"Dr. Burke, look at this! We're definitely picking up independent brain wave patterns."

"Are you certain we're not just getting echos of what we've been feeding in?"

"Quite certain." Catherine tapped the printout with one gnawed nail. "Look at this spike here. And here."

Donald leaned over the doctor's shoulder and squinted down at the wide ribbon of paper. "Electronic belching," he declared, straightening. "And after thirty hours of this-is-your-life, I'm not surprised."

"You may be right, Donald." Dr. Burke lightly touched each peak, a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. "On the other hand, we might actually have something here. Catherine, I think we should open the isolation box."

Both grad students jerked around to stare at their adviser.

"But it's too soon," Catherine protested. "We've been giving the bacteria a minimum of seventy-two hours... "

"And it hasn't been entirely successful," Dr. Burke broke in. "Now has it? We lost the first seven, number eight is beginning to putrefy, and according to this morning's samples, even number nine hasn't begun any cellular regeneration in muscle tissue. The near disaster with number five proved that we can't continue isolation much past seventy-two hours, so let's see what happens when we cut it short."

Catherine ran her hand over the curved surface of the box. "I don't know... "

"Besides," the doctor continued, "if these spikes do indicate independent brain wave activity, then further time in what is essentially a sensory deprivation chamber will very likely... "

"Squash them flat."

The two women turned.

"Inelegant, Donald, but essentially correct."

Pale eyes scanned the array of hookups: monitors and digital readouts and one lone dial. "Well, except for the continuous alpha wave input, she isn't actually doing anything in there," Catherine admitted thoughtfully.

Dr. Burke sighed and decided, for the moment, to let Catherine's terminology stand. "My point exactly. Donald, if you would do the honors. Catherine, keep an eye on things and if there are any changes at all, sing out."

The seal sighed open, the hint of formaldehyde on the escaping oxygen-rich air surely an illusion, and the heavy lid rose silently on its counterweights. The body of Marjory Nelson lay naked and exposed on what had been a sterile pad, huge purple scars stapled shut. Hair, already becoming brittle, fell away from the clips that held the top of the skull in place. A faint trace of burial cosmetics painted an artificial blush across cheekbones death-mask prominent.

At her station by the monitors, Catherine frowned. "I'm not sure. It could be a loose connection. Dr. Burke, could you please check the jack."

Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Dr. Burke bent over and reached to roll the head a little to the left.

Gray-blue eyes snapped open.

"Holy shit!" Donald danced backward, crashed into number nine's box, and clutched at it for support.

Dr. Burke froze, one hand almost cradling the line of jaw.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. An eternity.

As suddenly as they opened, the eyes closed.

Her view of the body blocked by equipment, Catherine ignored Donald's outburst, in her opinion they came too often to mean anything, and sighed. "Just a wiggle. Probably something in the wire."

"In the wire!" The stethoscope around Donald's neck swung in a manic arc. "We didn't get a wiggle, partner, we got recognition."

"What?" Catherine shot to her feet and stared from Donald to Dr. Burke. "What happened?"

"We opened the lid, she opened her eyes, and bam!" Donald punched at the air. "Just for an instant, she knew who was standing over her. I'm telling you, Cathy, she recognized Dr. Burke!"

"Nonsense." Dr. Burke calmly checked the implant before straightening. "It was an involuntary reaction to the light. Nothing more." The peeled gloves slammed into the garbage. "Switch off the oxygen supplement, we've only got three full tanks left and I'm not sure when we can get more from the departmental supplies, and run a complete check on the mechanicals. Draw the usual samples."

"And the alpha waves?"

"Keep recording." A little pale under the glare of the fluorescents, Dr. Burke paused at the door. "But at the first sign of any agitation, cut the power. I have things to catch up on, so I'll see you both later."

Catherine's puzzled gaze traveled from the lab door to Donald.

"Sure as shit looked like recognition to me," he repeated, wiping his palms on his pants. "I think the good doctor's spooked and I don't blame her. Spooked me, too, and I barely knew the woman."

Catherine chewed her lip. "Well, it didn't register electronically."

He shrugged. "Then maybe we've got activity going on outside the net."

On cue, number nine began banging on the inside of his box.

Donald jumped and swore, but Catherine looked suddenly stricken.

"Oh, no! I promised him he wouldn't have to spend more time in there than absolutely necessary to maintain the integrity of the experiment."

Watching her hurry across the lab, Donald fished a candy from his pocket and methodically unwrapped it. Now that's a person who doesn't get out enough.

Usually, Dr. Burke considered the sound of her footsteps, leather soles slapping against tile, nothing more than background noise, acknowledged then forgotten. Today, the sound chased her through the empty halls of the old Life Sciences building, across the connecting walkway, and up into the sanctuary of her office. Even tucked into the comforting depths of her old wooden chair, she thought she could still hear the echoing trail she'd left. After a moment, she realized she was listening to the rapid pounding of her heart.

You're being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, palms flat on the desk. Take a deep breath and stop overreacting.

Marjory Nelson's heart condition, not to mention her accessibility, had made her the perfect candidate for the next phase of the experiment. Brain waves had been recorded, tissue samples had been taken, bacteria had been specifically tailored to her DNA, all in preparation for her death. Or rather for the attempted reversal of it. Marjory, knowing nothing of what they'd been doing, submitted to the tests she'd been told might help, and died right on schedule.

Right on schedule. A second deep breath followed the first. It was fast and painless when it otherwise might not have been. Not to mention that her presence at the collapse had ensured they wouldn't have to worry about the tissue destruction inherent in an autopsy.

Squaring her shoulders, Dr. Burke pulled the morning's mail across the desk. They were reversing death. Catherine might have created the bacteria, but without her involvement this application would still be years, if not decades, in the future. She had made possible the logical progression of Catherine's experiments and she would reap the rewards.

If recognition had flashed just for that instant in Marjory's eyes, then they trembled on the brink of success long before empirical data suggested they should.

If recognition had occurred then...

Then what?

Marjory Nelson is dead and I'm truly sorry about that. She was an essential member of my staff and I'll miss her. With a deft movement, Dr. Burke slid the letter opener the length of the envelope. The body in the lab is experimental unit number ten. Nothing more.

"I already spoke to the police about this, Ms. Nelson." Nervously, Christy Aloman shuffled the papers on her desk. "I don't know if I should be speaking to you."

"Did the police tell you not to speak to anyone else?"

"No, but... "

"You have to admit, if anyone has a right to know, it's me." Vicki felt the pencil dig deep into the callus on her second finger and forced her hand to relax.

"Yes, but... "

"My mother's body was stolen from these premises."

"I know, but... "

"I should think you'd want to do what you could to help."

"I do. Truly I do." She made the mistake of looking at Vicki's face and found she couldn't look away. Gray-blue eyes were like chiseled bits of frozen stone and she felt as she had when, so many winters ago, she'd responded to childish dares and touched the metal gatepost with her tongue, foolish and trapped.

"Then tell me everything you can remember about Tom Chen. How he looked. What he wore. How he acted. What he said. What you overheard."

"Everything?" It was complete surrender and they both knew it.

"Everything."

"I don't suppose you ever wore anything like this when you were alive." Catherine pulled the Queen's University sweatpants up over number nine's hips. Grayish skin glistened with the most recent application of estrogen cream. "I mean all things considered, you were in pretty good shape, but you didn't look like a jock. Sit."

Number nine obediently sat.

"Raise your arms. Higher."

A bit of agar oozed out between incision staples over the sternum as number nine's arms lifted into the air.

Catherine ignored it and tugged a matching sweatshirt down over the arms and head. "There you go. A pair of shoes and you're fit for polite company."

"Cathy, I hate to say this, but you're looney tunes." Donald pushed away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. "You're talking to an animatronic corpse. It doesn't understand you."

"I think he does." She slid one bony foot into a running shoe, pressing the velcro closed. "And if maybe he doesn't understand all of it now, he'll never learn to understand if we don't talk to him."

"I know. I know. Necessary stimulus. But we're not getting anything back-brain wave wise, that we haven't put in. Granted," he held up a hand to cut off her protest, "we're getting some evidence of interfacing with gross motor skills. You don't need to give every muscle fiber a separate instruction and that's fucking amazing, but face it," he tapped his head, "there's nothing upstairs. The tenant is gone."

Catherine snorted and patted number nine reassuringly on the shoulder. "Great bedside manner. I can see why you got kicked out of med school."

"I didn't get kicked out." Donald set another slide under the microscope lens. "I made a lateral move into graduate studies in organic chemistry."

"Not an entirely voluntary move from what I heard. I heard Dr. Burke had to save your ass."

"Catherine!" Miming shock and horror, Donald spread both hands wide. "I didn't know you knew such words." He shook his head and grinned. "You've spent too much time with single-celled orgasms... "

"Organisms!"

"... you need to get a life."

Catherine moved to number eight's box and adjusted the power. "Somebody has to stay here and take care of them."

Donald sighed. "Better you than me."

Touch.

Her touch.

As electronic impulses continued to move out from the net, more and more words were returning. Hold. Want. Have. Number nine didn't know what to do with those words, not yet.

Wait.

"Is she asleep?"

"Yes." Henry sank down onto the sofa and rested his arms across his knees, the scattering of red-gold hair below his rolled-up sleeves glittering in the lamplight.

"Did you have to... convince her?"

"Very nearly, but no. I merely helped her to calm and exhaustion did the rest."

Celluci snorted. "Helped her to calm?" he growled. "Is that a euphemism for something I don't want to know about?"

Henry ignored the question. "It's late. What are you doing up?"

Lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and stretching long legs, Celluci grunted, "Couldn't sleep."

"Do you want to?"

It was asked innocently enough. No. Not innocently. Nothing Fitzroy did came under the heading of innocent. Neutrally enough. "No." Celluci tried to keep his response equally neutral. "I just thought that if you had any idea of what we're supposed to do next, well, I'd like to hear it."

Henry shrugged and threw a quick glance back over his shoulder toward the bedroom where Vicki's heart beat slow and steady, finally free of the angry pounding it had no doubt taken all day. "I honestly have no idea." He turned to look through the shadows at the other man. "Don't you have a job to go back to?"

"Compassionate leave," Celluci told him shortly, eyes half closed. "Shouldn't you be out, oh, I don't know, stalking the night or something?"

"Shouldn't you be out detecting?"

"Detecting what? It hardly makes sense to stake out the scene of the crime and you can bet that asshole Chen, or whatever his real name is, has vanished. All the profiles in the world won't help us identify a perp we can't find."

Henry reached down and fanned the papers on the coffee table by Celluci's feet. Vicki had spent the evening compiling the day's data and when he'd risen, just before eight, she'd presented her results.

"I spoke to everyone who might have had contact with him, except one of three bus drivers, and I'll speak to him tomorrow. Clothes and hairstyles may change, but tiny habits are harder to break. He smiles a lot. Even when he's alone and there's nothing apparent to smile about. He drinks Coke Classic exclusively. He usually has some kind of candy in his pocket. He most often sits in the seat in front of the rear door next to the window. He'd get on the Johnson Street bus at Brock and Montreal with a ticket, not a transfer. That probably means he lives downtown."

Henry had been impressed; and equally concerned. "Victory" Nelson appeared to have no room in her investigation for grieving. A steady emotional diet of rage, especially at this time, couldn't be healthy. He scanned the pages of notes and shook his head. "She's got everything here but a picture."

Reluctantly, Celluci agreed. Years of training seemed to have gained a foothold in Vicki's emotional response and she was now searching for the person instead of just blindly clutching at the name. "Detective Fergusson says he'll try to free up the police artist tomorrow."

"Why do I get the feeling that Detective Fergusson doesn't think that's necessary?"

"It's not that. It's resources. Or specifically lack of resources. As he pointed out, and this is a quote, 'Yeah, it's a terrible thing, but we can't hardly keep up with indignities done to the living.'" Celluci's lips thinned as he remembered various "indignities" he'd witnessed done to the living that had gone unpunished due to lack of manpower, or departmental budget cuts, or just plain bad management. He didn't, by any means, approve of Vicki's recent conversion to vigilantism, but, by God, he understood it. The satisfaction of knowing that Anwar Tawfik was dust and this time would stay dust, of knowing Mark Williams had paid for the innocents he'd slaughtered, of knowing that Norman Birdwell would loose no further horrors on the city, all of that weighed heavily against law in the scales Justice held.

He peered blearily at Henry Fitzroy from under heavy lids. How many others had there been? Hundreds? Thousands? While he'd been busting his butt and walking his feet flat, had Fitzroy and others like him been spending the night methodically squashing the cockroaches of humanity? Celluci snorted silently. If they were, they were doing a piss poor job.

Vampires. Werewolves. Demons. Mummies. Only for Vicki would he even consider accepting such a skewed view of reality. Maybe he should've listened to his family, married a nice Italian girl, and settled down. Much as Henry had done earlier, he shot a glance over his shoulder toward the bedrooms. No. A nice girl, Italian or otherwise, couldn't hope to compete. Vicki was a comrade, and a friend, and, as asinine as it sounded, the woman he loved. He'd stand by her now when she needed him, regardless of who, or what, stood by her other side.

He didn't want to have anything to do with Henry Fitzroy. He didn't want to respect him. He sure as shit didn't want to like him. He appeared to have no choice regarding the first point, had months ago lost the second, and strongly suspected, in spite of everything, that he was losing the third. Jesus. Buddies with a bloodsucker. Responses had to be filtered through the memory of power he'd been shown in Vicki's living room. Safer to play with a pit bull.

Henry felt the weight of Celluci's gaze and tried to remember the last occasion on which he'd spent this much time alone with a mortal he hadn't been feeding from. Or hadn't intended to feed from. The situation was, to say the least, unusual.

In all his long life, Henry had seldom felt so frustrated. "We can't resolve this," he said aloud, "until the body is found and interred, and her grieving is over."

Celluci didn't bother pretending to misunderstand what this referred to, although he was tempted. "So find the body," he suggested, a yawn threatening to dislocate his jaw.

Henry arched a brow. "So easy to say," he murmured.

"Yeah? What about that funny smell Vicki says you ran into last night?"

"I am not a bloodhound, Detective. Besides, I traced it as far as it went, to the parking lot."

"What did it smell like?"

"Death."

"Not surprising. You were in a body parlor." He yawned again.

"Funeral homes go to a great deal of effort not to smell like death. This was something different."

"Oh, lord, not again," Celluci groaned, dragging a hand up through his hair. "What is it this time? The creature from the Rideau Canal? The Loch Ness fucking monster? The Swamp Thing? Godzilla? Megatron? Gondor? Rodan?"

"Who?"

"Didn't you ever watch Saturday afternoon monster movies?" He shook his head at Henry's expression. "No, I guess you didn't, did you? Every weekend thousands of kids were glued to their sets for badly dubbed, black and white, Japanese rubber monsters stomping on Tokyo. Not to mention Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter, Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy, The Curse of the Werewolf."

A car door, slamming in the parking lot, suddenly sounded unnaturally loud.

"Jesus H. Christ." Celluci's eyes were fully open. Still tired, he no longer had any desire to sleep. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "A motive. You don't think... "

"That Tom Chen was playing Igor to someone else's Dr. Frankenstein?" Henry smiled. "I think, as I said before, that you watch too many bad movies, Detective."

"Oh, yeah? Well, you know what I think? I think... "

Bam. Bam. Bam.

They faced the door, then they faced each other.

"The police," Celluci said, and stood.

"No." Henry blocked his way. He could feel the lives, hear the singing blood, smell the excitement. "Not police although I suspect they'd like us to think so."

Bam. Bam. Bam.

"A threat?"

"I don't know." He crossed the room. When he stopped, Celluci moved up to stand behind his left shoulder. It had been a very long time since he'd had a shield man. He opened the door.

The flash went off almost before he could react. A mortal would have recoiled, Henry's hand whipped out and covered the lens of the camera before the shutter had completely fallen. He snarled as the brilliant light drove spikes of pain into sensitive eyes and closed his fingers. Plastic and glass and metal became only plastic and glass and metal.

"Hey!"

The photographer's companion ignored both the sound of a camera disintegrating and the accompanying squawk of protest. Sometimes they got a great candid shot when the door opened, sometimes they didn't. She wasn't going to worry about it. "Good evening. Is Victoria Nelson at home?" Elbows primed, her notebook held like a battering ram, she attempted to push forward. Most people, she found, were just too polite to stop her.

The slight young man never budged; it felt like she'd hit a not very tall brick wall. Time for plan B. And if that didn't work, she'd go right through the alphabet if she had to. "We were so sorry to hear about what happened to her mother's bo... " Her train of thought derailed somewhere in the depths of hazel eyes.

Henry decided not to be subtle. He wasn't in the mood and they wouldn't understand. "Go away. Stay away."

Darkness colored the words and became threat enough.

Not until they were safely in the car, cocooned behind steel and locked doors, did the photographer, cradling the ruins of his camera in his lap, finally find his voice. "What are we going to do?" he asked, primal memories of the Hunt trembling in his tone.

"We're going to do... " With an icy hand and shaking fingers, she jammed the car into gear, stomped on the gas, and sprayed gravel over half the parking lot. "... exactly what he said."

Together they'd been threatened a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. Once, they'd even been attacked by an ex-NHL defenseman swinging a hockey stick with enraged abandon. They'd always gotten the story. Or a version of the story at least. This time, something in heart and soul, in blood and bone recognized the danger and overruled conscious thought.

Inside Marjory Nelson's apartment, Celluci glared enviously at the back of Henry's red-gold head. If he hated anything, it was the press. The statements they insisted on were the bane of his existence. "I wish I could do that," he muttered.

Henry wisely kept from voicing the obvious and made sure all masks were back in place before turning. This was not the time for Michael Celluci to see him as a threat.

Celluci rubbed at the side of his nose and sighed. "There'll probably be others."

"I'll deal with them."

"And if they come in the daytime?"

"You deal with them." Henry's smile curved predator sharp. "You're not on duty, Detective. You can be as rude as... " Just how rude Celluci could be got lost in a sudden change of expression and a heartbeat later he was racing for the bedroom.

To mortal eyes, one moment he was there, the next gone. Celluci turned in time to see Vicki's bedroom door thrown open, swore, and pounded across the living room. He hadn't heard anything. What the hell had Fitzroy heard?

How could she have forgotten?

She dug frantically at the tiles in the kitchen. As they ripped free, she flung them behind her, ignoring the fingernail that ripped free with them, ignoring the blood from her hands that began to mark its own pattern on the floor. Almost there. Almost.

The area she cleared stretched six feet long by three feet wide, the edges ragged. Finally only the plywood subfloor remained. Rot marked the gray-brown wood and tendrils of pallid fungus grew between the narrow boards. Fighting for breath, she slammed her fists against this last barrier.

The wood cracked, splintered, and gave enough for her to force a grip on the first piece. She threw her weight against it and it lifted with a moist, sucking sound, exposing a line of gray-blonde curls and perhaps a bit of shoulder.

How could she have forgotten where she'd left her mother?

Begging for forgiveness, she clawed at the remaining boards... .

"Vicki! Vicki, wake up, it's only a dream."

She couldn't stop the first cry, but she grabbed at the second and wrestled it back where it came from. Her conscious mind clung to the reassurances murmured over and over against her hair. Her subconscious waited for the next board to be removed. Her hands clung of their own volition, fingers digging deep into the shoulder and arm curved protectively around her.

"It's all right, Vicki. It's all right. I'm here. It was only a dream. I'm here. I've got you... " The words, Henry knew, were less important than the tone and as he spoke he drew the cadence around the fierce pounding of her heart and convinced it to calm.

"Henry?"

"I'm here."

She fought the terror for control of her breathing and won at last. A long breath in. A longer breath out. And then again.

Henry almost heard the barriers snap back into place as she pushed away, chin rising defiantly.

"I'm okay." It was only a dream. You're acting like a child. "Really, I'm okay." The darkness shifted things, moved furniture that hadn't been moved in fifteen years. Where the hell is the bedside table? "Turn on the light," she commanded, struggling to keep new panic from touching her voice. "I need my glasses."

A cool touch against her hand and her fingers closed gratefully around the heavy plastic frames. A second touch helped her settle them on her nose just as the room flooded with light. Squinting against the glare, she turned to face the switch and Michael Celluci's worried frown.

"Jesus. Both of you."

"I'm afraid so." Henry shifted his weight on the edge of the bed and asked, without much hope of success, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Her lip curled. "Not likely." Talking about it would mean thinking about it. Thinking about what she'd have found, what she'd have seen, if she'd managed to tear up just one more piece of floor... .

"Celluci? Fergusson. Med school's got three Chens. One of them's even a Tom Chen, Thomas Albert Chen. And guess what, the kid's got an airtight alibi not only for that night but for the whole two and a half weeks our boy was at the body parlour. Rough luck, eh?"

Celluci, receiver pinned between shoulder and ear, washed down a forkful of scrambled eggs with a mouthful of bitter coffee. He hadn't thought Fergusson a subtle enough man for sarcasm. Obviously, he'd been wrong. "Yeah, rough. You take his picture around to Hutchinson's just in case?"

"Give it up, Celluci, and stop wasting my fucking time. You and I both know that we're not looking for any Tom Chen." Fergusson sighed at Celluci's noncommittal grunt, the sound eloquently saying give me a break. "Tell Ms. ex-Detective Nelson that I'm sorry about her mother, but I know what the fuck I'm doing. I'll get back to you if we get any real information in."

Celluci managed to hang up and shovel another pile of eggs into his mouth before he succumbed to Vicki's glare and repeated the conversation. She might have dropped off, reassured by Fitzroy's supernatural protection but he'd spent a restless night stretched out in the next room, straining to hear any sound that might make its way through the wall, wondering why he'd so easily surrendered the field. You've got the day, he reminded himself, reaching for another piece of toast. Which was really no answer at all. Goddamn Fitzroy anyway. Hopefully, massive quantities of food would make up for lost sleep.

Vicki pushed her plate away. She knew she had to eat, but there was a limit to how much she could choke past the knots. "I want you to check that alibi."

Oh, God, not again. He'd really thought that she'd shaken her obsession that Tom Chen could be the actual name of their suspect. The profiling she'd done had been good solid police work and he'd taken it, prematurely as it turns out, as an indication that she was beginning to function. Hiding concern she wouldn't appreciate, he reached across the table and covered one of her hands with his. There was no point in restating the obvious when she refused to hear him, so he tried a different angle. "Vicki, Detective Fergusson knows his job."

"Either you check it or I do." Pulling her hand free, she regarded him levelly. "I won't let this go. You can't make me. You might as well help; it'll be over sooner."

Her eyes were too bright and he could see the tension twisting her shoulders and causing her fingers to tremble slightly. "Look, Vicki... "

"I don't need a babysitter, Mike. Not you. Not him."

"All right." He sighed. She'd asked for his help. While it wasn't exactly the kind of help he wanted to give, it was something. "I'll check the alibi and I'll run a picture over to Hutchinson's. I don't think you should be alone, but you're an adult and you're right this will go faster with both of us working on it."

"All three of us."

"Fine." Too much to expect she'd want Fitzroy to butt out, "What'll you be doing?"

She set her empty coffee mug down on the table with a sharp crack. "Tom Chen wanted my mother's body specifically. In the time he was at that funeral home, he passed up two other women of roughly equal age and condition. I'll be finding out why." As she stood, she knocked her knife to the floor. It bounced once, then slid across the kitchen floor, across tiles still whole, still covering...

How could she have forgotten where she'd left her mother?

The eggs became a solid lump the size of her fist, shoved up tight against her ribs. Eyes up, she stepped over the knife. Another two steps took her off the tiles.

Gray-blonde curls and perhaps a bit of shoulder.

Just one more board... .

"Raise right leg." As Donald spoke, he fed the stored brain wave pattern corresponding to the command directly into the net.

In the open isolation box, the right leg trembled and slowly lifted about four inches off the padding.

"Hey, Cathy, we've got a fast learner here. Remember how ol' number nine's leg flew up? Like he was trying to kick the ceiling?"

"I remember how Dr. Burke was worried he might have damaged his hip joint," Catherine replied, continuing to adjust the IV drip that nourished the rapidly deteriorating number eight. "And at least we didn't have to manipulate his leg for the first hundred times like we had to on all the others."

"Hey, chill out. I wasn't saying anything against super-corpse. I was only pointing out that number ten seems to have quantitative control."

"Well, we are using her brain wave patterns."

"Well, number nine used my brain wave patterns for gross motor control." He echoed her supercilious tone. "So he should've had the advantage."

"I'm amazed he learned how to walk."

"Ow." Donald dramatically clutched at his heart. "I am cut to the quick." Rolling his eyes at her nonresponsive back, he tapped another two computer keys. "And it's painful going through life with a cut quick, let me tell you. Lower right leg."

Surrendering to gravity, the right leg dropped.

"Raise left leg. I've got a feeling that number ten's going to be the baby that makes our fortune."

Catherine frowned as she moved to check on number nine. There's been too much talk of "making fortunes" lately. The discovery of new knowledge should be an end in itself; the consideration of monetary gains clouded research. Granted number ten represented a giant step forward as far as experimental data was concerned, but she was by no means as far as they could go.

There was something she had to do.

The need began to force definition onto oblivion.

"Frankly, Vicki, I'm amazed your mother didn't tell you all this." Adjusting her glasses, Dr. Friedman peered down at Marjory Nelson's file. "After all, we had a diagnosis about seven months ago."

Vicki's expression didn't change, although a muscle twitched in her jaw. "Did she know how bad it was?" She could refer to anyone's mother, not that the illusion of distance helped. "Did she know that her heart could give out at any time?"

"Oh, yes. In fact, we'd agreed to try corrective surgery but, well... " The doctor shrugged ruefully. "You know how these things keep getting put off, what with hospitals having to trim beds."

"Are you saying budget cutbacks killed her?" The words came out like ground glass.

Dr. Friedman shook her head and tried to keep her tone soothing. "No. A heart defect killed your mother. She'd probably had it all her life until, finally, an aging muscle couldn't compensate any longer."

"Was it a usual condition?"

"It wasn't a usual condition... "

Vicki cut her off with a knife-edged gesture. "Was it unusual enough that her body may have been stolen in order to study it?"

"No, I'm sorry, but it wasn't."

"I'd like to see the file."

Brow furrowed, Dr. Friedman studied the plain brown folder without really seeing it. Technically, the file was confidential, but Marjory Nelson was dead and beyond caring. Her daughter, however, was alive, and if the contents of the file could help to bring healing out of dangerously strong denial, then confidentiality be damned. And it wasn't as if the file contained anything she hadn't already divulged during the last hour's interrogation, details had been lifted out of her memory with a surgical precision both frightening and impressive. Reaching a decision she pushed the folder across the desk and asked, "If there's anything else I can do?"

"Thank you, Doctor." Vicki slid the file into her purse and stood. "I'll let you know."

As that hadn't been exactly what she had in mind, she tried again. "Have you spoken to anyone about your loss?"

"My loss?" Vicki smiled tightly. "I'm speaking to everyone about it." She nodded, more a dismissal than a farewell, and left the office.

Loss, Dr. Friedman decided, as the door swung shut, had been an unfortunate choice of words.

She almost had it. Almost managed to grab onto memory. There was something she had to do. Needed to do.

"Cathy. She made a noise."

"What kind of a noise? Tissue stretching? Joints cracking, what?"

"A vocal noise."

Catherine sighed. "Donald... "

"No. Really." He backed away, still holding the sweatshirt he'd been about to pull over electronically raised arms. "It was a kind of moan."

"Nonsense." Catherine took the shirt out of his hands and gently tugged it down into place. "It was probably just escaping air. You're too rough."

"Yeah, and I know the difference between a belch and a moan." Cheeks pale, he crossed to his desk and dropped into the chair, fingers shredding the wrapper off a mint. "I'm going to start running today's biopsies. You can finish dressing Ken and Barbie."

"Your mother was a pretty everyday sort of person." Mrs. Shaw smiled sadly over the edge of her coffee mug. "You were probably the most exotic thing in her life."

Vicki let the sympathy wash past her, waves over a rock, and pushed at her glasses. "You're certain she wasn't involved in any unusual activities over the last few months?"

"Oh, I'm certain. She would've told me about it if she had been. We talked about everything, your mother and I."

"You knew about the heart condition."

"Of course. Oh." Flustered, the older woman cast about for a way to erase her last words. "Uh, more coffee?"

"No. Thank you." Vicki set what had been her mother's cup down on what had been her mother's desk, then reached over and gently laid her academy graduation portrait facedown.

"An investigation must not become personal." The voice of a cadet instructor echoed in her head. "Emotions camouflage fact and you can charge right past the one bit of evidence you need to break the case."

"Actually, if anything, well, unusual was going on with your mother, Dr. Burke might know." Mrs. Shaw set her own mug down and leaned forward helpfully. "When she found out about the heart condition, she convinced your mother to have a whole lot of tests done."

"What kind of tests?"

"I don't know. I don't think your mother... "

Stop saying that! Your mother! Your mother! She had a name.

"... knew."

"Is Dr. Burke available?"

"Not this afternoon, I'm afraid. She's in a departmental meeting right now, but I'm sure she'll be able to make time for you tomorrow morning."

"Thank you." Moving carefully, Vicki stood. "I'll be back." Lips twisted in a humorless smile. She felt more like Charlie Brown than Arnold Schwarzenegger.

"Goddamn, look at the time. It's almost 8:30 in the p.m. No wonder I'm so hungry."

Catherine carefully set the petri dish in the incubation chamber. "Hungry? I don't see why, you've been eating sugar all day."

"Cathy. Cathy. Cathy. And you a scientist. Sugar stimulates hunger, it doesn't satisfy it."

Pale brows drew in. "I don't think that's exactly right."

Donald shrugged into his jacket. "Who cares. Let's go for pizza."

"I still have work to do."

"I still have work to do. But I doubt I'll be capable of working to my full potential if all I can think of is my stomach. And," he crossed the room and punched her on the shoulder, brows waggling, "I'm sure I heard your tum demanding attention mere moments ago."

"Well... "

"Doesn't your research deserve to have your full attention?"

She drew herself up indignantly. "Without question."

"Distracted by hunger, who knows what damage you could do. Come on." He picked up her coat. "I hate to eat alone."

Recognizing truth in the last statement at least, Catherine allowed herself to be herded to the door. "What about them?"

"Them?" For a moment, he had no idea of who she was referring to, then he sighed. "We'll bring them back a pepperoni special, pop it in a blender, and feed it to them through the IV, okay?"

"That's not what I meant. They're just sitting there, out of the boxes. Shouldn't we... "

"Leave them. We're coming right back." He pulled her over the threshold. "You're the one who said they needed the stimulation."

"Yes. I did."

With Catherine safely in the hall, Donald reached back and flicked off the overhead lights. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he caroled into the room, and pulled the door closed.

One by one, the distractions ceased. First the voices. Then the responses she couldn't control or understand. Finally, the painful brightness. It grew easier to hold on to thought. To memory.

There was something she had to do.

Raise your right leg.

Raise your left leg.

Walk.

She remembered walking.

Slowly, lurching to compensate for a balance subtly wrong, she crossed the room.

Door.

Closed.

Open.

It took both hands, fingers interlaced, to turn the handle, not the way memory said it should work, but memory lay in shredded pieces.

There was something she had to do.

Needed to do.

Number nine watched. Watched the walking. Watched the leaving.

This new one was not like the other. The other had no...

No...

The other was empty.

This new one was not empty. This new one was like him.

Him.

He.

Two new words.

He thought they might be important words.

He stood and walked, as he'd been taught, toward the door.