"That's what I'm trying to find out. She disappeared five years ago."

"I'm so sorry to hear it. I hope I can be of some help."

"Thanks."

"Okay, let's go," she said.

"What about-?" Lee said, glancing toward the bathroom.

"It can wait."

As they left the courtroom a brisk wind was blowing from the west, and Lee pulled his coat tighter around his neck. He looked at Katherine Azarian, who had flung a hand skyward in hopes of snagging one of the yellow cabs barreling up Center Street. Even flagging a cab, she looked confident, authoritative.

She glanced at her watch. "This is a lousy time to try for a cab. I think we should take the bus. It's not far."

"Okay."

"There's a stop for the M15 right around the corner at Chatham Square."

He followed her, bent forward against the wind, past the Tombs, with their stark vertical stone walls, the long grim columns rising like the Death Star from the streets below. They hurried past the statue of Lin Zexu, the Fujian hero who defied the British, standing tall on his pedestal in the center of the square. He looked cold, draped in his gray granite robes, gazing northeast toward the rising sun, his stone face shielded by a broad-brimmed hat. Across from the statue stood the Republic National Bank, with its flashy red-tipped pagoda, marking the entrance to the heart of Chinatown. Another time, he might have thought it charming, but right now, to Lee, the color red only evoked one thing: blood.

Chapter Seventeen

The medical examiner's office was housed in a stolid, bland structure typical of the 1960s genre of institutional buildings. Dull and functional, its rectangular glass windows were bordered by metal rims set in a featureless brick facade.

Just down the block from the Victorian opulence of Bellevue Hospital, with its dark red brick, heavy, ornate balustrades, and carved gargoyles hanging from ivy-covered eaves, the ME's building was like the prim Lutheran cousin who came to visit for the weekend and ended up staying.

They entered the lobby, with its scuffed yellow plastic chairs and cheap carpeting. Within these bland walls were the laboratories and autopsy rooms filled with corpses of people who had been drowned, poisoned, shot, stabbed, beaten, and hacked to death.

The desk attendant wasn't sure which direction to send them, so they headed for the main autopsy room. Standing in front of a glass window so clean it was invisible, they looked around for a medical examiner or lab technician, but the room was empty of all living beings, quiet as a tomb. The only occupants were half a dozen bodies on steel gurneys, in various stages of decay. Even the pressed white sheets covering them couldn't hide the ravages of death on the human body-here a livid arm protruded, there a brown stain seeped through the pristine covering.

Lee looked away. At least Laura, when they found her, would be nothing more than clean white bones, none of this messy and gruesome horror. He looked at Kathy, but her face was grim and unreadable. Maybe she didn't like seeing corpses any more than he did.

Chuck Morton came walking down the long hallway with his cell phone to his ear. He waved at Lee and said into the phone, "Look, I've got to go. I'll call you later." He put the phone in his breast pocket and approached them with a rueful expression. "Missing soccer again. Afraid I'm not much of a dad lately." Seeing Kathy, he held out his hand. "Chuck Morton, Captain, Bronx Major Case Unit."

She shook his hand. "Katherine Azarian, forensic pathologist. I'm just here to give my opinion, for what it's worth."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of you. You're out of Philadelphia, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm here testifying in the Lorenzo case."

"Right, right-the skeleton that turned up in Queens." He turned to Lee, his face apologetic.

"I'm sorry to call you here like this. It could be there's no connection, but I just thought-"

"It's all right," Lee answered. "I'm glad you called. Where is..." She? It? She? It? He couldn't bring himself to say either word, so his sentence trailed off into thin air. He couldn't bring himself to say either word, so his sentence trailed off into thin air.

"Elaine's just bringing the...uh, remains...from the main morgue." Chuck also seemed to have trouble finding the right words.

Lee swallowed, his Adam's apple tight and dry in his throat.

A short blond woman with a tight pixie face came down the hall wheeling a metal gurney. Under the white sheet was the clear outline of a skeleton. Lee forced himself to concentrate on his breathing as the woman wheeled the gurney into the autopsy room. The three of them followed her, and Lee wasn't prepared for the smell as the door opened. In spite of the strong odor of disinfectant, as well as formaldehyde and various other laboratory chemicals, the stench lingered underneath, clinging to his nostrils with a noxious insistence, causing a deep, instinctive repulsion.

It was the smell of death.

"This is Elaine Margolies," Chuck said, introducing the blond woman. "She's chief assistant medical examiner."

Elaine Margolies was all business. "A couple of boys came across this in some caves in the woods in Inwood Park, called it in. Cops took photos of the scene and then brought it in."

"I've seen the photos, and they're not very revealing," Chuck Morton commented.

Kathy Azarian wasn't listening. "May I have a look?" she asked Elaine.

Lee held his breath as Margolies lifted the sheet, revealing a nearly complete human skeleton, clean except for a few bits of dirt and leaves still clinging to it.

"Well, it's definitely female," she concluded after a brief glance.

"And in remarkably good condition, considering," Elaine Margolies agreed. "Not much evidence of any molestation by animals."

"Well, that makes sense-there isn't much in Inwood Park other than squirrels," Morton remarked, glancing at Lee to see how he was taking it.

Lee looked down at the bones. If this really was his sister, he could handle it, seeing her this way-better this way than one of the bloated, oozing corpses on the other gurneys.

But Kathy Azarian shook her head. "This isn't your sister."

Morton frowned. "How can you tell?"

"Development of the pelvic bone. This girl was no more than fifteen when she died. In more mature individuals," she continued, "there is considerably more development of the pelvic bone. Not only that," she said to Lee, "you told me that your sister had given birth?"

"Yes," Lee said. "She has-had-a daughter." He remembered now talking incessantly on the bus all the way up First Avenue, rattling on as if filling up the air between them would make the ride go faster. He could barely remember what he had said, but he knew he had mentioned Kylie at least once, and the fact that she was living with her father.

"This is not the body of a woman in her twenties," Kathy said, "much less one who has given birth. Absolutely not."

Chuck Morton rubbed a hand over his short buff of blond hair. Lee thought he looked relieved.

"Well," he said. "You're sure, huh?"

"Positive," she replied.

The tension drained from the room like water from a sieve. Lee knew at that moment that he wasn't that different from his mother after all: as long as no body surfaced, in the back of his head there was still a tiny seed of hope, ready to burst into bloom.

He looked at Chuck Morton. To his surprise, his old friend was sweating.

Chuck's cell phone rang-a jaunty Latin melody that was a jarring contrast to the solemn surroundings.

"Hello?" He listened and then said, "Okay, thanks for telling me."

He hung up, his face grim.

"I'm afraid there's some bad news."

"What is it?" said Lee.

"Father Michael Flaherty is dead. Hanged himself."

"Oh, God."

"There's a suicide note. He apologizes for his sexual behavior."

"But that's it? No mention of-?"

"No."

Neither of them said what they were both thinking: they were back to square one. And Lee had another uncomfortable thought: what if the bones on the table in front of him belonged to an even earlier victim of the Slasher?

Chapter Eighteen

The woods lay silent all around him, the tree branches hanging low over the winding stream, their leaves a lush canopy of gold and green, hiding him, protecting him from the inquisitive, prying eyes of people who might judge him.

He stood looking at the running brook, at the soft clear water burbling over the stones in its path. He was like the water, gliding over the rocks and pebbles in his path, smoothing them over time until they became rounded, the rough edges now as curved as the white limbs of the women he had rescued.

They had to be saved from the path they were choosing before it was too late. He was the only one who could save them-except the Master, of course. They both understood the importance of purity, and he had kept himself pure: unblemished, clean and clear as the water running so swiftly over the stones lining the brook. It was a heavy burden to bear-at times almost intolerable-but the importance of his work drove him onward.

He lay down upon the stones and let the purifying water flow over him. It was icy cold, but he didn't mind. It helped to quench the fire raging in his soul. He closed his eyes and let the pictures float through his mind like the running water over his skin. Whenever he closed his eyes, the images of their faces were there, in his mind's eye, one face melting into another, their features weaving in an endless tapestry of memory and desire....

He had conquered desire, overcome his own lust for these women by an act of willpower, to follow a purer impulse. The Master understood the importance of saving a soul, by stopping the sinner before she could sin again.

And what if they had desired him, these women with their soft white skin and doelike eyes, eyes that widened and filled with terror as he bent over them, applying his hands to their necks, bearing down with just enough force to cut off their breath, then watching, waiting, as the last breath left their body, watching for that moment when the soul made its escape, set free from the prison of the body, to fly-fly up and away through the ether and into the waiting arms of the Lord. And then the ritual of cutting the Lord's words into their dead flesh, consecrating them even as they lay before him, their bodies still warm...

A smile moved across his face just as a tiny silver water snake slid by, brushing its shiny skin against his trouser leg. He was unaware of the snake, but perhaps he felt its presence, because he shivered as he thought of all the work he had yet ahead of him.

He thought about the girls, alluring and fresh.... He catalogued their charms one by one: the soft shimmer of their hair, their gentle eyes and pliant bodies, the tender fullness of their young breasts.

He rose from where he lay, brushing stray twigs from his clothes, and shook himself as a dog might, flinging water in all directions. The droplets spun and twirled in the sunlight filtering through the trees, catching the light and turning into a thousand tiny prisms. Once again he was struck by the pristine beauty of the woods-the one place he could go without the defiling presence of human beings. He took a deep breath and walked back in the direction he had come from. The comforting jangling of the keys hanging from his belt made him smile, and his hand closed around the freshly sharpened knife tucked away in his pocket.

There was work to be done.

Chapter Nineteen

Lee woke up the next morning in a clammy sweat, anxiety squeezing his stomach like an evil fist.

Mornings were the worst. With the demands of the day looming, the terror could drain him of will, crippling him and leaving him paralyzed. Sometimes he knew the reason for his anxiety, and sometimes he didn't. It was much worse when he didn't. Then it would grip him hour after hour, pressing like a vise upon his consciousness, until even the simplest action, like brushing his teeth, required an enormous act of will.

Today he knew the reason for his anxiety: it was Kathy Azarian. Meeting her had upset his carefully calibrated world. He feared that whatever control he had managed over his emotions would be thrown to the wind. More than anything, he wanted never to return to the months following his sister's disappearance.

That was when it had started-when the darkness had descended around him, a blackness that he had never known before. Since then, he had come to know the many faces of depression. Most often, it would hit him first thing in the morning, upon waking, a cold, hard hand around his heart and a burning, as though his soul were on fire. Familiar objects become foreign, food lost its ability to comfort, landscapes he once found charming looked utterly blank. There was no seeing beyond the thick fog of pain.

Now, lying in bed, he felt the familiar restlessness coupled with frozen immobility. He lay curled up in his bed for a while, stomach churning, his mind circling around itself like a lion pacing in a cage. He looked over at the digital alarm clock next to his bed. The red numbers read 10:32, the dots between them flashing like warning signal lights.

At one point after Laura's death, he had developed a fear of his answering machine. He dreaded getting up in the morning and seeing the blinking red light indicating he had messages. It was like the glaring red eye of a great, devouring beast waiting to swallow him whole. He was terrified of other people's needs and demands on him, afraid he would fail them-or worse, that he would be engulfed by them.

He was also certain that each message would be the police calling to say they had found his sister's body. In spite of his certainty that she was dead, he dreaded receiving that call.

He pulled himself out of bed, dragged himself to the bathroom, bathed, and shaved in a haze, hardly aware of what he was doing, as though he were sleepwalking. He forced himself to look at the answering machine. To his relief, there were no messages.

Hands trembling, he picked up the phone and called his therapist. After leaving a message, he felt what little will he had draining away with each passing minute. He went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and tried to imagine desiring food. No coffee, not today-when he was this jittery, caffeine was the last thing he needed. He stared at a bowl of bananas on the table, but they looked uninviting. He sat down at the piano but couldn't focus on the notes in front of him.

Finally, the phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Lee, it's Georgina Williams." Her voice was cool and yet intimate, with just the right amount of professional detachment.

He got right to the point. "Do you have any openings or cancellations today?"

"Actually, I have one in an hour, if you can get here that quickly."

"Great. I'll see you in an hour."

He put the phone down and forced his breath all the way down into his belly, making himself exhale slowly. Then he went to the kitchen, snagged a banana from the bowl, and forced himself to eat it.

An hour later he was seated in the familiar office, with its comforting collection of objects, books, and paintings. A vase of carnations sat on the table next to Dr. Williams, casting off an aroma of nutmeg.

"Okay, you're anxious today," Dr. Williams was saying in her smooth, cultivated voice. "But are you anything else?"