"That's ridiculous!"

"Or he's not happy with you or something, and consequently, the governor isn't, either."

"Jack, please be more specific."

He hesitated and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked guilty, as if my problems were somehow his fault.

"Okay, to lay it all out, Dr. Scarpetta," he said, "the word is that you've embarrassed Wagner with this chat stuff you're doing on the Internet:'

I leaned closer to him and put my hand on his arm.

"It's not me doing it," I promised him. "It's someone impersonating me."

He gave me a puzzled look.

"You're kidding;' he said.

"Oh, no. There's nothing funny about any of this:' "Jesus Christ," he said with disgust. "Sometimes I think the Internet's the worst thing that's ever happened to us."

"Jack, why didn't you just ask me about it? If you thought I was doing something as inappropriate… well, have I somehow managed to estrange everybody in this office so nobody feels he can tell me anything anymore?"

"It's not that," he said. "It's not a reflection of people not caring or feeling estranged. If anything, we care so much I guess we got overprotective."

"Protecting me from what?" I wanted to know.

"Everyone should be allowed to grieve and even sit it out on the bench for a while," he quietly replied. "No one's expected you to function on all cylinders. I sure as hell wouldn't be. Christ, I barely made it through my divorce."

"I'm not sitting it out on the bench, Jack. And I'm functioning on all cylinders. My private, personal grief is just that."

He looked at me for a long moment, holding my gaze and not buying what I'd just said.

"I wish it were that easy," he said.

"I never said it was easy. Getting up some mornings is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I can't let my own problems interfere with what I'm doing here, and I don't."

"Frankly, I haven't known what to do, and I feel really bad about it;" he confessed. "I haven't known how to handle his death, either. I know how much you loved him. Over and over it's gone through my mind to take you out to dinner or ask if there's anything I can fix or do around your house. But I've had my own problems, too, as you know. And I guess I didn't feel there was anything I could offer you except carrying as much of the load here as I can."

"Have you been covering calls for me? When families have needed to get me on the phone?" I was out with it.

"It's not been a problem," he said. "It's the least I can do."

"Good God," I said, bending my head and running my fingers through my hair. "I don't believe this."

"I was just doing…"

"Jack," I interrupted him, "I've been here every day except when I'm in court. Why would any of my calls be defiected to you? This is something I know nothing about."

Now it was Fielding's turn to look confused.

"Don't you realize how despicable it would be for me to refuse to talk to bewildered, grieving people?" I went on. "For me not to answer their questions or even seem to care?"

"I just thought…"

"This is crazy!" I exclaimed, and my stomach was a tight fist. "If I were like that, I wouldn't deserve to do this work. If I ever become like that, I should quit! Of all people, how could I not care about another person's loss? How could I not feel and understand and do everything I could to answer the questions, lessen the pain and fight to send the bastard who did it to the fucking electric chair."

I was near tears. My voice shook."Or lethal injection. Shit, I think we should go back to hanging assholes in the public square," I declared.

Fielding glanced toward the shut door as if he were afraid someone might hear me. I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

"How many times has this happened?" I asked him. "How many times have you taken my calls?"

"A lot lately," he reluctantly told me.

"How many is a lot?"

"Probably almost every other case you've done in the last couple months:' "That can't be right," I retorted.

He was silent, and as I thought about it, doubts crowded my mind again. Families hadn't seemed to be calling me as much as they used to, but I hadn't paid much attention because there was never a pattern, never a way to predict. Some relatives wanted every detail. Others called to vent their rage. Some people went into denial and wanted to know nothing.

"Then I can assume there have been complaints about me," I said. "Grieving, upset people thinking I'm arrogant and cold-blooded. And I don't blame them."

"Some have complained."

I could tell by his face that there had been more than just a few complaints. I had no doubt that letters had been written to the governor, too.

"Who's been rolling these calls over to you?" I asked matter-of-factly and quietly because I was afraid I might roar like a tornado down the hall and swear at everyone once I left this room.

"Dr. Scarpetta, it didn't seem unusual that you wouldn't want to talk about some things to traumatized people right now," he tried to make me understand. "Some painful things that might remind you… it made sense to me. Most of these people just want a voice, a doctor, and if I've not been around, either Jill or Bennett has," he said, referring to two of my resident doctors. "I guess the only big problem is when none of us has been available and somehow Dan or Amy have ended up with the calls."

Dan Chong and Amy Forbes were rotating medical students here to learn and observe. Never in a million years should they have been put in a position to talk to families.

"Oh, no," I said, closing my eyes at the nightmarish thought.

"Mainly after hours. That damn answering service," he said.

"Who's been rolling the telephone calls over to you?" I asked him again, this time more firmly.

He sighed. Fielding looked as grim and as worried as he'd ever been.

"Tell me;' I insisted.

"Rose," he said.

15

Rose was buttoning her coat and wrapping a long silk scarf around her neck when I walked into her office a few minutes before six o'clock. She had been working late as usual. Sometimes I had to make her go home at the end of the day, and although that had impressed and touched me in the past, now it made me uneasy.

"I'll walk you to your car;" I offered.

"Oh," she said. "Well, you certainly don't have to do that."

Her face got tight, her fingers suddenly fumbling with kid leather gloves. She knew I had something on my mind she didn't want to hear, and I suspected she knew exactly what it was. We said little to each other as we followed the hallway to the front office, our feet quiet on the carpet, the awkwardness between us palpable.

My heart was heavy. I wasn't sure if I was angry or crushed, and I began to wonder all sorts of things. What else had Rose kept from me and how long had it been going on? Was her fierce loyalty a possessiveness I hadn't recognized? Did she feel I belonged to her?

"I don't guess Lucy ever called," I said as we emerged into the empty marble lobby.

"No," Rose replied. "I tried her office several times, too.

"She got the flowers?"

"Oh, yes."

The night guard waved at us.

"It's cold out there! Where's your coat?" he said to me.

"I'll be all right," I answered him with a smile, and then to Rose I said, "We know that Lucy actually saw them?"

She looked confused.

"The flowers," I said. "Do we know if Lucy saw them?"

"Oh, yes," my secretary said again. "Her supervisor said she came in and saw them, read the card and everybody was teasing her, asking who'd sent them."

"I don't guess you know if she took them home with her."

Rose glanced over at me as we went out of the building into the dark, empty parking lot. She looked old and sad, and I didn't know if her eyes were tearing up because of me or the cold, sharp air.