There had been no tattoo.

And that meant-

No, I'm wrong, Keith told himself, refusing to let himself even complete the thought. He must've gotten it taken off.

But even if he had, wouldn't there have been a scar?

And there hadn't been a scar-not that he'd been able to see. And if there was no tattoo, and no scar, then-

Again he refused to let himself finish the thought, but as the light turned green and the car behind him began to honk, he just sat there, unable to do anything.

And the thought finished itself.

Hes not dead.

If Jeff hadn't had the tattoo removed, then the body he'd seen in the morgue wasn't Jeff's.

His hands shaking, Keith picked up the cell phone, turned it on, then scrolled through its memory until Heather Randall's home phone number came up. He pressed the number, then waited nervously until the connection was made.

An answering machine picked up.

"It's Keith Converse," he said. "Call me as soon as you get this message, Heather. I've got to know if Jeff still had his tattoo. The one of the sun rising over a pyramid."

Leaving the number of his cell phone, he hung up.

This time, though, he didn't turn the cell phone off.

He left it on, and prayed for it to ring.

CHAPTER 7

Keith's phone started to ring less than a minute after he broke the connection with the answering machine in Perry Randall's apartment. Snatching it up and flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear and began speaking: "Heather? Tell me that Jeff hadn't had his tattoo removed."

But it wasn't Heather who replied, it was his wife. "His tattoo?" Mary said. "Keith, what are you talking about? What's happened?"

Keith ignored her question. "Mary? Where are you?"

"I'm at home," Mary began. "But-"

"Stay there," Keith told her. "I'll be over in ten minutes. I just got off the expressway."

Mary's voice rose, taking on a querulous edge. "Tell me now, Keith. I've been calling you for hours, but your phone-"

"My phone's been off," Keith said. "Just try to stay calm, Mary."

"I am calm," Mary said, her voice rising another notch. "But what do you expect, telling me-oh, there's another call coming in. Let me get rid of them and-"

"Take the other call, Mary. I'll be there by the time you get done." He snapped the phone closed before she could say anything else, and in two minutes less than the ten he'd promised, he slid his truck into an empty space in front of the art gallery on Hoquaquogue Road and was hurrying down the narrow path that led to Mary's little apartment. The open door framed his wife, whose face was ashen.

"He's dead!" she said. "And you didn't even tell me!" He reached out to put his arms around her, but she pulled away. "What happened?" she asked. "They said it was some kind of an accident."

"That's what they told me, too," Keith replied, reaching out again and gripping her shoulders. "They were taking him up to Rikers Island, and a couple of blocks before they got on the Williamsburg Bridge, a car hit the van. And the van caught fire." Keith felt Mary stiffen as she braced herself for his next words: "They couldn't get him out."

"God's retribution," Mary breathed. "It's God's-"

"It's not God's retribution!" Keith cut in. "God didn't have anything to do with it!" Mary recoiled as if he'd slapped her, but he ignored it, adding, "And there's something else, too. When I saw him-"

Mary drew back, her eyes wide. "You saw him?" she demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"I had to talk to them," he said. "I had to find out what happened and I-" He hesitated, then went on. "I had to see him for myself."

For the first time, Mary reached out and touched Keith, her fingers resting for a moment on his arm. "You should have taken me with you," she said. "I should have been with you."

Remembering the terrible visage he had forced himself to look upon-the charred flesh and ruined features-Keith shook his head. "No," he said, his voice rough as he struggled to control his emotions. "No one should have to see what I saw. But…" His voice trailed off. He'd been about to tell her about the tattoo and the doubt that it had created, but now he wondered if he should. If he told her and he was wrong- His thoughts were cut short by the ringing of his cell phone.

"I just heard what happened," Heather Randall said on the line, her voice shaking. "Daddy called me-he said it was some kind of accident, but-I can't-I just can't believe it- not Jeff! He-"

"Heather, listen to me," Keith cut in. "Do you remember Jeff's tattoo?"

"His tattoo?" she said, sounding dazed, as if she hadn't quite understood his words.

"The pyramid. The pyramid and the sun."

There was a moment of silence, as if she still hadn't understood, but then she said, "Of course I remember it."

As his wife regarded him with curiosity, Keith's pulse quickened, as it had in the truck a little while ago. "And he still had it?"

"Still had it?" Heather echoed, puzzled. "Of course he did. Why wouldn't he?"

Keith kept his voice carefully neutral. "People have them removed sometimes."

"Not Jeff. He loves his tattoo."

"And you're sure he still had it?" Keith pressed.

"Well, of course I'm sure," Heather replied. "I mean- Mr. Converse, what's going on? Why is Jeff's tattoo so important?"

Keith hesitated, part of him wanting to tell Heather about the idea that had taken root in his mind, but an equally strong part wanting to spare her from false hope if it turned out he was wrong. But the look on Mary's face told him it was already too late, and the words she spoke confirmed it.

"What is it, Keith?" Mary asked. "Why are you asking her about the tattoo?"

Keith hesitated, then told her: "I'm almost certain the body I saw this morning didn't have a tattoo."

"You mean it might not be Jeff?" Mary asked, immediately grasping what he was saying.

"I don't know," Keith said, still trying to protect both Mary and Heather, in case he was wrong.

"I want to see," Mary said. "I want to see for myself."

A little more than two hours later, Keith stood once more in the morgue, facing the drawer in which lay the body he had seen that morning. This time, though, Mary stood on one side of him and Heather Randall on the other.

"I have to see," Heather had told them when they'd found her waiting just inside the front door. As he had with Mary, Keith tried to dissuade her, and like Mary, Heather had insisted.

Now, as the drawer was pulled open, her fingers dug into the muscle of his left arm. The orderly-a different one than had been on duty that morning-pulled the sheet back, and Mary uttered a strangled sound of horror. She turned away, steadying herself against her husband as she struggled to fight back the wave of nausea that had risen inside her.

The orderly glanced questioningly at Keith. His own stomach knotted as he looked down again at the charred remains that had been pulled from the burning wreckage that morning.

His eyes fixed on the spot where there should have been a tattoo.

And all he saw was charred flesh.