"The sex change."

"Yes."

A few weeks after the story broke, Steve's office was contacted by a urologist at a clinic in Prague. Six years ago, Monks had apparently convinced the doctors of his gender dysmorphia, and during a leave of absence from his practice-and unbeknownst to any friends or colleagues-he flew to Czechoslovakia, where he underwent a transsexual operation. When he returned to the United States, he continued his practice while he waited for the proper candidate to present herself.

Then Dana walked into his office.

Monks was a clever planner. According to Air France, he immediately purchased tickets to Paris and booked hotels for a medical conference in August. After a five-day stay, he was scheduled to fly to Martinique for another three weeks aboard the Fair Lady, after which he would return to Boston. He had even arranged for the yacht to be leased out to others in the Caribbean the week after he returned and to remain down there for the next seven months, after which he'd fly down to motor it back to Boston next spring.

That was the cover.

The real plan was to have his surgical team replace his own face with Dana's and to stage a fatal heart attack by leaving behind a dead homeless man, kidnapped months before and whose face Monks and his team had refashioned to a near duplicate of Monks's own, right down to the mole. For the right occasion, the body had been stored in a refrigeration unit at Vita Nova. Bolstering the visual identity they had even grafted Monks's own prints onto the dead man's fingers. Were an autopsy conducted, his death had been affected by curare to assimilate a heart attack. And the obituary would lament the premature death of a world-renowned plastic surgeon. The dead man was never identified.

Meanwhile, completing the diabolical plan, Aaron Monks would be taken on the Fair Lady to Martinique, where in a small villa he owned in backcountry hills he would recover to live out the rest of his life as Lillian Arona. All necessary documents, deeds, and passport had already been fabricated. Containers of red hair dye found aboard the boat revealed his plan to let his hair grow long and to color it.

As a chilling afterword, Steve returned to Aaron Monks's Web site, where he found a recent article by the doctor that concluded: Up to this point, the only real technical challenge has been the revitalizing of dead tissue from cadavers. But the future in face transplantation is to lift tissue from living donors, say those with terminal diseases who bequeath their faces. Aside from that, the only other problem is nonsurgical-the secondary effects of anti-rejection drugs.

But great strides are being made in overcoming immunosuppressive problems as shown in clinical trials with humans. Should they prove as effective as we suspect, it will not be long when full-face transplantation for cosmetic reasons will be routine.

In spite of arguments to the contrary, I see no more of an ethical problem than in transplanting a heart or a liver, because the whole purpose is to help the patient in need.

Ironically, because the transplant was interrupted by police, Monks's own removed skin suffered deterioration, as did the exposed muscles and blood vessels of his face. Because so much time was lost while his colleagues were forced to mend Dana, a last-minute attempt to reattach Monks's skin failed. For more than a week he was in intensive care at Massachusetts General Hospital, where doctors tried in vain to reverse the infection that had set in.

He died in a state of gross disfigurement, poisoned by his own face.

Because he left no records, the Essex River woman had still not been identified. The case remained open. Of course, there might have been other victims yet undiscovered. More secrets that Aaron Monks took with him to the grave.

Epilogue.

NINE MONTHS LATER.

They were sitting at a window seat at Flora Restaurant on Mass. Ave. just outside Arlington center. Steve had ordered pan-seared sea scallops and Dana, the sea bass. At the moment they were sharing an appetizer special, rolled grape leaves.

"Yours are better," she said in a low voice so the waiter wouldn't hear. "Doesn't have the same exotic spiciness."

Steve leaned forward. "Because they rolled them with their hands."

Dana laughed, her eyes glittered, and music filled the air. If he hadn't already done so years ago, he would have fallen in love with her at that moment.

Dana sipped her sparkling water and glanced over Steve's shoulder, watching the street out the window. It was a warm May night and strollers were about in numbers.

Her hair was back to its original sandy blond, and she wore it longer but without the feathery bangs. Because of the cosmetic procedures, she still looked thirty and probably would for a few more years. Though he had never perceived them as problematic, her smile lines had returned and the forehead crease was again visible. But she would happily live with those and other inevitabilities.

The hairline scar from her forehead down the side of her face had faded away. Yet there were times when Steve would glance at her and in a shuddering moment see flash-card images of Monks's scalpel-handed assistants in the process of removing her face.

With luck, those too would fade.

Luckily, Dana remembered nothing of that night since along with the sedative, Monks had given her ketamine, an anesthetic whose side effect is amnesia. Her only memory was arriving on the island and walking around the first floor of Vita Nova, wondering where all the dinner party guests were. After that, she was blank until she woke up in the hospital the next day. The only reason they had not given her an injection to stop her heart was that they needed the constant supply of blood to her facial tissue during the operation. After that, their plan was to kill her and dispose of her body at sea.

From the island, she was flown to Massachusetts General Hospital, where she was held for two days for observation. Over the next two weeks, Steve slept at the house because she was not comfortable being alone at night. He stayed on after that because she wanted him back. Officially, it was the thirty-fourth-week anniversary of his moving back and their second round of marriage.

And it was working.

And tonight they were celebrating that and a lot else. Ten months had passed since his last alcoholic drink. Nearly so long since his nightmares had stopped. Six months since his last Ativan tab.

And two months since they became pregnant.

When the waiter returned, Steve ordered a second bottle of Pellegrino. He took a sip. "It might be my well-corrupted palate, but do you detect any difference between this and your basic Stop and Shop seltzer?"

"About five dollars."

"Tasting better already."

Dana was back at school, but following the fall term, she would take a year's leave of absence to have the baby. After that, she would make a decision about resignation. At the moment, it was motherhood that filled their horizon. As for the pharmaceutical sales job, those interests faded also.

"I got a postcard from Neil," Steve said.

"Where from?"

"He brought Lily and her girlfriend to Yellowstone National Park for her birthday. They're out there hiking."

"Yellowstone? You've got to be kidding."

"Yeah, I know, must be five hundred miles from the nearest mall. But he says they're having a good time tracking the buffalo."

"That's great. How's she doing otherwise?"

"Still seeing her therapist, but I think things are better. She's going to her classes and actually doing well. Neil said she made the honor roll and that she's even applying to colleges."

"Good for her. How's he doing?"

"Better. I think he's dating again." Steve removed a wedge of lemon from the grape leaves dish and squeezed it into his sparkling water. He sniffed it then took a swallow. "Ah. Bold citrusy nose, delicate balance of acidity and alkalinity, nice clean bite. Yowza."

Dana laughed. "Yeah, but I'm proud of you because," she whispered, "I know you'd rather be doing what that guy at the bar is doing."

The guy she indicated with her eyes was on his second Chivas Regal. "Kind of wish you hadn't mentioned him because now I want a drink."

"Well, you're better off where you are. We both are, and I'm proud of you for that, too-for not letting go of us."

"Me, too," Steve said.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

She was quiet for a moment. "If you hadn't, I wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be here."

"That makes three of us."

"Which reminds me. What do you think of Jason?"

"Who's Jason?"

"Possibly the name of your son."

"Oh. Yeah, I like Jason," Steve said. "He stole the golden fleece and got the girl."

"Yeah, but the girl was Medea."

"Let's hope he has better luck."

"And if it's a girl?" Dana said.

"I still like Andrea. What do you think?"

"It's a very pretty name. Does she have a myth?"

"Not that I know of."

"But she may have the nose."

"So might Jason," Steve said. "But that's their problem. Our job is to give them a lot of love and a happy home."

Dana smiled. "I think we can do that."

He raised his glass of sparkling water to meet hers. "You bet we can."

Other Novels by Gary Braver.

Flashback.

Gray Matter.

Elixir.

Writing as Gary Goshgarian.

The Stone Circle.

Rough Beast.

Atlantis Fire.

Acknowledgments.

Several people have helped me with technical matters in the writing of this book and I would like to thank them for their generous time and expertise.

For his tremendous help and guidance on medical matters, I am greatly indebted to Robert M. Goldwyn, Professor Emeritus of Plastic Surgery, Harvard Medical School, Massachusetts. Thanks also to Henry David Abraham, M.D., and to old friends Dr. Michael G. Carvalho, Clinical Psychopharmacologist, Manchester, New Hampshire, Veterans Affairs Medical Center; and Dr. Wanda Hunt, Clinical Psychopharmacologist, VA Medical Center, Manchester, New Hampshire. I would also like to thank good friend Dr. Marie Dacey, Assistant Professor, Massachusetts College of Pharmacy and Health Sciences.

For police procedures, I want to thank John J. McLean, Lieutenant Detective, Detective Bureau, Medford Police, who was always there when I needed him. Thanks also to my colleague John McDevitt, Associate Dean, College of Criminal Justice, Northeastern University; and to Alex Sbordone, retired captain, Newton, Massachusetts, Police Department.

For reasons that they know well, thanks also to Alice Janjigian, Robert Janjigian, Malcolm Childers, and Barbara Shapiro.

Finally, a special thanks to my faithful agent and friend, Susan Crawford, and to my editor, Natalia Aponte, who still believes in me.

I would also like to acknowledge the following books that assisted in the research: Beyond Appearance: Reflections of a Plastic Surgeon, by Robert M. Goldwyn (New York: Dodd Mead & Company, 1986); Flesh Wounds: The Culture of Cosmetic Surgery, by Virginia L. Blum (Berkeley and Los Angeles, Calif.: University of California Presss, 2003); and The Forensic Science of C.S.I., by Katherine Ramsland (New York: The Berkley Publishing Group, 2001).

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

SKIN DEEP.

end.