As arule, criminals have no idea who the people are who plug away in forensic labsall over the world and how dedicated they are to rooting out the truth. If theydid know, they wouldn't be so cavalier about leaving at their crime scenes anyone of the million skin cells or hundreds of hairs we shed every day, not tomention saliva, footprints, blood, or fibers from clothing.

    AsJessica got into the car she also thought about how her job sometimes resembledan episode of The X-Files.

    Thesesamples are definitely not human.

Chapter 27

    Byrneparked across the street from the Mount Olive Cemetery. He had stopped by themain office, spoken to the night security officer. Considering what hadhappened there that day, he didn't need a trigger happy ex-PPD freaking outabout the man standing in the middle of the graveyard.

    Hethought about the vision he had gotten when he had been here before. What didit all mean?

    Hetried to add up the hours of sleep he had missed in the past week, butcouldn't. The weight of his exhaustion prevented him from making an accurateaccounting.

    Byrnelaid his head back on the seat. Just for a moment. Just a moment of peace.

    Sleepcame quickly. In the dream he was in a vast concert hall, the only personsitting in the audience. Onstage was a full philharmonic orchestra. He lookedaround the elegant surroundings. The floor was slicked with blood. On each seatwas a severed finger.

    Hejumped to his feet as the music swelled, ran up the aisle to the lobby. On onewall of the lobby were two words written in bright red blood:

you know

    Byrneran from the hall, down the sidewalks, where everyone had the face of a victimhe knew, a case he had investigated. He found his van in an otherwise emptyparking lot. He jumped in, his heart racing fit to burst. He noticed the smellimmediately. He turned around to find a decomposing body posed in the back,shaved and hairless, its eyes open, familiar eyes—

    Byrnesat upright in the driver's seat, the perspiration slicking his body despitethe chill in the air. Outside, the city of Philadelphia was pitch black andsilent, the only sounds the occasional car trolling by. Around him the deadwere still dead.

    Hegot out of the van, breathing in deeply the cold night air.

    Youknow.

    Helooked at his watch.

    Itwas 2:52.

Chapter 28

    Wednesday,October 27

    Lucyspent the morning on autopilot, her emotions racing between approach andavoidance. Neither of these were terms that she had ever used in relationshipto her state of mind until she had started seeing psychologists. They had adifferent way of speaking, those people, a wholly separate dictionary. Forinstance, you didn't just recall something, you had declarative memory.Or when you applied simple logic to problems, and solved them, it was calledfluid intelligence. And then there was her favorite. If you were the kindof person who defined yourself by your own thoughts or actions, you weren'tjust confident, or happy in your own skin. No, no, no. You had independent construalsof self.

    Lucyalmost laughed. Her inside joke - on those rare occasions when she felt goodenough to appreciate a joke, inside or out - was that she was just goingthrough her construal cycle.

    Regardless,on this day, in this place, Lucy was all but overcome by her new feelings. Thecraziest thing had been running into Detective Byrne the day before. She hadbeen so hyper when she saw him that, even though she knew that she knew him,she didn't realize who he was. Until he smiled.

    Theyhad met at her regression-therapy sessions. He was the man in the group who hadbeen dead for a whole minute. They'd gone for coffee once, shared theirexperiences. Well, Lucy had listened mostly, because she didn't really knowwhat had happened to her. Yesterday he had given her his card and told her tocall if she ever wanted to talk. She wondered if he could help her. Shewondered if he would laugh at her suspicions of the man she thought she'd seencome out of Room 1208. No, he wouldn't laugh, but he would probably tellher she was imagining things.

    Asshe worked she looked at her watch every five minutes, for the first time in along while not really gauging her day by how many rooms she had completed,mentally recording the time she entered and left.

    Eachroom attendant had their own section key, an electronic card similar to a guestkey, that allowed them access to their rooms but not to other parts of thehotel. If an attendant said they entered a room at 9:08 and it was really 9:21,management could find it out in a second. A lot of dismissed attendants foundout the hard way that computers never lie. The lock didn't say when you left,only when you entered.

    Todayall the rooms blended together, and Lucy had no idea how long it was taking herto finish each one.

    Hesmelled like apples.

    Thatcould have been anything, though. There were a million plausible explanationsfor this. Lots of people wear dark overcoats. For gosh sake, even DetectiveByrne wore a dark overcoat.

    Lucystood at the end of the hallway, near the elevators. She looked down thecorridor, at the east wing. In this direction there were eight rooms. Rooms1201 through 1208. Today she was able to swap this wing with a girl who workedon the seventh floor, promising to fix the girl's portable CD player inexchange for the favor. But it would only be for today. Lucy would have toenter Room 1208 tomorrow. She wasn't looking forward to it.

    Allroom attendants got a fifteen-minute break in the morning. Lucy usually spenther time reading in the cafeteria or, if it was a nice day, she would run overto Rittenhouse Square for a full five minutes in the sun. It was amazing whateven five minutes in sunlight could do for her mood. Today, she stepped intothe small courtyard behind the hotel. She almost got lost in the cloud ofcigarette smoke. You weren't supposed to smoke within fifty yards of thebuilding, but no one ever listened and the rule had never been enforced.

    Whenshe rounded the corner at the back to the hotel she saw her friend Amandasitting on a delivery pallet, eating a tangerine.

    'Hey,girl,' Amanda said.

    'Hi.'Lucy sat down next to Amanda. Amanda Cuaron was everything Lucy was not.Exotic, dark-eyed, a true Latin beauty, always flirting. Whenever Amanda wasaround Lucy felt like a rubber tulip.

    'Hey,I forgot to ask, did you see that guy yesterday?' Amanda asked.

    Thatguy was the Dreamweaver. Mr. Costa. Lucy wasn't sure how much she wanted totell Amanda. Amanda was her friend and all, but Lucy had never shared secretswith her. She'd never shared her secrets with anyone. 'Yeah,' she said. 'I sawhim.'

    'Howdid it go?'

    'Itwent okay.'

    Amandajust stared at her - she was not going to get off the hook with such a briefexplanation. 'Well? Was he weird? Did he wear a pointy hat and carry a wand?'

    'Ohyeah,' Lucy said. 'And he had a long white beard. Didn't I mention the beard?'

    Amandasmiled. 'Is he cute?'

    Lucysnorted. 'Shut up. He's like a hundred years old.'

    'Ishe cute?'

    Lucyjust rolled her eyes. 'I'm going to see him again today.' Lucy hadn't realizedthat she'd made the decision to do this until this second.

    Amandasmiled her lascivious smile. 'Mala chica.'

    Theyboth checked their watches at the same moment. They had another six minutes.