"A clue about what?"

"What this fellow had, apparently, was a copy of a rather sinister bible that I came to find out later is connected to a cult. The New Zionists. An absolutely terrible thing, that book was, describing in detail torture, murder, things like that. It was dreadfully unsettling, in my view."

"Was it called the Book of Hand?" I asked.

"Why yes." His eyes lit up. "It was, indeed."

"Was it in a black leather binder?"

"I believe it was. With a name stamped on it that oddly enough was not the name of the decedent. Shapiro, or something."

"Dwain Shapiro."

"Of course," he said. "Then you already know about this."

"I know about the Book but not why this individual had it in his possession, because certainly his name was not Dwain Shapiro."

He paused to rub his face. "I think his name was Catlett."

"But he could have been Dwain Shapiro's killer," I said.

"That could be why he had the bible."

Mant did not know. "When I realized we had a naval case in our morgue," he said, "I had Danny transport the body to Portsmouth. Clearly, the poor man's effects should have gone with him."

"But Danny kept the book," I said.

"I'm afraid so." He leaned forward and crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table.

"Why would he do that?"

" I happened to walk into his office and spotted it, and I asked him why in the world he had it. His explanation was that since the book had another individual's name on it, he wondered if it hadn't been accidentally picked up at the scene. That perhaps the satchel belonged to someone else, as well." He paused. "You see, he was still rather new and I think he'd simply made an honest mistake."

"Tell me something," I said, "were any reporters calling the office or coming around at this time? For example, might anyone have inquired about the man crushed to death in the shipyard?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Eddings showed up. I remember that because he was rather keen on finding out every detail, which puzzled me a bit. To my knowledge, he never wrote anything about it."

"Might Danny have talked to Eddings?"

Mant stared off in thought. "It seems I did see the two of them talking some. But young Danny certainly knew better than to give him a quote."

"Might he have given Eddings the Book, assuming that Eddings was doing a story on the New Zionists?"

"Actually, I wouldn't know. I never saw the Book again and assumed Danny had returned it to the Navy. I miss the lad. How is he, by the way? How is his knee'! I called him Hop-Along, you know." He laughed.

But I did not answer his question or even smile. "Tell me what happened after that. What made you afraid?"

"Strange things. Hang-ups. I felt I was being followed.

My morgue supervisor, as you recall, abruptly quit with no good explanation. And one day when I went out to the parking lot, there was blood all over the windshield of my car. I actually had it tested in the lab, and it was type butcher shop. From a cow, in other words."

"I presume you have met Detective Roche," I said.

"Unfortunately. I don't fancy him at all."

"Did he ever try to get information from you?"

"He would drop by. Not for postmortems, of course. He doesn't have the stomach for them."

"What did he want to know?"

"Well, the Navy death we talked about. He had questions about that."

"Did he ask about his personal effects? The satchel that inadvertently came into the morgue along with the body?"

Mant was trying to remember. "Well, now that you're prodding this rather pathetic memory of mine, it seems I do recall him asking about the satchel. And I referred him to Danny, I believe."

"Well, Danny obviously never gave it to him," I said.

"Or at least not the Book, because that has turned up since."

I did not tell him how because I did not want to upset him.

"That bloody Book must be terribly important to someone," he mused.

I paused as he smoked again. Then I said, "Why didn't you tell me'? Why did you just run and never say a word?"

"Frankly, I didn't want you dragged into it as well. And it all sounded rather fantastic." He paused, and I could tell by his face he sensed other bad events had occurred since he had left Virginia. "Dr. Scarpetta, I'm not a young man.

I only want to peacefully do my job a little while longer before I retire."

I did not want to criticize him further because I understood what he had done. I frankly could not blame him and was glad he had fled, for he probably had saved his own life. Ironically, there had been nothing important he knew, and had he been murdered, it would have been for no cause, as Danny's murder was for no cause.

Then I told the truth as I pushed back images of a knee brace as bright red as blood spilled, and leaves and trash clinging to gory hair. I remembered Danny's brilliant smile and would never forget the small white bag he had carried out of the cafe on a hill, where a dog had barked half the night. In my mind, I would always see the sadness and fear in his eyes when he helped me with the murdered Ted Eddings, whom I now realized he had known. Together, the two young men had inadvertently led each other a step closer to their eventual violent deaths.

"Dear Lord. The poor boy," was all Mant could say.

He covered his eyes with a handkerchief, and when I left him, he was still crying.

WESLEY AND I FLEW BACK TO NEW YORK THAT NIGHT, and arrived early because tail winds were more than a hundred knots. We went through customs and got our bags, then the same shuttle met us at the curb and returned us to the private airport where the Learjet was waiting.

The weather had suddenly warmed and was threatening rain, and we flew between colossal black thunderheads lighting up with violent thoughts. The storm loudly cracked and flashed as we sped through what seemed the middle of a feud. I had been briefed a little as to the current state of affairs, and it had come as no surprise that the Bureau had established an outpost along with others set up by police and rescue crews.

Lucy, I was relieved to hear, had been brought in from the field, and was working again in the Engineering Re search Facility, or ERF, where she was safe. What Wesley did not tell me until we reached the Academy was that she had been deployed along with the rest of HRT and would not be at Quantico long.

"Out of the question," I said to him as if I were a mother refusing permission.

"I'm afraid you don't have a say in this," he replied.

He was helping me carry my bags through the Jefferson lobby, which was deserted this Saturday night. We waved to the young women at the registration desk as we continued arguing.

"For God's sake," I went on, "she's brand-new. You can't just throw her into the middle of a nuclear crisis."

"We're not throwing her into anything." He pushed open glass doors. "All we need are her technical skills.

She's not going to be doing any sniper-shooting or jumping out of planes."

"Where is she now?" I asked as we got on an elevator.

"Hopefully in bed."

"Oh." I looked at my watch. "I guess it is midnight. I thought it was tomorrow and I should be getting up."

"I know. I'm screwed up, too."

Our eyes met and I looked away. "I guess we're supposed to pretend nothing happened," I said with an edge to my voice, for there had been no discussion of what had gone on between us.

We walked out into the hall and he pressed a code into a digitalized keypad. A lock released and he opened another glass door.

"What good would it do to pretend?" he said, entering another code and opening another door.

"Just tell me what you want to do," I said.

We were inside the security suite where I usually stayed when work or danger kept me here overnight. He carried my bags into the bedroom as I drew draperies across the large window in the living room. The decor was comfortable but plain, and when Wesley did not respond, I remembered it probably was not safe to talk intimately in this place where I knew at the very least phones were monitored. I followed him back out into the hall and repeated my question.