YOU MAY QUALIFY FOR THE STUDY IF YOU:

* ARE AVAILABLE TO COME TOMCLEANHOSPITAL FOR FIVE VISITS

* HAVE NO HISTORY OF HEAD TRAUMA OR DRUG ABUSE

* HAVE NEVER BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA OR BIPOLAR DISORDER

Scarpetta scrolls through the rest of the ad, getting to the good part, a P.S. fromBenton.

You’d be amazed how many people think they’re normal. I wish the damn snow would stop. I love you.

Marino’s big presence fills the doorway.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Please shut the door,” Scarpetta says as she reaches for the phone.

He pulls it shut, takes a chair, not directly across from her but at an angle so he doesn’t have to look at her straight on as she sits at her big desk in her big leather chair. She knows about his tricks. She knows all about his gauche manipulations. He doesn’t like dealing with her from the other side of her big desk, but would prefer they were seated with nothing between them, like equals. She knows about office psychology, knows a lot more about it than he does.

“Just give me a minute,” she says.

BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG, the rapid sounds of a radio frequency pulse causing a magnetic field to excite protons.

In the MRI lab, the structure of another so-called normal’s brain is being scanned.

“Just how bad is the weather up there?” Scarpetta is saying over the phone.

Dr. Lane pushes the intercom button. “Are you all right?” she asks their latest research study subject for PREDATOR.

He claims to be normal. He probably isn’t. He has no idea the point is to compare his brain to a killer’s.

“I don’t know,” the normal’s unnerved voice answers.

“It’s okay,”Bentonis saying to Scarpetta over the phone. “If you don’t get delayed again. But tomorrow night it’s supposed to get bad…”

BWAWWH… BWAWWH… BWAWH… BWAWH…

“I can’t hear a damn thing,” he says in exasperation.

The reception is bad. Sometimes his cell phone doesn’t even ring in here, and he is distracted, frustrated, tired. The scan isn’t going well. Nothing has gone well today. Dr. Lane is dejected. Josh sits in front of his screen, bored.

“I don’t feel hopeful,” Dr. Lane says toBenton, a resigned look on her face. “Even with earplugs.”

Twice today, normal control subjects have refused to be scanned because they’re claustrophobic, a detail they failed to mention when they were accepted into the study. Now this control subject is complaining about the noise, says it sounds like electric bass guitars being played in hell. At least he’s creative.

“I’ll call before I take off,” Scarpetta is saying over the phone. “The ad looks fine, as fine as any of them look.”

“Thanks for the enthusiasm. We’re going to need a big response. The casualties are mounting. Must be something phobic in the air. Add to that, about one out of three normal subjects isn’t.”

“I’m not sure what’s normal anymore.”

Bentoncovers his other ear, walks around, trying to hear, trying to get a better signal. “I’m afraid a big case has come in, Kay. It’s going to be a lot of work.”

“How are we doing in there?” Dr. Lane asks over the intercom.

“Not good,” the subject’s voice comes back.

“They always do when we’re about to get together,” Scarpetta is saying above what now sounds like a hammer rapidly striking wood. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

“I’m really starting to freak out,” the normal subject’s voice says.

“This isn’t going to work.”Bentonlooks through the Plexiglas at the normal on the far side of the magnet.

He is moving his taped-down head.

“Susan?”Bentonlooks at her.

“I know,” Dr. Lane says. “I’m going to need to reposition him.”

“Good luck. I think he’s done,”Bentonsays.

“He’s destroyed the landmark,” Josh looks up and says.

“Okay,” Dr. Lane tells the normal control subject. “We’re going to stop. I’m coming in to get you out.”

“I’m sorry, man, I can’t take this,” the subject’s stressed voice sounds.

“Sorry. Another one bites the dust,”Bentonsays to Scarpetta over the phone as he watches Dr. Lane open the magnet room and head in to free their latest failure. “I just spent two hours evaluating this guy and bye-bye. He’s out. Josh?”Bentonsays. “Call someone to get him a taxi.”

Black leather creaks as Marino makes himself comfortable in his Harley gear. He goes out of his way to show how relaxed he is, slumped back in the chair, his legs spread.

“What ad?” he asks when Scarpetta hangs up.

“Just another research study he’s involved in up there.”

“Huh. What kind of study?” He says it as if he is suspicious of something.

“A neuropsychological study. How different types of people process different types of information, that sort of thing.”

“Huh. That’s a line all right. Probably the same line they use every time a reporter calls, a line that says nothing. What did you want to see me about?”

“Did you get my messages? Since Sunday night, I’ve left you four.”

“Yeah I got them.”

“It would have been nice if you’d returned them.”

“You didn’t say it was a nine-one-one.”

That has been their code over the years when they paged each other, back when cell phones weren’t so popular, then later because they were insecure. Now Lucy has scramblers and who-knows-what to protect privacy, and it’s fine to leave voicemail.

“I don’t leave a nine-one-one when it’s a phone message,” she says. “How does that work? After the beep I say ‘nine-one-one’?”

“My point being, you didn’t say it was an emergency. What did you want?”

“You stood me up. We were set to review the Swift case, remember?”

She fixed dinner for him, too, but she leaves out that part.

“I’ve been busy, on the road.”

“Would you like to tell me what you’ve been doing and where?”

“Riding my new bike.”

“For two solid days? You didn’t stop for gas, maybe go to the men’s room? Couldn’t find time for one phone call?”

She leans back in the big chair behind her big desk and feels small as she looks at him. “You’re being contraire. That’s what this is about.”

“Why should I tell you what I’m doing?”

“Because I’m the director of forensic science and medicine, if for no other reason.”

“And I’m the head of investigations, and that really falls under training and Special Ops. So Lucy’s really my supervisor, not really you.”

“Lucy isn’t your supervisor.”

“Guess you’d really better talk to her about that.”

“Investigations really falls under forensic science and medicine. You really aren’t a Special Ops agent, Marino. My department pays your salary. Really.” She is about to rip into him and knows she shouldn’t.

He looks at her with his big, tough face, his big, thick fingers drumming the armrest. He crosses his legs and starts jiggling a big Harley-booted foot.

“Your job is to assist me in casework,” she says. “You’re the person I depend on most.”

“Guess you better take that up with Lucy.”

He slowly drums the armrest and jiggles his foot, his flinty eyes looking past her.

“I’m supposed to tell you everything and you don’t tell me shit,” he says. “You do whatever the hell you want and don’t think you ever owe me an explanation. I’m sitting right here, listening to you lie like I’m so stupid I don’t see through it. You don’t ask or tell me nothing unless it suits you.”

“I don’t work for you, Marino.” She can’t stop herself from saying it. “I believe it’s the other way around.”

“Oh yeah?”

He leans closer to her big desk, his face turning crimson.

“Ask Lucy,” he says. “She owns this damn place. She pays everybody’s salary. Ask her.”

“Obviously, you weren’t present for most of our discussion about the Swift case,” she says, changing her tone, trying to abort what is about to turn into a battle.