"This isn't the eighteenth century, Fitzroy. Medical schools stopped hiring grave diggers some time ago."

Henry tugged at the lapels of his black leather trench coat, settling it forward on his shoulders. "You have a better idea, Detective?"

Celluci scowled. He didn't, and they both knew it.

"Historical precedents aside," Henry continued, "Detective Fergusson seems certain that there were medical students involved; an opinion based, no doubt, on local precedents."

"Detective Fergusson blames Queen's students for everything from traffic jams to the weather," Celluci pointed out acerbically. "And I thought your opinion of Detective Fergusson wasn't high."

"I've never even met the man."

"You said... "

"Enough," Vicki interrupted from her place on the couch, the tap, tap, tap of her pencil end against the coffee table a staccato background to her words. "Logically, all the storage facilities in the city should be searched. Also logically, for historical reasons, if nothing else, the medical school is the place to start."

"Those who refuse to learn from history," Henry agreed quietly, "are doomed to repeat it."

"Spare me the wisdom of the ages," Celluci muttered. "These places don't do public tours at midnight, you know; how are you planning on getting in?"

"It's hardly midnight."

"At twenty to nine, it's hardly open house either."

"It's April, the end of term, there'll be students around, and even if there aren't, it isn't easy to deny me access."

"Don't tell me. You turn into mist?" He raised a weary hand at Henry's expression. "I know; I watch too many bad movies. Never mind, I meant it when I said don't tell me. The less I know about your talents for be the better."

"You have the photograph?" Vicki asked. Tap. Tap. Tap. "You'll be able to make an identification?"

"Yes." Henry doubted Marjory Nelson still looked much like her picture, but it was a place to start.

Tap. Tap. Tap. "I should go with you."

"No." He crossed the room and dropped to one knee by her side. "I'll be able to move faster on my own."

"Yes, but... " Tap. Tap.

Henry covered her hand with his, stopping the pencil from rising to fall again. Her skin felt heated and he could feel the tension sizzling just under the surface. "I'll be able to move faster," he repeated, "on my own. And the faster I move, the sooner you'll have the information."

She nodded. "You're right."

He waited a moment, but when she said nothing further, he stood, reluctantly releasing her hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Very lightly, he brushed his fingertips across her hair then turned.

Celluci met him at the door. Together, they glanced back at the couch. Vicki had removed the shades from both end-table lamps and, in the harsh light, the area around her mouth and eyes looked both bruised and painfully tight.

"Don't leave her alone," Henry murmured, and left before the detective could decide on a reply.

The sound of the pencil tapping followed him out of the building.

The door almost stopped her; the latching mechanism was almost beyond her abilities. The line of stitches just above the hairline gaped as her brows drew in and she forced her fingers to push and pull and prod until finally the door swung open.

There was something she had to do. Perhaps it was on the other side of the door.

Most of the overhead lights were off and she shuffled along from shadow to shadow. She was going somewhere. The halls began to look familiar.

She passed through another doorway and then into a room so well known that, for an instant, chaos parted and she knew.

I am...

Then the maelstrom swept most of it up again and she was left with only scattered fragments. For a single beat of her mechanically enhanced heart, she was aware of what she'd lost. Her wail of protest throbbed against the walls, but even before the last echo died, she'd forgotten she'd ever made it.

She crossed the room to a pair of desks, pulled one of the chairs out, and sat. It felt right. No, not quite right. Frowning, she carefully moved the World's Greatest Mother coffee mug from the center of the blotter over to the far right side. It always sat on the right side.

Something was still wrong. After a moment of almost thought, she scrabbled at a silvery frame lying facedown, finally managing to grab hold and lift it. With trembling fingers, she gently touched the face of the uniformed young woman whose photograph filled the frame. Then she stood.

There was something she had to do.

She shouldn't be here.

She had to go home.

He didn't know where the other one was, so he walked, following the path of least resistance, until he bumped up against a tiny square of reinforced glass that showed him the stars.

Outside.

He remembered outside.

Face pressed to the glass, eyes on the stars, he pushed at the barrier, sneakers pedaling against the tile floor. More by luck than design, his hands clutched at the waist-high metal bar. Another push, and the fire door swung open.

The alarm drove the stars from his head. He moved away from the hurting as fast as he was able, onto the dark and quiet pathways that ran between and behind the university buildings. He would find her. Find the kind one. She would make it better.

"Now, then, don't you feel better?"

"I suppose so."

"You suppose so?" Donald sighed and shook his head. "The best pizza in Kingston, not to mention my congenial company, and you'd probably rather have stayed in the lab, munching on a stale sandwich, if you'd remembered to eat at all, exchanging wisecracks with the dead stooges."

"Did you leave the door open?"

"Did I what?" He peered down the dimly lit hall at the door angled out into the corridor. "You sure that's ours?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

"Well, I closed it when we left and I heard the lock catch."

Catherine broke into a run. "If something's happened to them, I'll never forgive myself."

Donald followed considerably more slowly, half inclined to bolt. Although Security kept an eye on entrances and exits, they didn't bother to patrol the interior. The old Life Sciences building was a rabbit warren of halls and passageways and strangely subdivided rooms and, had the university budget extended to demolition, it would have long ago been turned into a much more useful three-story parking garage. While Donald had occasionally wondered if they were the only clandestine lab operating, he'd never been worried about discovery.

Except that he knew he'd closed the door.

And Dr. Burke, who carried the only other set of keys, would never leave it open.

So it appeared they'd been discovered.

The question is, he mused, bouncing on the balls of his feet, uncertain whether he should go forward or back, have we advanced far enough that the end will justify the means in the eyes of the authorities? Numbers one through nine, after all, had been bodies donated for research purposes. Unfortunately, he didn't think that even Dr. Burke could talk her way around body number ten, not without the final payoff of death overcome, and they were a while away from that.

Right. He had no intention of going to jail. Not for science. Not for anything. I'm out of here.

"Donald! They're gone!"

He froze, half-turned. "What do you mean they're gone?"

"Gone! Not here! They left!"

"Cathy, get a grip! Dead people don't just get up and walk away."

Her glare, anger and exasperation equally mixed, burned through the shadows between them. "You taught them to walk, you idiot!"

"Oh, lord, we're fucked." He ran for the lab. "You sure somebody didn't break in and steal them?"

"Who? If someone found them, they'd still be here waiting for an explanation."

"Or off calling the cops." He waved aside her protest and pushed past her. A quick glance at the monitors showed number eight remained in its isolation box, refrigeration units humming at full capacity in an attempt to prevent further decomposition. The chairs where they'd left numbers nine and ten were empty. The other two boxes were empty. He checked under the tables, in the closet, in the storeroom, around and below every bit of machinery in the lab.

If no one had found them, and logic pointed to that conclusion, then they had to have left on their own.

"It's impossible." Donald sagged against the doorframe. "They don't have abstract thought processes."

"They saw us leave." Catherine grabbed his arm and dragged him back out into the hall. "It was imitation if nothing more." She shoved him to the left. "You go that way!"

"Go where that way?"

"We have to search the building."

"Then call out the Mounties," he snapped, rubbing at his forehead with trembling fingers, "because it'll take you and me alone years to search this place."

"But we have to find them!"

He couldn't argue with that.

Voices.

Number nine moved toward the sound, drawn by almost familiar cadences.

Was it her?

"Cathy!" Donald pounded the length of the hall and rocked to a panting stop beside the other grad student. "Thank God I found you. We've got bigger trouble than we thought. I went over to talk to the guys at the security desk in the new building, just to see if they might have heard something. Well, they did. They heard the fire alarm. Someone went out the fire door at the back."

"Outside?" Pale skin blanched paler. "Unsupervised?"

"At least one of them. Where's your van?"

"In the lot behind the building." She turned and raced toward the exit. "We've got to find them before someone else does!"

Hand pressed tight against the stitch in his side Donald followed. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he gasped.

The voices were closer. He stopped at the border between soft ground and hard, head turning from side to side.

"I'm telling you, Jenny, sweetheart, no one ever comes back here. It's perfectly safe."

"Why can't we park by the tower, like everyone else?"

"Because everyone else parks there and I have a moral objection to cops shining flashlights in my face at delicate moments."

"At least let's close the windows."

"It's a beautiful night, let's celebrate spring. Besides, steamy windows are a sure sign that something naughty is going down if anyone happens to pass. And speaking of going down... "

"Pat! Wait, I'll put the seat back. Be careful... oh... "

His soles scuffed as he lurched forward, aiming for the deeper shadows where two buildings joined. He didn't understand the new noises, but he followed them to a metal bulk he recognized as car.

He didn't know what car meant. Was it hurting her?

Bending carefully, he peered inside.

Pale hair.

Her face but not her face.

Her voice but not her voice.

Confused, he reached out and touched the curve of her cheek.

Her eyes snapped open, widened, then she screamed.

It hurt.

He began to back away.

Another face rose out of the darkness.

Hands grabbed for him.

His wrist caught, he clutched at air. He only wanted to get away. Then his fingers closed on something soft and kept closing until the screaming stopped. The second face lolled limp above his grip. Her face, not her face, gazed up at him. Then she screamed again.

He turned and ran.

He remembered running.

Run until it stopped hurting.

Soft ground under his feet.

He slammed hard against a solid darkness and pulled himself along it until he reached a way through. There were lights up ahead. She, the real she, the kind one, was where there were lights.

"There! Coming around that building!"

"Are you sure?"

"For chrissakes, Cathy, how many dead people are walking around this city tonight? Get over there!"

The van hadn't quite stopped when Donald threw himself out onto the road. He stumbled, picked himself up, and raced toward the shambling figure just emerging from the shadows.

He ignored the sound of screaming rising from behind the building. Catching sight of number nine's face under the streetlights, he figured he could pretty much guess what had caused it. Some of the sutures holding the scalp in place had torn and a grayish-yellow curve of skull was exposed above a flapping triangle of skin.

Dr. Burke's going to have my balls on a plate! He skidded to a stop, took a deep, steadying breath, and, as calmly as he was able, said, "Follow."

Follow.

He knew that word.

"Donald, I can hear screaming. And a car horn."

"Look, don't worry about it. Number nine's in, so just drive."

"Well, we should check to see if he's all right. They might have hurt him."

"Not now, Cathy. He's safe for the moment, but number ten isn't. We've got to find her. It."

Catherine glanced back over her shoulder at number nine lying strapped in place, nodded reluctantly, and pulled out into the street. "You're right. First we find number ten. Where to?"

Donald sank back against the passenger seat, sighed, and spread his hands. "How the hell should I know?"

Marjory Nelson had not been in the university's medical morgue; not in whole nor in part. Motionless beside the trunk of an ancient maple, ridding himself of the scent of preserved death, Henry considered how best to spend the remainder of the night. The city's two large hospitals were close. If he checked both their morgues before dawn, and he saw no reason why he shouldn't be able to, it would leave him available to... to... to what?

Over the last year, he'd learned that private investigators spent most of their time pulling together bits of apparently unconnected information into something they hoped would resemble a coherent whole, a little like first doing a scavenger hunt for jigsaw puzzle pieces and then constructing it with no idea of the final picture. They were more likely to spend time in libraries than in car chases and results were about equally dependent on training, talent, and luck. Not to mention an obstinate determination to get to the bottom of things that bordered on obsession.

Obsession. Vicki's obsession with finding her mother's body blocked the grief she should be feeling, blocked getting on with the rest of her life. Henry leaned back against the tree and wondered how long he was going to let it continue. He knew he could break through it, but at what cost. Could he do it without breaking her? Without losing her? Without leaving Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci to pick up the pieces?

Suddenly he smiled, the moon-white crescent of his teeth flashing in the darkness. You measure your life in centuries, he chided himself. Give her some time to work through this. It's only been a couple of days. Too much of the twentieth century's preoccupation with getting through unpleasantness as quickly and as tidily as possible had rubbed off on his thinking. Granted, repressing emotions was unhealthy but... two days hardly deserves to be called an obsession. It was, he realized, the presence of Michael Celluci that had made it seem so much longer. He can do no more for her than you can. Trust in her strength, her common sense, and the knowledge that as much as she is able, she loves you.

Both, added a small voice.

Shut up, he told it savagely.

Straightening, he stepped away from the tree, and froze, the hair rising on the back of his neck. A second later, the screaming started.

The sound echoed around the close-packed buildings, making it difficult for him to locate its source. After chasing down a number of false leads, he arrived at the small secluded parking lot just as the campus police screeched to a stop, their headlights illuminating a terrified teenage girl backing away from a rust-edged car and the body of an equally young man sprawled half out of it onto the pavement. The boy had obviously been dead when the car door was opened, only the dead fall with such boneless disregard for the landing.

Eyes narrowed against the intrusive glare, Henry slid into a patch of deep shadow. While it wouldn't be unusual for a passerby to be drawn by the screams, anonymity when possible ensured a greater degree of survival for his kind. With less noise than the wind made brushing up against the limestone walls, he began to move away. The girl was safe and although he would have intervened had he been in time, he had no interest in the myriad ways that mortals killed mortals.

"Like the guy looked like he was dead! Like all rotten and dead! I am not hysterical! Like I've seen movies, you know!" The last word trailed off into a rising wail.

The guy looked like he was dead.

And a corpse gone missing.

Henry stopped and turned back. There was probably no connection. He moved silently forward, around the edge of a building, and almost choked. The scent of the death he'd touched at the funeral home lay so thick on the grass that he had to back away. Skirting the edges, and that was closer than he wanted to go, he traced it to a pothole shattered access road and lost it again.

At the sound of approaching sirens, he pulled the night around him once more and made his way back to the parking lot. He would watch and listen until the drama played itself out. The girl could very well be hysterical, terror painting a yet more terrifying face on murder. The police would surely think so. Henry didn't.

If Henry comes up empty at the morgue, I'll have him start riding the buses. A young Asian male sitting just in front of the back door eating candy shouldn't be too hard to spot. Celluci can do the day shift. Vicki circled the Brock Street transfer point on her bus map. It wasn't much of a lead, but it was the only one they had and she knew it was one the police would have neither time nor manpower to follow. If Tom Chen, or whatever his name was, was still in Kingston, and still riding the buses, they'd find him eventually.

Eventually. She sat back on the couch and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. That is, if he's still in Kingston, and if he's still riding the buses.

And if he wasn't?

What if he'd thrown her mother's body into a car and driven away? He might not only have left the area but the country as well. The Ivy Lea Bridge over The Thousand Islands to the States wasn't far and with the amount of traffic that crossed daily, the odds of his car being searched by Customs were negligible. He could be anywhere.

But he knew her mother. There was no other reason for him to pass over the other bodies that had come through the funeral home and then run off with hers. Specifically hers. So the odds were good he had his base in the area.

That took care of who and where. Or, at least, that assembled as much information as they had.

Vicki dug her fingers into the back of her neck, trying to ease the knots of tension that tied her shoulders into solid blocks, then bent over the coffee table again, ignoring the knowledge that she'd be more comfortable in the kitchen. Stacking her notes on Tom Chen neatly to one side, she spread the contents of Dr. Friedman's file over the table. Who and where and when and even how; she had notes on all of these, a sheet of paper for each with the heading written in black marker at the top of the page. Only why remained blank. Why steal a body? Why steal her mother's body?

Why didn't she tell me she was so sick?

Why didn't I answer the phone ?

Why didn't I call her?

Why wasn't I there when she needed me?

The pencil snapped between her fingers and the sound drove Vicki back against the sofa cushions, heart pounding. Those questions weren't part of the investigation. Those questions were for later, for after she'd got her mother back. Left hand pressed against the bridge of her glasses, Vicki fought for control. Her mother needed her to be strong.

All at once, the lingering smell of her mother's perfume, cosmetics, and bath soap coated nose and throat with a patina of the past. Her right fist dug into her stomach, denying the sudden nausea. The ambient noise of the apartment moved to the foreground. The refrigerator motor gained the volume of a helicopter taking off and a dripping tap in the bathroom echoed against the porcelain. An occasional car sped by on the street outside and something moved in the gravel parking lot.

Gradually, the other sounds faded back into the distance, but the footsteps dragging across the loose stones continued. Vicki frowned, grateful for the distraction.

It could be Celluci returning from the fish and chip store across the street, his footsteps hesitant because... well, because both he and Henry had been hesitant around her since they'd arrived. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate their help, because she did, but she wished they'd get it through their mutually thick heads that she could take care of herself.

Something brushed against the living room window.

Vicki straightened. The large ground level windows of the basement apartment had always been a tempting target for neighborhood kids and over the years had been decorated with soap, paint, eggs, lipstick, and, once, with Smurf stickers. Standing, she walked over and flicked on the floor lamp with its three, hundred watt bulbs. With luck, enough of the brilliant white light illuminating the living room would spill out into the night and she'd actually be able to see the little vandals before they ran.

She paused at the window, one hand holding the edge of the curtain, the other the cords of the Venetian blind that ran behind. This close, she could hear that something was definitely rubbing against the other side of the glass. With one smooth, practiced motion, she threw the curtain aside and yanked the length of the blind up against its top support.

Pressed up against the glass, fingers splayed, mouth silently working, was her mother. Two pairs of eyes, an identical shade of gray, widened in simultaneous recognition.

Then the world slid sideways for a second.

My mother is dead.

Fragmented memory fought to become whole. Desperately, she grabbed at the pieces.

This is my...

This is my...

She couldn't find it, couldn't hold it.

A teenager, legs pumping, a ribbon breaking across her chest. A tall, young woman standing proudly in a blue uniform. A tiny pink mouth opening in what was surely the first yawn in creation. A child, suddenly grown serious, small arms reaching out to hold her while she cried. A voice saying, "Don't worry, Mother."

Mother.

This is my daughter. My child.

She knew now what it was she had to do.

The window was empty. No one moved in the parking lot as far as the spill of light and Vicki's vision went.

My mother is dead.

Around the corner, out of sight on the gravel path that lead to the entrance of the building, the same faltering footsteps sounded.

Vicki whirled and ran for the apartment door.

She'd turned the lock behind Celluci, a habit ingrained after years spent in a larger, more violent city.

Now, as trembling fingers twisted the mechanism, the lock jammed.

"GODDAMNED FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!"

She couldn't hear the footsteps any longer. Couldn't hear anything but the blood roaring in her ears.

She'll be on the step now... The metal pushed bruises into her hands... . opening the outer door... Had the security door been locked when Celluci left? Vicki couldn't remember. If she can't get in, she'll go away. The whole door shuddered as she slammed the lock with her fists. Don't go away! Through fingers white with strain, she felt something give.

Don't go away again... .

The hall was empty.

The security door open.

Over the scream of denial that slammed echoes up against the sides of her skull though no sound passed teeth ground tight together, Vicki heard a car door slam. Then tires retreating across gravel.

Adrenaline catapulted her up the half flight of stairs and flung her out into the night.

"That was close, Cathy, too close. She was inside the building!"

"Is she all right?"

"What do you mean, is she all right? Don't you mean, did anyone see you?

"No." Catherine shook her head, the flying ends of hair gleaming ivory under the passing street lights. "The repairs we did aren't designed for so much activity. If any of those motors have burned out... "

Donald finished strapping the weakly struggling body in and made his way to the front of the van. "Well, everything seems to be working," he sighed, settling into his seat. "But it sure didn't want to come with me."

"Of course not, you interrupted the pattern."

"What pattern?"

"The body was responding to leaving the Life Sciences building by retracing a path followed for years."

"Yeah? I thought it was going home."

"Her home is with us now."

Donald shot an anxious glance over his shoulder into the back of the van. Number nine lay passively by, but number ten continued to push against the restraints. It had followed on his command, but he'd be willing to bet his chances for a Nobel Prize that it hadn't wanted to.

"Lie still," he snapped, and was only mildly relieved when it followed the programming.

Mike Celluci stepped out of the tiny fish and chip shop, inhaling the smell of french fries and greasy halibut overlaid on a warm spring night. Just at that particular moment, things didn't look so bad. While finding Marjory Nelson's body as soon as possible would be best for all concerned, Vicki was an intelligent adult, well acquainted with the harsh reality that some cases never got solved. Eventually, she'd accept that her mother was gone, accept that her mother was dead, and they could return to solving the problem all of this had interrupted.

He'd be there to comfort her, she'd realize Fitzroy had nothing to offer, and the two of them would settle down. Maybe even have a kid. No. The vision of Vicki in a maternal role, brought revision. Maybe not a kid.

He paused at the curb while a panel van pulled out of the apartment building's driveway, turning south toward the center of the city. A moment later, the food lay forgotten in the gutter as he sprinted forward to catch hold of the wild-eyed figure charging out onto the road.

"Vicki! What is it? What's happened?"

She twisted in his grip, straining to follow the van. "My mother... " Then the taillights disappeared and she sagged against him. "Mike, my mother... "

Gently, he turned her around, barely suppressing an exclamation of shock at her expression. She looked as though someone had ripped her heart out. "Vicki, what about your mother?"

She swallowed. "My mother was at the living room window. Looking in at me. The lock stuck, and when I got outside she was gone. She went away in that van. It's the only place she could have gone. Mike, we have to go after that van."

Cold fingers danced down Celluci's spine. Crazy words tucked in between shallow gasps for breath, but she sounded like she believed them. Moving slowly, he steered her back toward the apartment. "Vicki." His voice emerged tight and strained, her name barely recognizable, so he started again. "Vicki, your mother is dead."

She yanked herself free of his hands. "I know that!" she snarled. "Do you think I don't know that? So was the woman at the window!"

"Look, I only left her alone for a few minutes." Even as he spoke, Celluci heard the words echoed by a thousand voices who'd returned to find disaster had visited during those few minutes they were gone. "How was I supposed to know she was so close to cracking? She's never cracked before." He leaned his forearm against the wall and his face against the cushion of his arm. After that single outburst, Vicki had begun to shake, but she wouldn't let him touch her. She just sat in her mother's rocking chair and rocked and stared at the window. Years of training, of dealing with similar situations, seemed suddenly useless. If Mr. Delgado hadn't shown up, hadn't cajoled her into swallowing those sleeping pills... "And how can you be strong tomorrow if you don't sleep tonight, eh?" ...he didn't know what he would have done; shaken her probably, yelled certainly, definitely not done any good.

Henry rose from his crouch by the window. There was no mistaking the odor that clung to the outside of the glass. "She didn't crack," he said quietly. "At least not the way you think."

"What are you talking about?" Celluci didn't bother to turn his head. "She's having hallucinations, for chrissakes."

"No. I'm afraid she isn't. And it seems I owe you an apology, Detective."

Celluci snorted but the certainty in Henry's voice made him straighten. "Apology? What for?"

"For accusing you of watching too many bad movies."

"I don't need another mystery tonight, Fitzroy. What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about," Henry stepped away from the window, his expression unreadable, "the return of Dr. Frankenstein."

"Don't bullshit me, Fitzroy. I'm not in the... Jesus H. Christ, you're not kidding, are you?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm not kidding."

Impossible not to believe him. Werewolves, mummies, vampires; I should've expected this. "Mother of God. What are we going to tell Vicki?"

Hazel eyes met brown, for once without a power struggle between them. "I haven't the faintest idea."