He seemed to study me, his expression one of calculated kindness. "I still don't understand how you made the connection."

"The idea just suddenly made sense. Dr. Purcell was last seen at the clinic. I'd heard he was on his way up here to see Fiona so I-"

"Who told you that?"

"A friend of Purcell's, a fellow named Jacob Trigg. Dow told him he had a meeting scheduled with her that night."

"You talk to her about this?"

"Well, I asked her. Why not? I was pissed. I work for her. She should have given me the information the moment I hired on."

"What'd she say?"

"She claims he didn't show, called it a 'miscommunication.' I assumed he stood her up and she was too embarrassed to admit it."

"Too bad she didn't mention it to us. We could have canvassed up here. Somebody might've heard the car. Nine plus weeks later, who's going to remember?"

Behind him, I heard the high whine of the gear, the rumble as the cable was wound around the drum, dragging the Mercedes from the lake. Water gushed from the open windows, from the underside, from the wheel mounts. Nearby, the coroner's van was parked in the grass, its rear doors open. The coroner's assistant and a uniformed officer were removing a long metal trunk, which I recognized as the stainless steel tank in which a floater could be sealed. Paglia said, "Kinsey." I turned my gaze back to his. I felt cold. "The diver says there's someone in the front seat." The Mercedes was now suspended in a forward tilt, front end down, three of the four windows opened. Lake water poured from every crack and crevice, draining through the floorboards, splashing onto ground already soaked by days of rain. I watched, my responses suspended as the vehicle was hauled partway up the slope, gushing like a tank that had sprung a sudden leak. The window on the driver's side had been shattered, the bottom half still a maze of crazed glass, the upper portion gone. In the front seat, I caught a glimpse of a vaguely human shape, amorphous, all bloat and slime, face turned toward the window gap as if peeking at the view. After weeks in the water, the once-living flesh was bloodless, bleached a pearly white. He still wore his suit coat, but that was all I could see of him from where I stood. I turned my head abruptly and made an involuntary sound. The glue holding his bones together had loosened and given way so that he seemed flaccid, indifferent, his eye sockets swimming with a pale gelatin. His mouth was open, his jaw relaxed. His lips had widened in a final expression of joy or surprise-a howl of rage perhaps. "I'll be in the car," I said.

Paglia didn't hear me. He was heading for the Mercedes. The morgue crew stood back. Peripherally, I saw flashes as the police photographer began to document her work. I couldn't watch any longer. I couldn't be in that place. These people were schooled in the sight of death, tutored by its odors, by its poses, by the peculiar posture of bodies caught in their final bow to life. Ordinarily at such a scene, after the first jolt of revulsion, I can become detached. Here, I couldn't manage it, couldn't shake off the feeling that I was in the presence of something evil. Purcell-assuming the body was his-had either killed himself or been killed. There was no way he could have driven up that hill and down into the lake by accident.

Chapter 16

By the time I returned to my apartment, it was after ten o'clock. The crime scene technicians were still busy at the reservoir, though I couldn't imagine what remained to be done. I'd hung around for a while and then decided to head home. I'd never eaten dinner. In fact, as nearly as I remembered, I hadn't eaten lunch. Hunger had asserted itself and then faded at least twice during the evening, and now had dissipated altogether, leaving a nagging headache in its wake. I was both wired and exhausted, a curious mix.

Mercifully, the rain had moved on and the temperature had warmed. The streets seemed to smoke, vapor rising in drifts. The sidewalks were still wet, water dripping from the tree limbs as silently as snow. The gutters gurgled merrily, miniature rivers diverted by debris as the runoff traveled downstream into sewers to the sea. A fog began to accumulate, making the world seem hushed and dense. My neighborhood looked unfamiliar, a landscape made alien by mist. Depths were flattened to two dimensions, bare branches no more than ink lines bleeding onto a page. My apartment was dark. I'd left home at ten A.M., nearly twelve hours earlier, and it hadn't occurred to me to leave lights on for myself. I paused in the process of unlocking my door. Henry's kitchen window was aglow, a small square of yellow in the hovering mist. I tucked the keys in my pocket and crossed the flagstone patio.