides that were ready from cases she’d autopsied the previous week. With those in hand she went down several flights of stairs and picked up reports from Toxicology and Serology. Carrying everything back to her office, she dumped all the material on her desk. Then she went to work. Except for a short break for lunch, Laurie spent the rest of the day going over the slides from Histology, collating the laboratory reports, making calls, and completing as many files as possible.
   What fueled Laurie’s anxiety was the knowledge that the following day she’d be assigned at least two and maybe as many as four new cases to autopsy. If she didn’t stay abreast of the paperwork, she’d be swamped. There was never a dull moment at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, since it handled between fifteen and twenty thousand assigned cases each year. That translated to approximately eight thousand autopsies. Each day the office averaged two homicides and two drug overdoses.
   By four o’clock in the afternoon, Laurie was beginning to slow down. The volume of her work and its intensity had taken its toll. When her phone rang for the hundredth time, she answered with a tired voice. When she realized it was Mrs. Sanford, Dr. Bingham’s secretary, she straightened up in her chair by reflex. It wasn’t every day that she got a call from the chief.
   “Dr. Bingham would like to see you in his office if it is convenient,” Mrs. Sanford said.
   “I’ll be right down,” Laurie answered. She smiled at Mrs. Sanford’s phrase, “If it is convenient.” Knowing Dr. Bingham, it was probably Mrs. Sanford’s translation of: Get Dr. Montgomery down here ASAP. En route she vainly tried to imagine what Dr. Bingham wanted to see her about, but she had no idea.
   “Go right in,” Mrs. Sanford said. She looked at Laurie over the tops of her reading glasses and smiled.
   “Close the door!” Bingham commanded as soon as Laurie was in his office. He was sitting behind his massive desk. “Sit down!”
   Laurie did as she was told. Bingham’s angry tone was the first warning of what was to come. Laurie immediately knew that she wasn’t there for a commendation. She watched as Bingham removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his blotter. His thick fingers handled the glasses with surprising agility.
   Laurie studied Bingham’s face. His steel blue eyes appeared cold. She could just make out the web of fine capillaries spread across the tip of his nose.
   “You do know that we have a public relations office?” Dr. Bingham began. His tone was sarcastic, angry.
   “Yes, of course,” Laurie replied when Bingham paused.
   “Then you must also know that Mrs. Donnatello is responsible for any information being given to the media and the public.”
   Laurie nodded.
   “And you must also be aware that except for myself, all personnel of this office should keep their personal opinions concerning medical examiner business to themselves.”
   Laurie didn’t respond. She still didn’t know where this conversation was headed.
   Suddenly, Bingham bounded out of his chair and began pacing the area behind his desk. “What I’m not sure you appreciate,” he continued, “is the fact that being a medical examiner carries significant social and political responsibilities.” He stopped pacing and looked across at Laurie. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
   “I believe so,” Laurie said, but there was still some significant part of the conversation that eluded her. She had no idea what had precipitated this diatribe.
   “ ‘Believing so’ is not adequate,” Bingham snorted. He stopped his pacing and leaned over his desk, glaring at Laurie.
   More than anything, Laurie wanted to remain composed. She didn’t want to appear emotional. She despised situations like this. Confrontation was not one of her strong points.
   “Furthermore,” Bingham snapped, “breaches in the rules pertaining to privileged information will not be tolerated. Is that clear!”
   “Yes,” Laurie said, fighting back unwanted tears. She wasn’t sad or mad, just upset. With the amount of work that she’d been doing of late, she hardly thought she deserved such a tirade. “Can I ask what this is all about?”
   “Most certainly,” Bingham said. “Toward the end of my news conference about the Central Park murder, one of the reporters got up and began asking a question with the comment that you had specifically stated that the case was being mishandled by this department. Did you or did you not say that to a reporter?”
   Laurie cowered in her seat. She tried to return Bingham’s glare, but she had to look away. She felt a rush of embarrassment, guilt, anger, and resentment. She was shocked that Bob would have had such little sense much less respect for her confidentiality. Finding her voice she said: “I mentioned something to that effect.”
   “I thought so,” Bingham said smugly. “I knew the reporter wouldn’t have had the nerve to make something like that up. Well, consider yourself warned, Dr. Montgomery. That will be all.”
   Laurie stumbled out of the chief’s office. Humiliated, she didn’t even dare exchange glances with Mrs. Sanford lest she lose control of the tears she’d been suppressing. Hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone, Laurie sprinted up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
   She was particularly thankful that her office-mate was still apparently in the autopsy room. Locking her door behind her, Laurie sat down at her desk. She felt crushed, as if all her months of hard work had been for naught because of one foolish indiscretion.
   With sudden resolve, Laurie picked up the phone. She wanted to call Bob Talbot and tell him what she thought of him. But she hesitated, then let go of the receiver. At the moment she didn’t have the strength for another confrontation. Instead she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
   She tried to go back to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. Instead she opened her briefcase and threw in some of the uncompleted files. After collecting her other belongings, Laurie took the elevator to the basement level and exited through the morgue loading dock onto Thirtieth Street. She didn’t want to take the risk of running into anyone in the reception area.
   Befitting her mood, it was still raining as she walked south on First Avenue. If anything, the city looked worse than it had that morning, with a pall of acrid exhaust fumes suspended between the buildings lining the street. Laurie kept her head down to avoid the oily puddles, the litter, and the stares of the homeless.
   Even her apartment building seemed dirtier than usual, and as she waited for the elevator, she was aware of the smell of a century of fried onions and fatty meat. Getting off on the fifth floor, she glared at Debra Engler’s bloodshot eye, daring her to say anything. Once inside her apartment, she slammed the door with enough force to tilt a framed Klimt print she’d gotten from the Metropolitan.
   Even feisty Tom couldn’t elevate her spirits as he rubbed back and forth across her shins as she hung up her coat and stashed her umbrella in her narrow hall closet. Going into her living room, she collapsed into her armchair.
   Refusing to be ignored, Tom leaped to the back of the chair and purred directly into Laurie’s right ear. When that didn’t work, he began to paw Laurie’s shoulder repeatedly.
   Finally Laurie responded by reaching up and lifting the cat into her lap where she began absently to stroke him.
   As the rain tapped against her window like grains of sand, Laurie lamented her life. For the second time that day she thought about not being married. Her mother’s criticism seemed more deserved than usual. She wondered anew if she’d made the right career choices. What about ten years from now? Could she see herself caught in the same quagmire of lonely daily life, struggling to stay ahead of the paperwork associated with the autopsies, or would she assume more administrative duties like Bingham?
   With a sense of shock, Laurie realized for the first time that she had no desire to be chief. Up until that moment, she’d always tried to excel whether it was college or medical school, and aspiring to be the chief would have fit into that mold. Excelling for Laurie had been a kind of rebellion, an attempt to make her father, the great cardiac surgeon, finally acknowledge her. But it had never worked. She knew that as far as her father was concerned she’d never be able to replace her older brother who’d died at the tender age of nineteen.
   Laurie sighed. It wasn’t like her to be depressed, and the fact that she was depressed depressed her. She never would have guessed that she’d be quite so sensitive to criticism. Maybe she’d been unhappy and hadn’t even realized it with her workload.
   Laurie noticed that the red light on her answering machine was blinking. At first she ignored it, but the darker the room got, the more insistent the blinking became. After watching the light for another ten minutes, curiosity got the best of her, and she listened to the tape. The call was from her mother, Dorothy Montgomery, asking her to call the moment she got home.
   “Oh, great!” Laurie said out loud. She debated about calling, knowing her mother’s capacity to grate on her nerves in the best of circumstances. She wasn’t feeling up to another dose of her mother’s negativity and unsolicited advice just then.
   Laurie listened to the message a second time and, after convincing herself that her mother sounded genuinely concerned, she made the call. Dorothy answered on the first ring.
   “Thank God you called,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. I was thinking of sending a telegram. We’re having a dinner party tomorrow night, and I want you to come. We’re having someone here I want you to meet.”
   “Mother!” Laurie said with exasperation. “I’m not sure I’m up for a dinner party. I’ve had a bad day.”
   “Nonsense,” Dorothy exclaimed. “All the more reason to get out of that dreadful apartment of yours. You’ll have a wonderful time. It will be good for you. The person I want you to meet is Dr. Jordan Scheffield. He’s a marvelous ophthalmologist, known all over the world. Your father’s told me. And best of all he was recently divorced from a dreadful woman.”
   “I’m not interested in a blind date,” Laurie said with irritation. She couldn’t believe that not only was her mother oblivious to her mental state, but she wanted to fix her up with some divorced eyeball doctor.
   “It’s about time you met someone appropriate,” Dorothy said. “I never understood what you saw in that Sean Mackenzie. That boy is a shiftless hoodlum and a bad influence on you. I’m glad you finally broke up with him for good.”
   Laurie rolled her eyes. Her mother was in rare form today. Even if there was a certain truth in what she was saying, she didn’t feel like hearing it just then. Laurie had been dating Sean on and off since college. From the start, their relationship was a rocky one. And though he wasn’t exactly a hoodlum, he did hold a sort of outlaw’s appeal for her between his motorcycle and bad attitude. There was a time when his “artistic” personality excited Laurie. Back then she’d even been rebellious enough to try drugs with him on several occasions. But she hoped this last breakup would be their last.
   “Be here at seven-thirty,” Dorothy said. “And I want you to wear something attractive, like that wool suit I gave you for your birthday in October. And your hair: wear it up. I’d love to talk longer, but I’ve got so much to do. See you tomorrow, dear. ’Bye.”
   Laurie took the phone from her ear and looked at it in the darkened room with disbelief. Her mother had hung up on her. She didn’t know whether to swear, laugh, or cry. She replaced the receiver on its cradle. Finally she laughed. Her mother was certainly a character. As she played the conversation back in her mind, she couldn’t believe it had taken place. It was as if she and her mother talked on different wavelengths.
   Walking around her apartment, Laurie turned on the lights, then closed the curtains. Shielded from the world, she took her hair down and stepped out of her clothes. For some reason, she felt better. The crazy conversation with her mother had shocked her out of her depressive thoughts.
   Climbing into the shower, Laurie admitted to herself that she tended to be more emotional in business situations than she would like. The realization irritated her. She didn’t mind dressing femininely, but she didn’t want to lend credence to the stereotype of a fragile, fickle female. In the future, she would try to be more professional. She also realized what a mistake she had made in confiding in Bob. She would have to be sure to keep her opinions to herself, particularly where the press was concerned. She was lucky Bingham hadn’t fired her.
   Standing under the jet of water, Laurie thought about making herself a salad and then doing some studying for her forensic boards. Then she thought about dinner the following night at her parents’. Although her initial reaction had been overwhelmingly negative, she began to have second thoughts. Maybe it would be an interesting break in her routine. Then she wondered how insufferable the newly divorced ophthalmologist would be. She also wondered how old he’d be.

Chapter 2

   9:40 p.m., Monday
   Queens, New York City
   “I gotta do something,” Tony Ruggerio said. He was antsy and he shifted in the passenger side of the front seat of Angelo Facciolo’s black Lincoln Town Car. “We’ve been sitting here in front of D’Agostino’s grocery store for four nights. I can’t stand this doing nothing, you know what I mean? I’ve got to have action, something, anything.” His eyes nervously darted around the rain-glossed street scene in front of him. The car was parked next to a hydrant on Roosevelt Avenue.
   Angelo’s head swung slowly around. His lidded eyes regarded this youthful-appearing twenty-four-year-old “kid” who’d been foisted on him. Tony’s nervousness and impulsiveness were enough to try the patience of Angelo. He thought the “kid,” whose nickname was “the animal,” was a liability in Angelo’s line of work, and he’d said as much to Cerino. But it didn’t matter. Angelo might as well have been talking to the wall. Cerino said that the kid’s asset was that he had no fear; he was wild and ambitious and had no qualms and little conscience. Cerino said that he needed more people like Tony. Angelo wasn’t so sure.
   Tony was short at five-foot-seven and wiry. What he lacked in intimidation through stature, he tried to make up for in muscle. He worked out regularly at the American Gym in Jackson Heights. He told Angelo he took protein supplements and occasionally steroids.
   Tony’s features were rounded, ethnic, southern Italian, and his hair was shiny, black, and thick. His nose was slightly flattened and angled to the right thanks to some amateur boxing. He’d grown up in Woodside and never finished high school, where he’d had frequent fights over his stature as well as his sister, Mary, who was, in his vernacular, a “looker.” He’d always been protective of his sister, thinking that all males had the same goals as himself when it came to females.
   “I can’t sit here any longer,” Tony said. “I’ve got to get out of the car.” He reached for the door latch.
   Angelo put his hand on Tony’s arm. “Relax!” Angelo said with enough threat in his voice to restrain Tony. Cerino had been right to pair them up, in a way. Angelo, the “dude,” made an excellent foil for brash Tony. He looked older than his thirty-four years. Where Tony was short, Angelo was tall and gaunt, his features sharp and hatchetlike. If Tony was sensitive about his height, Angelo was sensitive about his skin. His face bore the scars of a near-lethal case of chicken pox at age six and severe acne from thirteen to twenty-one. Where Tony was wild and impulsive, Angelo was cautious and calculating: a seemingly calm sociopath whose character had been molded by an endless series of foster homes and a final stint of hard time in a maximum security prison.
   Both men were rather vain when it came to their wardrobes. Yet Tony never quite cut the figure for which he aimed; his suits, no matter how expensive, were always ill-fitting on his disproportionately muscled body. On the other hand Angelo gave even Dapper John Gotti a run for his money where sartorial elegance was concerned. He wasn’t flashy, just meticulous. He wore exclusively Brioni suits, shirts, ties, and shoes. As Tony’s muscle building was in response to his short stature, Angelo’s fastidious attire was in response to his complexion, a subject about which he did not brook any reference.
   Tony leaned back in his seat. He glanced in Angelo’s direction. Angelo was one of the few people Tony feared and respected, even envied. Angelo was connected, a made man whose reputation was legendary.
   “Paulie told me that Frankie DePasquale would show up at this grocery store,” Angelo said. “So we’re going to spend the next month waiting here if need be.”
   “Christ!” Tony muttered. Instead of getting out of the car, he reached into his baggy jacket and extracted his .25 caliber Beretta Bantam. Releasing the spring-loaded catch in the butt, he slid out the magazine and counted the bullets as if one of the eight shells could have disappeared since he last counted them half an hour ago.
   When Tony pulled the empty gun’s trigger, Angelo rolled his eyes. “Put the gun away,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”
   “All right, all right!” Tony said, pushing the magazine home and returning the pistol to its shoulder holster. “Take it easy, will you.” He glanced at Angelo, who stared back at him for a moment. Tony held up his hands. He knew Angelo well enough to know he was irritated. “The gun’s away. Relax already.”
   Angelo didn’t say anything. He resumed looking toward the entrance of D’Agostino’s, watching the people coming and going.
   Tony sighed heavily. “It’s been a freaking month since the mothers threw the acid in Paulie’s face. Maybe the bums have split, skipped town. That’s what I would have done. The next day I would have been outta here. Gone down to Florida or out to the coast. We might be sitting here for nothing. Have you thought of that?”
   “Frankie has been seen,” Angelo said. “He’s been seen here at D’Agostino’s.”
   “So how did it happen?” Tony asked. “How’d they get close to Cerino in the first place?”
   “It wasn’t complicated,” Angelo said. “Vinnie Dominick called the meeting with Cerino. There were to be no weapons. Everybody had to leave his piece in his car. We even used a metal detector that Cerino had taken from Kennedy Airport. When Terry Manso started to serve coffee, he threw a cup of acid in Paul’s face. The reason we know Frankie was involved was because he came with Manso.”
   “How’d Frankie get away?” Tony asked.
   “The moment Paulie got the acid the lights went out,” Angelo said. “Then the place went crazy with Paulie screaming and everybody diving for cover in the dark. I was by the front window. I threw a chair through it and dove outside. That was when I saw Manso come out the front door. Frankie was already climbing into a car. It all happened so fast, few people could react.”
   “How did you manage to get Manso?” Tony asked.
   “It was a race,” Angelo said. “Manso lost. My car was directly in front of the restaurant with my piece on the front seat where I could get to it fast if something went wrong. I got off two shots as Manso tried to get into his car. He never made it. Both slugs went into his back.”
   “How many people were involved?” Tony asked. He’d been curious about the acid episode since he’d heard about it, but he’d been afraid to bring it up.
   “The way I figure it, at least two more besides Manso and DePasquale,” Angelo said. “Knowing for sure is one of the reasons we want to talk with Frankie.”
   “God, it blows my mind,” Tony said with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine how much the Lucia people promised to pay for this kind of hit.”
   “Nobody knows for sure,” Angelo said. “In fact, word has it that the punks did it on their own, thinking they’d be rewarded by the Lucia people for their balls. But as far as we can tell the Lucia people haven’t even acknowledged it.”
   “So disrespectful,” Tony muttered. “Acid in the face. Christ!”
   “That reminds me,” Angelo said. “Did you get that battery acid?”
   “Yeah, sure,” Tony said. “It’s in Doc Travino’s old doctor’s bag on the backseat.”
   “Good,” Angelo said. “Paulie is going to like that. It’s a nice touch.”
   Tony stretched. He was quiet for a minute. Then he cleared his throat. “What do you say to my getting out of the car for just a second? I’d like to do a set of push-ups. My shoulders are tight.”
   Angelo swore under his breath and told Tony that being in the car with him was like being locked up with a two-year-old kid.
   “I’m sorry,” Tony said with arched eyebrows. “I’m used to more activity than this.” Locking his hands together, he did a series of isometric exercises. In the middle of one of these maneuvers he stopped and stared out the side window.
   “Holy crap, isn’t that Frankie DePasquale coming along beside us?” Tony said excitedly.
   Angelo leaned forward to see around Tony. “It sure looks like him.”
   “Finally!” Tony exclaimed as he fumbled to withdraw his gun and reach for the door latch. He felt Angelo’s hand on his arm. He looked at his mentor in surprise.
   “Not yet,” Angelo said. “We have to make sure the kid’s alone. We can’t screw this up. It might be our only chance and Paulie doesn’t want more trouble.”
   Like an eager hunting dog restraining himself with difficulty from some flushed prey, Tony watched as Frankie DePasquale disappeared into the crowded grocery store. To his surprise, Angelo started the car. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
   “I’m just backing up a bit,” Angelo explained. “It appears that Frankie is alone. We’ll take him when he comes out again.”
   Angelo angled back to the curb at a bus stop. He left the engine running. They waited.
   Twenty minutes later, Frankie came out of the store with bundles in both arms. Angelo and Tony watched as he walked directly toward them.
   “He looks like a teenager,” Angelo said.
   “He is,” Tony said. “He’s eighteen. He was in my sister’s class before he started hanging around with the wrong people and dropped out of school.”
   “Now!” Angelo said.
   In a flash both Angelo and Tony got out of the car and confronted the surprised Frankie DePasquale. Frankie’s eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped.
   “Hello, Frankie,” Angelo said calmly. “We need to talk.”
   Frankie responded by dropping his groceries. The bags split when they hit the wet sidewalk and a number of cans of tomato paste rolled into the gutter. Frankie turned and fled.
   Tony was on him in a flash. He grabbed him roughly from behind, knocking him to the pavement. Holding him down, he frisked him quickly, coming up with a small Saturday night special. Tony pocketed the gun, then turned the terrified boy over. Up close, Frankie looked even younger than eighteen. In fact, it didn’t look as if he shaved yet.
   “Don’t hurt me!” Frankie pleaded.
   “Shut up!” Tony snapped. The kid was such a drip. It was disgusting.
   Angelo pulled the car up alongside them. With the engine running he jumped from the car. A few pedestrians had stopped beneath their umbrellas to gawk at the spectacle. Angelo pushed through them.
   “All right, move on,” Angelo commanded. “We’re police.” Angelo flashed an old police department badge that he kept in his pocket for just this sort of occasion. The fact that it said Ozone Park when they were currently in Woodside made no difference. It was the shape and the glint of metal that caused the desired effect. The small crowd started to disperse.
   “They’re not police!” Frankie yelled.
   Tony responded to Frankie’s outburst by putting his Beretta Bantam to the side of Frankie’s head. “One more word and you’re history, kid.”
   “In the car,” Angelo commanded.
   With Angelo on one side and Tony on the other, they stood Frankie up and dragged him to the car. Opening the rear door and pushing his head down, they shoved him inside. Tony climbed in after him. Angelo ran around and jumped into the driver’s seat. With a screech of rubber they headed west on Roosevelt Avenue.
   “What are you doing this for?” Frankie asked. “I haven’t done anything to you guys.”
   “Shut up!” Angelo said from the front seat. He was keeping his eye on the rearview mirror. If there had been any sign of trouble, he would have turned on Queens Boulevard. But everything was quiet so he kept going straight. Roosevelt became Greenpoint, and Angelo began to relax.
   “All right, punk,” Angelo said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Time to talk.” He could just see Frankie cowering in the corner, keeping as far from Tony as possible. Tony was holding his gun in his left hand with his arm draped over the back of the seat. Tony’s eyes never left Frankie.
   “What do you want to talk about?” Frankie asked.
   “The job you and Manso did on Paulie Cerino,” Angelo said. “I’m sure you guessed that we work for Mr. Cerino.”
   Frankie’s eyes darted from Tony’s face to Tony’s gun, then up to the image of Angelo in the rearview mirror. He was terrified. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I was just there. It was Manso’s idea. They forced me to go. I didn’t want to do it, but they threatened my mother.”
   “Who’s “they’?” Angelo asked.
   “I mean Terry Manso,” Frankie said. “He was the one.”
   With a sudden wicked slap, Tony cracked Frankie across the face with the barrel of his gun.
   Frankie screamed and pressed the palms of his hands against his face. A trickle of blood oozed between his fingers.
   “What do you think we are? Stupid?” Tony sneered.
   “Don’t hurt him yet,” Angelo said. “Maybe he’ll be cooperative.”
   “Please don’t hurt me anymore,” Frankie pleaded between sobs.
   Tony swore contemptuously and forced the barrel of his pistol between Frankie’s fingers and into his mouth. “Your brains are going to be all over the inside of this car if you don’t smarten up and stop screwing around with us.”
   “Who else was involved?” Angelo asked again.
   Tony withdrew the barrel of his gun so Frankie could talk.
   “It was just Manso,” Frankie sobbed. “And he made me go along.”
   Angelo shook his head in disgust. “Obviously you are not cooperating, Frankie. Remember about the lights. At the same time Manso threw the acid, the lights went out. That wasn’t a coincidence. Who was screwing around with the lights? And the car. Who was driving the car?”
   “I don’t know anything about the lights,” Frankie sobbed. “I don’t remember who was driving. Somebody I didn’t know. Somebody that Manso got.”
   Angelo shook his head in disgust. Nothing was easy anymore. He hated this kind of dirty stuff. He had entertained vague hopes that Frankie would have spilled his guts the moment they got him into the car. Obviously that was not to be the case.
   Glancing up into the rearview mirror, Angelo caught a glimpse of Tony’s face in the flickering light of the passing streetlamps. Tony was sporting one of his contented smiles that told Angelo Tony was enjoying himself. Even Angelo thought Tony could be scary on occasion.
   Once they got to the Greenpoint pier area in Brooklyn, Angelo turned right on Franklin, then left on Java. The area was run-down, especially the closer they got to the water. Abandoned warehouses lined the street. Seventy-five to a hundred years ago, the area had been a thriving waterfront, but that had long since changed save for a few isolated enterprises, like the Pepsi-Cola plant up toward Newtown Creek.
   In the cul de sac where Java Street dead-ended at the East River, Angelo drove through a chain-link gate. A sign over the gate said: AMERICAN FRESH FRUIT COMPANY. The car began to vibrate on the rough cobblestone surface, but Angelo didn’t slow down. When he could drive no farther, he parked.
   “Everybody out,” Angelo said. They were parked in the shadow of a huge warehouse built out over the pier that stuck out almost a hundred yards into the East River. Just across the river was the monumental mass of Manhattan’s glittering skyline. Tony got out holding Doc Travino’s little black bag and motioned for Frankie to get out too.
   Angelo unlocked an overhead door to the warehouse, pulled it up, and motioned for Frankie to enter. Frankie hesitated on the dark threshold. “I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me?”
   Tony gave Frankie a shove that sent the boy stumbling forward. The click of the lightswitch echoed in the cavernous warehouse as Angelo threw the switch activating the mercury vapor lights. At first the lights merely glowed, but as they walked out the pier dragging a reluctant Frankie, they became progressively brighter. Soon it was enough to illuminate the huge stacks of green bananas that filled the warehouse.
   “Please!” Frankie moaned, but Angelo and Tony ignored him. They walked to the very end, unlocking a paneled door. Angelo found the lightswitch that activated a single bulb suspended by a bare wire. The room contained an old metal desk missing its drawers, a few chairs, and a large hole in the floor. Below the hole the water of the East River looked more like oil than water as it swirled around the pier’s piling, flowing with the tide.
   “I’m telling you the truth,” Frankie wailed. “It was all Manso. I was forced to go along. I don’t know anything else.”
   “Sure, Frankie,” Angelo said. Turning to Tony he added, “Tie him to one of the chairs.”
   Tony put Doc Travino’s bag on the desk and unsnapped it open. From within he pulled out a length of clothesline. Then, with a depraved smile, he told Frankie to sit in one of the wooden side chairs. Frankie did as he was told. While Tony tied him up, Angelo lit himself a cigarette.
   Tony gave the rope a couple of yanks to test his knots. Satisfied, he stood up and nodded to Angelo.
   “Once more, Frankie,” Angelo said. “Who else was involved with the acid trick? Who besides you and Manso?”
   “Nobody,” Frankie sobbed. “I’m telling the truth.”
   Angelo derisively blew smoke in Frankie’s face. Glancing at Tony, he said, “Time for the truth serum.”
   Tony pulled a small glass bottle and an eye dropper from Doc Travino’s bag. He handed both to Angelo. Angelo unscrewed the cap and gingerly sniffed the contents. When he got a whiff, he pulled his head back quickly. “Geez, powerful stuff.” He blinked a few times and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes.
   “Any chance you want to change your story?” Angelo asked calmly after walking over to Frankie.
   “I’m telling you the truth,” Frankie persisted.
   Angelo looked at Tony. “Hold his head back.”
   Tony grabbed a handful of the boy’s hair just above the forehead and yanked Frankie’s head back.
   “Tell me, Frankie,” Angelo said as he bent over the boy’s upturned face. “Have you ever heard the expression “an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth’?”
   Only then did Frankie realize what was happening. But despite his attempts at clamping his eyes shut, Angelo managed to empty the eye dropper into Frankie’s lower right lid.
   A slight spattering noise like water hitting a hot skillet preceded an ear-piercing shriek as the sulfuric acid ate into his delicate eye tissues. Angelo glanced at Tony and noticed that Tony’s smile had swelled to a grin. Angelo wondered what the world was coming to with this new generation. This kid Tony was having a ball. For Angelo, this was not entertainment, it was business. Nothing more, nothing less.
   Angelo set the sulfuric acid bottle on the desk and took a couple more puffs on his cigarette. When Frankie’s screams had abated to choking sobs, Angelo leaned toward him and calmly asked if Frankie wanted to change his story.
   “Talk to me!” Angelo commanded when it seemed that Frankie was ignoring him.
   “I’m telling the truth,” Frankie managed.
   “Chrissake!” Angelo muttered as he went back for the acid. Over his shoulder, he called to Tony, “Hold his head back again.”
   “Wait!” Frankie croaked. “Don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
   Angelo put the acid back on the desk and returned to Frankie. He looked at the tears streaming out of the kid’s shut eyes, especially the one where he’d put the acid. “OK, Frankie,” Angelo began. “Who was involved?”
   “You have to get me something for my eye,” Frankie whined. “It’s killing me.”
   “We’ll take care of it as soon as you tell us what we want to know,” Angelo said. “Come on, Frankie. I’m losing my patience.”
   “Bruno Marchese and Jimmy Lanso,” Frankie muttered.
   Angelo looked at Tony.
   Tony nodded. “I’ve heard of Bruno,” he said. “He’s a local kid.”
   “Where can we find these guys if we want to talk to them?” Angelo asked.
   “Thirty-eight twenty-two Fifty-fifth Street, apartment one,” Frankie said. “Just off Northern Boulevard.”
   Angelo took out a piece of paper and wrote the address down. “Whose idea was it?” he asked.
   “It was Manso’s,” Frankie sobbed. “I was telling the truth about that. It was his idea that if we did it, we’d all become Lucia soldiers, part of the inner circle. But I didn’t want to do it. They made me go along.”
   “Why couldn’t you have told us this in the car, Frankie?” Angelo asked. “You would have saved us a lot of trouble and yourself some grief.”
   “I was afraid the others would kill me if they found out I’d talked,” Frankie said.
   “So you were more worried about your friends than us?” Angelo questioned as he stepped behind Frankie. It was enough to hurt Angelo’s feelings. “That’s curious. But no matter. Now you don’t have to worry about your friends because we’ll take care of you.”
   “You got to get me something for my eye,” Frankie said.
   “Sure,” Angelo said. In a smooth motion and without a second’s hesitation, Angelo pulled out his Walther TPH Auto pistol and shot Frankie in the back of the head just above the neck. Frankie’s head snapped forward, then slumped down on his chest.
   The suddenness of the final act surprised Tony, who winced and stepped back, anticipating a gory mess. But there wasn’t any. “Why didn’t you let me do that?” he whined.
   “Shut up and untie him,” Angelo said. “We’re not here for your entertainment. We’re working, remember?”
   Once Tony had Frankie untied, Angelo helped carry the limp body over to the hole in the floor. On the count of three they heaved him into the river. Angelo watched just long enough to make sure that the running tide took the body out into the river proper.
   “Let’s head back to Woodside to pay the others a social call,” Angelo said.
   The address that Frankie had given was a small two-story row house with an apartment on each floor. The outer door was locked but it had a mechanism amenable to a credit card. They were inside in minutes.
   Positioning themselves on either side of the door to apartment one, Angelo knocked. There was no answer. From the street they’d seen that the lights were on.
   “Bust it,” Angelo said, nodding toward the door.
   Tony took several steps back, then kicked the door. The jamb splintered on the first kick and the door swung in. In the blink of an eye both Angelo and Tony were in the small apartment with their guns gripped in both hands. The apartment was empty save for several half-filled bottles of beer on the coffee table. The TV was on.
   “What do you figure?” Tony asked.
   “They must have got spooked when Frankie didn’t come back,” Angelo said. He lit a cigarette and thought for a moment.
   “What next?” Tony questioned.
   “You know where this Bruno’s family lives?” Angelo asked.
   “No, but I can find out,” Tony said.
   “Do it,” Angelo said.

Chapter 3

   7:55 a.m., Tuesday
   Manhattan
   It was a glorious morning as Laurie Montgomery walked north on First Avenue, nearing Thirtieth Street. Even New York City looked good in the cool crisp air scrubbed clean from a day of rain. It was definitely colder than the previous days and in that sense a disturbing reminder of the coming winter. But the sun was out and there was enough breeze to disperse the exhaust of the vehicles jostling their way in Laurie’s direction.
   Laurie’s step had a definite spring to it as she approached the medical examiner’s office. She smiled to herself as she thought how differently she felt this morning as compared to how she’d felt when she’d left for home the night before. Bingham’s reprimand had been unpleasant but deserved. She’d been in the wrong. If she’d been chief she would have been equally as angry.
   As she approached the front steps, she wondered what the day would bring. One aspect of her work she particularly enjoyed was its unpredictability. All she knew was that she was scheduled to be “on autopsy.” She had no idea what kinds of cases and what kinds of intellectual puzzles she’d encounter that day. Just about every time she was on autopsy, she dealt with something she’d never seen, sometimes something she’d never even read about. It was a job that meant continual discovery.
   This morning the reception area was relatively quiet. There were still a few media people hanging around for more word on the “preppy murder II” case. Yesterday’s Central Park murder had made the front page of the tabloids and the local morning news.
   Just shy of the inner door, Laurie stopped. Over on one of the vinyl couches she spotted Bob Talbot deep in conversation with another reporter. After a moment’s hesitation Laurie strode over to the couch.
   “Bob, I’d like to talk to you a moment,” she said. Then to his companion, she added, “Pardon me for interrupting.”
   Bob eagerly got to his feet and stepped aside with Laurie. His attitude surprised her. She would have expected him to be more sheepish and contrite.
   “Seeing you two days in a row must be some sort of record,” Bob said. “It’s a pleasure I could get used to.”
   Laurie started right in. “I can’t believe you didn’t have more respect for my confidence. What I told you yesterday was meant for your ears only.”
   Bob was clearly taken aback by Laurie’s rebuke. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t think what you were saying was a secret. You didn’t say so.”
   “You could have thought about it,” Laurie fumed. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what such a statement would do to my standing around here.”
   “I’m sorry,” Bob repeated. “It won’t happen again.”
   “You’re right, it won’t happen again,” Laurie said. She turned and headed for the inner door, ignoring Bob as he called out to her. But although she ignored him, her anger had lessened. After all, she had been speaking the truth the day before. She wondered vaguely if she shouldn’t be more uncomfortable with the social and political aspects of her job that Bingham had referred to than with Bob. One of the attractions for Laurie of pathology in general and forensics in particular was that they tried to deal with the truth. The idea of compromise for whatever reason disturbed her. She hoped she would never have to choose between her scruples and the politicking.
   After Marlene Wilson buzzed her through, Laurie went directly to the ID office. As per usual Vinnie Amendola was drinking coffee and perusing the sports pages. If the date on the paper hadn’t been that day’s, she might have sworn he’d never left. If he noticed Laurie, he didn’t give any indication. Riva Mehta, Laurie’s office-mate, was in the ID office. She was a slight Indian woman with a dark complexion and a soft, silky voice. On Monday they’d not crossed paths.
   “Looks like today’s your lucky day,” Riva teased. She was getting herself some coffee before heading up to the office. Tuesday was to be a paper day for her.
   “How so?” Laurie questioned.
   Vinnie gave a short laugh without looking up from his paper.
   “You got a homicide floater,” Riva said. A floater was a body that had been in water for a period of time. They generally were not desirable cases since they frequently were in advanced stages of decomposition.
   Laurie looked at the schedule Calvin had made up that morning. Listed were that day’s autopsies and the people to whom they’d been assigned. After her name were two drug overdoses and a GSW homicide. The GSW stood for Gun Shot Wound.
   “The body was hauled out of the East River this morning,” Riva said. “An attentive security man had apparently seen it bobbing past the South Street Sea Port.”
   “Lovely,” Laurie said.
   “It’s not so bad,” said Vinnie. “It hadn’t been in the water long. Only a matter of hours.”
   Laurie nodded in relief. That meant she probably wouldn’t have to do the case in the decomposing room. It wasn’t the smell that bothered her on such cases as much as the isolation. The decomposing room was all by itself on the other side of the morgue. Laurie much preferred to be in the thick of things and relating to the other staff. There was a lot of give and take in the main autopsy room. Often she learned as much from other people’s cases as she did from her own.
   Laurie looked at the name of the victim and his age: Frank DePasquale. “Poor fellow was only eighteen,” she said. “Such a waste. And like most of these homicides, the case will probably never be solved.”
   “Probably not,” Vinnie agreed as he struggled to fold his newspaper to the next page.
   Laurie said good morning to Paul Plodgett when he appeared at the door. He had dark circles under his eyes. She asked him how his famous case was progressing.
   “Don’t ask,” Paul said. “It’s a nightmare.”
   Laurie got herself a cup of coffee and picked up the three folders for her day’s cases. Each folder contained a case worksheet, a partially filled-out death certificate, an inventory of medico-legal case records, two sheets for autopsy notes, a telephone notice of death as received by communications, a completed identification sheet, an investigative report, a sheet for the autopsy report, and a lab slip for HIV antibody analysis.
   As she was shuffling through all the material, Laurie noticed the names of the other two cases: Louis Herrera and Duncan Andrews. She remembered the name Duncan Andrews from the day before.
   “That was the case you asked me about yesterday,” a voice said from over Laurie’s shoulder. She turned and looked up into Calvin Washington’s coal black eyes. He’d come up behind her and put a finger by Andrews’ name. “When I saw the name, I thought you’d want the case.”
   “Fine by me,” Laurie said.
   Each one of the medical examiners had his own way of approaching his autopsy day. Some grabbed the material and went directly downstairs. Laurie had a different modus operandi. She liked to take all the paperwork up to her office to plan her day as rationally as possible. With her coffee in one hand, her briefcase in the other, and the three new files under her arm, Laurie set out for the elevator. She got as far as communications when Sergeant Murphy, one of the policemen currently assigned to the medical examiner’s office, called her name. He bounded out of the police cubicle, dragging a second man behind him. Sergeant Murphy was an ebullient, red-faced Irishman.
   “Dr. Montgomery, I’d like you to meet Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano,” Murphy said proudly. “He’s one of the brass in the homicide department at headquarters downtown.”
   “Happy to meet you, Doctor,” Lou said. He stuck out his hand. He was an attractive, dark-complected man of medium height, with well-defined features and bright eyes that just then were riveted to her face. His hair was cropped short in a style that seemed appropriate for his stocky, muscular body.
   “Happy to meet you as well,” Laurie said. “We don’t see too many police lieutenants here at the medical examiner’s office.” Laurie felt a bit nervous under the man’s unblinking stare.
   “They don’t let us out of our cages too often,” Lou said. “I’m pretty much glued to my desk. But I still like to sneak out once in a while, especially on certain cases.”
   “Hope you enjoy your visit here,” Laurie said. She smiled and started to leave.
   “Just a moment, Doctor!” Lou said. “I was told that you were assigned to autopsy Frank DePasquale. I wonder if you would mind if I observed the post. I’ve already cleared it with Dr. Washington.”
   “Not at all,” Laurie said. “If you can tolerate it, be my guest.”
   “I’ve seen a few autopsies,” Lou said. “I don’t think there will be any problem.”
   “Fine,” Laurie said.
   There was an awkward pause. For a moment no one spoke. Finally Laurie realized the man was waiting for some directions.
   “I’m on my way to my office,” Laurie said. “I usually go over the paperwork first. Would you care to come along?”
   “I’d be delighted,” he said.
   In the elevator Laurie looked at Soldano more closely. He was a square, athletic-
   appearing man of obvious intelligence whose rumpled appearance vaguely reminded her of Colombo, the TV detective made famous by Peter Falk. The crease in his suit pants had long since disappeared. Despite the fact that it was only a little after eight in the morning, he had a heavy five o’clock shadow.
   As if reading Laurie’s mind, Lou self-consciously ran a hand up and down the sides of his face.
   “I guess I look a wreck,” Lou said. “I’ve been up since four-thirty when the DePasquale body floated to shore. Didn’t have a chance to shave. Hope it doesn’t offend you. I’m not trying for the Don Johnson Miami Vice look.”
   “I didn’t notice,” Laurie lied. “But why is a detective lieutenant so interested in an eighteen-year-old homicide victim? Is there something special about this case that I should know?”
   “Not really,” Lou said. “It’s more personal. Before I got promoted to lieutenant and switched to Homicide, I’d been with the organized crime unit for six years. With DePasquale the two areas overlap. DePasquale was a young hoodlum on the fringes of the Lucia crime family organization. He might have been only eighteen, but he already had a long sheet.”