he Lucas who confiscated the Paraiso skeleton for Antonio Diaz?'

'Hector Luis Castillo Lucas.'

'But Lucas is a forensic doctor.'

'Apparently he didn't start out that way.'

'What's the Diaz-Lucas link?' I asked.

'Better question: What's the Zuckerman-Lucas link?'

'Any progress on netting Zuckerman or Jorge Serano?'

'Not yet. Galiano has Zuckerman's clinic and home staked out, has an APB out on her car. He's also set up surveillance at the Paraiso. We should nail 'em before the ten o'clock news.'

'Did Galiano get his warrant?'

'He's talking to a judge now.'

I clicked off, replaced the washcloth, and lay back on the pillows.

This really didn't make sense. Or did it? Was Dr. Lucas working for Diaz? Had the doctor ordered the destruction of Patricia Eduardo's bones at the request of the DA? Or was it the other way around? Did Lucas have influence over Diaz?

Diaz could link to Chupan Ya, perhaps even to the shooting of Carlos and Molly. But why would he want the Paraiso bones confiscated? Why would he have an interest in the murder of a pregnant young girl?

Carlos and Molly! Had their attackers really spoken my name? Was I the next target? Whose?

Feeling frightened and chilled, I crawled under the blankets.

Still my head swam with questions.

Lucas must know Zuckerman. Two Guatemalan doctors at an Australian research facility at the same time could hardly fail to be aware of each other. Were they now working together? On what?

What was Nordstern's big secret? And how had he learned it?

Was there a Bastos-Diaz connection other than their time together in the army? Why did Nordstern circle the picture of Diaz with Bastos together reviewing the parade at Xaxaxak?

Did all these things tie together? Did any of them? Were these just episodes of corruption in a corrupt country?

Was I in danger?

The jackhammers obliterated the clamor of rush hour traffic. The fan hummed. Slowly, the room dimmed, the sounds ebbed.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed when the room phone shrilled. When I bolted upright, it was dark.

Breathing. Then a dial tone.

'Goddamn inconsiderate bastard!' Must have called the wrong extension and just hung up.

I slammed the receiver.

Sitting on the edge of the bed I held my hands to my cheeks. They felt cooler. The meds were helping.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat-taaaaat. Rat. Rat. Rat.

How much cement could there be down there?

'Enough of this.'

I got a Diet Coke from the mini-fridge and tried a sip.

Oh yes.

I knocked back several swallows as a test run, and set the can on the table. Then I stripped off my clothes and showered until the bathroom was gray with steam. I closed my eyes, let the water pound my breasts, my back, my distended abdomen. I let it roll off my head, my shoulders, my hips.

After toweling off, I combed out my hair, brushed my teeth, and pulled on cotton socks and a set of FBI sweats.

Feeling like a new woman, I dug out Nordstern's files and settled at the table. In the next room I heard the TV go on, then aimless channel switching. My neighbor finally settled on a soccer match.

The first folder I picked up was labeled 'Specter.' It held press clippings, notes, and an assortment of photos of André Specter and his family. There were two Polaroids of the ambassador with Aida Pera.

The second folder was unlabeled. It contained restaurant and taxi receipts. Expense records. Pass.

I finished my Coke.

Outside, the jackhammers droned on.

I recognized the label on the third folder: 'SCELL.' I was halfway through when I found it.

Stem Cells Grown from Dead Bodies.

As I read the report, my chest tightened.

A research team at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, had developed a technique for sourcing stem cells from human post-mortem samples. The finding was reported in the journal Nature.

'Jesus Christ.'

My voice sounded loud in the empty room.

I read on.

When placed in a succession of solutions, the tissues of an eleven-week-old baby and a twenty-seven-year-old man had yielded immature brain cells. The Salk team had used the technique on others of different ages, and on specimens extracted as long as two days after death.

A footer indicated that the report had been downloaded from the BBC News home page. Beside the http address, someone had written the name Zuckerman.

I felt icy-hot, and my hands were shaking.

Relapse.

Time for an Imodium hit.

Returning from the bathroom, I noticed an odd shadow falling across the carpet in front of the door. I went to check. The latch had not properly engaged.

Had I left the door open when I'd arrived and dashed to the bathroom? I was feeling lousy, but such carelessness was out of character.

I closed and locked it, a sense of trepidation joining the rest of my symptoms.

Dialing Galiano, I felt weak all over. The trembling in my hands had intensified.

Galiano and Ryan were out. I had to swallow before I could leave a message.

Damn! I couldn't be sick. I wouldn't!

I collected Nordstern's folders and stacked them beside the armchair. Stealing the quilt from the bed, I tucked my feet under my bum and wrapped myself in it. I was feeling worse by the minute.

Dramatically worse.

I opened a folder. Interview notes. I had to keep wiping my face as I read. Rivulets of perspiration rolled down the inside of my sweats.

Within minutes I felt a sharp pain in my belly, then tremors below my tongue. Heat rose from my throat to my hairline.

I raced to the bathroom, retched until my sides ached, then returned to my chair to re-cocoon. Every few minutes I repeated the journey. I felt weaker with each trip.

Collapsing into my chair for the fourth time, I shut my eyes and pulled the quilt to my chin. I felt rough cotton against my skin. I smelled my own odor. My head spun, and I saw tiny constellations on the backs of my lids.

The jackhammers receded to a sound like popping corn. I saw locusts on a summer night. Gossamer wings. Red, bulging eyes. I felt insects buzz through my bloodstream.

Then I was with Katy. She was little, maybe three or four, and we were reading a book of nursery rhymes. Her hair was white blonde. The sun shone through it like moonlight through mist. She wore the pinafore I'd bought on a trip to Nantucket.

Let me help, sweetheart.

I can do it.

Of course you can.

I know my letters. Sometimes I just can't put them together.

That's the hard part.

Take your time.

Hector Protector was dressed all in green;

Hector Protector was sent to the queen;

The queen didn't like him, nor did the king;

So Hector Protector was sent back again.

Why didn't they like him, Mommy?

I don't know.

Was he a bad man?

I don't think so.

What was the queen's name?

Arabella.

Katy giggled.

What was the king's name?

Charlie Oliver.

More giggles.

You always say funny names, Mommy.

I like to see you laugh.

What was Hector Protector's last name?

Lucas.

Maybe he wasn't really a protector.

Maybe not.

What then, Mommy?

A collector?

Giggles.

An erecter.

A defecter.

An ejecter.

A dissector

An inspector.

I awoke standing in the bathroom, palms and forehead pressed to the mirror.

Had that been the word Molly had overheard? Not inspector. Not Specter.

Hector.

Hector Lucas.

Did I really have it backward? Was the doctor in fact controlling the DA? Had Lucas ordered the attack on Molly and Carlos? What was his link to our work at Chupan Ya? I couldn't make sense of it. Did he have Nordstern killed when the reporter got too close to the truth? Did he have Patricia Eduardo killed? Would Lucas deal with Zuckerman and Jorge Serano in the same way?

Would he try to kill Galiano and Ryan?

I lurched to the bedside table, fumbled for my cell.

Neither Ryan nor Galiano answered.

I wiped perspiration from my face with the back of an arm.

Where were they going? Zuckerman's clinic? The morgue?

Think!

I took a deep breath, opened and closed my eyes. Images swirled. Stars flashed on my lids.

What to do?

I blew out a breath. Then another.

If Lucas really was dangerous, Ryan and Galiano would have no way to know. Zuckerman may already have reached him, and Lucas might think they were coming to arrest him, and shoot.

Throwing on shoes, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.

===OO=OOO=OO===

It took twenty minutes to hail a taxi.

'¿Dónde?'

Where?

Where had Ryan and Galiano gone? Not the Paraiso or Zuckerman's clinic. Those places were staked out.

The driver drummed his fingers on the wheel.

Where would Lucas be?

Or did I want Diaz? Maybe Dr. Fereira could tell me.

I was trembling all over, my teeth clicking like a cheap party toy.

'¿Dónde, Señora?'

Focus!

'Morgue del Organismo Judicial.'

'Zona Tres?'

'Oui.'

That was wrong. Why?

As the taxi crossed the city I watched an ever-changing panoply of color and shape. Banners strung above the streets. Ads posted on fences, walls, and billboards. I didn't try to read them. I couldn't. My head spun as it had in my drinking days when I'd fall asleep with one foot on the floor to remain stuck to the planet.

I knew I overpaid the driver by his smile and his blast-off.

No matter.

I looked up and down the block. The neighborhood was as bleak as I remembered, the cemetery larger and darker. Galiano's car was nowhere in sight.

I stared at the morgue. Fereira. I needed to see Dr. Fereira. I followed a gravel driveway along the left side of the building. My sneakers made crunching sounds that thundered in my ears.

The drive led to a parking area containing two transport vehicles, a white Volvo, and a black station wagon. No Batmobile.

A drop of sweat rolled into my right eye. I wiped it away with my sleeve.

Now what? I hadn't thought about entering without Ryan or Galiano. Look for Fereira?

I tested the personnel entrance at the back of the building. No go. The garage door used for body intake was also locked.

I tried to be more quiet. I crossed to the first van and peered through a window. Nothing.

I scuttled to the second vehicle.

The third.

A set of keys lay on the seat!

Heart thumping, I liberated my prize and stumbled back to the building.

None of the keys worked on the personnel door.

Damn.

My hands trembled as I tried key after key at the vehicle bay.

No.

No.

No.

I dropped the cluster of keys. My legs shook as I searched on all fours in the dark. An eternity later, my hand closed around them.

Rising, I started again.

The fifth or sixth key slid into the lock and turned. I nudged the door upward an inch, and froze.

No sirens or beepers. No armed guards.

I nudged another two feet. The gears sounded louder than the jackhammers at my hotel.

No one appeared. No one called out.

Barely breathing, I crouched and crab-walked into the morgue. Why was it I wanted to be inside? Oh yeah. Dr. Fereira, or Ryan, or Galiano.

The familiar blended odors of death and disinfectant enveloped me. It was a smell I'd know anywhere.

Keeping my back to the wall, I followed a corridor past a roll-on gurney scale, an office, and a small room with a curtained window.

My lab in Montreal has a similar chamber. The dead are wheeled to the far side of the glass. The curtains are opened. A loved one reacts with relief or sorrow. It is the most heartbreaking place in the building.

Beyond the viewing room, the corridor dead-ended into another. I looked left, right.

Another light show behind my eyes. I closed them, breathed deeply, opened them. Better.

Though it was dark in both directions, I knew where I was. To the left I recognized the autopsy rooms, to the right the hall down which Angelina Fereira had led me to her office.

How long had it been since she'd given me Eduardo's CT scans? A week? A month? A lifetime? My brain couldn't compute.

I started right. Maybe she was there. She could tell me about Lucas.

A stab to the gut doubled me over. I took quick, shallow breaths, waited for the pain to subside. When I righted myself, lightning burst behind my eyes and the top of my head exploded. Bracing against the wall, I vomited in great, heaving spasms.

Dr. Fereira? Ryan? Galiano?

A lifetime later, the contractions stopped. My mouth tasted bitter. My sides ached. My legs felt rubbery, my body hot and cold at the same time. Dr. Fereira would send someone to clean this up.

Using the wall for support, I pushed on. Her office was empty. I reversed direction toward the autopsy rooms.

Autopsy room one was dark and deserted.

Ditto for two.

I noticed violet-blue light spilling under the door of autopsy room three, the one in which I'd examined Patricia Eduardo's skeleton. She was probably there.

Gingerly, I opened the door.

There's a surreal stillness to a nighttime morgue. No sucking hoses, no whining saws, no running water, no clanking instruments. It's like no other silence I know.

The room was empty and deathly quiet.

'Dr. Fereira?'

Someone had left an X ray on an illuminator box. Fluorescence seeped around the film like the blue-white shimmer of a black-and-white TV in the dark. Metal and glass gleamed cold and steely.

A gurney sat by a stainless steel cooler at the back of the room. On it, a body bag. The bulge told me there was someone inside.

Another spasm. Black spots danced in my vision.

Lurching to the table, I dropped my head, breathed deeply.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The dots dissolved. The nausea backed off.

Better.

A body outside the cooler. Someone had to be working.

'Dr. Fereira?'

I reached for my cell phone. It wasn't in my pocket.

Damn!

Had I dropped it? Had I forgotten it at the hotel? When had I left the hotel?

I looked at my watch. I couldn't see the digits.

This was not working. I needed to leave. I was in no shape to help them.

Help who?

Leave where?

Where am I? At that moment I felt more than heard movement behind me. Not a sound, more a disturbance in the air.

I whirled.

Fireworks flared in my brain. Fire shot from my groin to my throat.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

'Dr. Fereira?'

Did I speak or imagine I was speaking?

The figure held something in its hands.

'Señor Diaz?'

No answer.

'Dr. Zuckerman?'

The figure remained frozen in place.

I felt my hands slip. My cheek struck the metal lip of the gurney. Breath exploded from my lungs. The floor rushed toward my face.

Blackness.