Kate hurried to her office to begin planning for her team and the project ahead. She worked feverishly, almost obsessively, although she did not admit, even to herself, that it was because each time she closed her eyes she saw the pale face and dark eyes of the intruder. If she allowed time to think of anything except work, she saw those black eyes fixed on the sleeping form of her son.

Kate and Tom met with the young police detective on what should have been Kate's lunch break on Tuesday. The detective's name was Lieutenant Bryce Peterson and now, in daylight, Kate noticed that not only did he wear a beard and sloppy clothes, but his long hair was pulled back in a ponytailwhat Tom referred to as a “dork knob.”

The meeting was not enlightening. The lieutenant's questions went over areas that both Kate and Tom had answered before and the detective had nothing new to tell them.

“You're sure that you didn't know the suspect?” said Lieutenant Peterson. “Even casually?”

Tom sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair, a movement that Kate knew usually warned of an imminent loss of temper. “We don't know him, never met him, haven't seen him before, aren't related to him,” said Tom, his blue eyes hard. “But we could pick him out of a lineup if you caught him. Are you any closer to catching him, Lieutenant?”

The detective tugged absently at his mustache. “You couldn't find a match in the computer . . . . “

Kate had been slightly surprised that she and Tom had watched images tick by on a VDT the evening before; she had expected to pore through mug shots just like the old TV shows. “No,” she said. “None of the pictures looked like the man.”

“But you're sure you could identify him if you did see him again?” asked the lieutenant. His voice was vaguely nasal, vaguely irritating.

“We said we could identify him,” snapped Tom. “You tell us what the hell happened to him.”

The lieutenant flipped through some paperwork as if the answer were there. Reading the upsidedown papers, Kate could see that they were about some other case. “Obviously the thief was wounded, but not so severely he could not escape,” said the lieutenant. “We have notices out to all area hospitals and clinics in case he seeks aid there. “

“Wounded?” said Kate. “Lieutenant, this man was shot three times, at close range, by a shotgun. “

“Twelvegauge Remington loaded with numbersix shot,” Tom added dryly.

“By a shotgun,” continued Kate, attempting and succeeding to keep her voice low and reasonable. “The first shot opened up his chest and did serious damage to his throat and jaw. The second shot almost took his left arm off and left ribs exposed. Lieutenant, I saw the damage. God knows what the third blast did to him . . . and the fall. You saw yourself that the cliff is almost vertical there. “

The police detective nodded and stared at her blankly. His eyelids were heavy with that tired, hooded look that some men affected; Kate knew women who found that look sexy . . . she had always thought that it signified stupidity. “So?” said the lieutenant.

“So why are we talking wounded?” said Kate, her voice hard. “Why aren't we asking who carried his body away, and why?”

The lieutenant sighed as if fatigued by the questions of amateurs.

Tom set his hand on Kate's forearm before she said anything else in anger. “Why do you call him a thief?” he asked softly. “Why not kidnapper?”

The young cop looked up, eyes heavy. “There's no evidence that the suspect was attempting a kidnapping.”

“He was in the nursery!” shouted Kate. “He was reaching for the baby!”

Lieutenant Peterson stared at her impassively.

“Look,” said Tom, obviously trying to find some middle ground to keep the discussion from deteriorating further, “we understand that there are no prints because the guy was wearing gloves. His face isn't in your computer. But you have blood samples from the rocks and plants in the ravine . . . bits of clothing that tore on the way down . . . couldn't you use that? Or give it to the FBI?”

The lieutenant blinked slowly. “Why do you think the FBI would be involved in a local matter?”

Kate ground her teeth. “Doesn't the FBI usually get involved in kidnappings or attempted kidnappings?”

The lieutenant did not blink. “But, Doctor Neuman, we have no evidence that this was an attempted kidnapping. You live in a wealthy area. Your home has lots of expensive art, electronic equipment, silverware . . . it's an obvious target for“

“Come on, Kat,” said Tom, rising and taking her hand. “Your lunch hour's up, my patience is used up. Lieutenant, you let us know if there's any news at all, OK?”

Lieutenant Peterson gave them his best Don Johnson look.

In the car, driving her back up the hill to CDC, Tom opened the glove compartment and handed Kate a small wooden box. “Open it,” he said.

She did, and said nothing, only looked at her exhusband.

“Ninemillimeter Browning semiautomatic,” Tom said. “I got it from Ned at the sports shop. We'll go out after work tomorrow and practice with it. From now on, it stays in the nightstand drawer.”

Kate said nothing. She closed her eyes, saw the pale face and black eyes, andfor the hundredth time since early Sunday morningtried not to start shaking.

Susan McKay Chandra arrived in Boulder on Thursday and was not happy. Kate had always thought the virus expert beautiful; Chandra had inherited her Indian father's small stature, mocha skin tones, and jet black hair, but her bright blue eyes and fiery temper were a gift from her Scottish-American mother. That temper was in the ascendant during the thirty-minute ride from Denver's Stapleton Airport to Boulder.

“Neuman, you have no idea how important the HIV work I'm doing in Atlanta is,” she snapped at Kate, who had told the van driver she would pick up the virologist.

“Yes, I do,” Kate said softly. “I monitor everything of yours that comes across the net and read the Bulletin abstracts even before they go to hard copy.”

Chandra crossed her arms, not mollified by praise. “Then you must know that it's sheer idiocy to drag me out here on some halfassed project while every week my team does without me may cost thousands of lives.”

Kate nodded slowly. “Look,” she said. “Give me two hours. No . . . make that ninety minutes. If I can't convince you by noon, I'll buy you lunch at the Flagstaff House, get you a firstclass ticket on the three P.m. Delta flight back to Atlanta, and drive you to the airport myself.”

Chandra's blue eyes were not hostile, merely unrelenting. “Tough talk, Neuman. But I'll take you up on it. I'm afraid that nothing short of the Second Coming is going to convince me to stay away from my team.”

As it turned out, it took a little less than an hour of going over the data in Kate's office. “Jesus H. Christ,” Chandra all but whispered when they had reviewed the last file. “This child may be the biological equivalent of the Rosetta Stone. “

Goosebumps rose along Kate's arms. “You'll stay then? At least until we get an idea how to isolate this retrovirus?”

“Will I stay?” laughed the other woman. “Just try to get rid of me, Neuman. How soon can we get into the ClassVI here?”

Kate glanced at her watch. “Will ten minutes be soon enough?”

Chandra stood a moment at the window, staring at the Flatirons. “Why don't we say ninety minutes. I think I'll buy you dinner at Flagstaff House. It may be a long time before either one of us takes time for a civilized meal again.”

The letter from Lucian arrived four days later. Kate read it after coming home from work at nine-thirty P.m., almost too tired to check in on Joshua in his newly repainted nursery. Then she took a shower, said goodnight to Julie, went into the study where Tom was preparing his checklist for a Canyonlands trek, and sorted the mail. The sight of Lucian's letter made her heart skip in a strange and unexpected way. It had been sent via International Federal Express.