“Anything?” Gentry asked as he brought the Cokes over.

“I’ve seen most of these,” she said. “Nothing helpful unless you want the latest information on the bumblebee bat.”

“Which is?”

“The world’s tiniest mammal,” she said. “From Thailand. Smaller than a penny.”

“Why couldn’t we have been infested with those bats?”

“Because then you’d really be miserable,” Joyce replied. “I had one fly in my ear while I was sleeping. You think a mosquito at night is bad? Bumblebee bats buzz and bite and leave very tiny, wet droppings that run into your ear canal and harden very, very fast. Not fun.”

“But you love them,” Gentry said.

“From behind a net, I love them very much.”

Gentry went back to the kitchenette and slipped the pizza from the oven. He came over with two slices on a plate and a shirt pocket full of crumpled paper napkins. He pushed aside the stack of magazines and set the plate down next to the keyboard. Then he went and got his own plate and sat on the iron radiator beside the desk. He placed a napkin alongside Joyce’s plate.

She asked the computer for a second list of articles. She sat back and took a bite of pizza. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Gentry asked.

“How long have you been in the West Village?”

“Five years.”

She took a swallow of Coke and a second bite of pizza. “I had the impression-I don’t know why-that police officers liked to get out of the city when their shift was finished.”

“Some do,” Gentry said. “Mostly the married ones. I’ve got a car in case I need to get away. But I was born and raised down here, on Perry Street. I did the suburbs thing when I got married. After the divorce, I came back. It’s where I want to be.”

The second list came up on the monitor, and Joyce began scrolling through the headings. Gentry leaned forward so that he was closer to the monitor. There were articles about fishing bats that can detect a minnow’s fin sticking two millimeters above a pond’s surface. Frog-eating bats that identify the edible from the poisonous by listening to the mating calls of the male frogs. Gentry kept his head facing forward, but his eyes shifted toward Joyce.

She clicked on the third list. “How long were you married, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “Eight years. To Priscilla Nicole Francis. She was a bank teller I met on my beat. We bought a little house in Norwalk, Connecticut. She wanted a family, a real life. But after I went undercover I saw her maybe two or three nights a week. And I was kind of a drag to be with even then. Obsessed with the guy I was trying to bring down. I don’t blame her for leaving.”

“Do you still talk to her?”

He shook his head. “She remarried, to an up-and-coming branch manager up there. They have a big house and a little daughter. I’m not really a part of any of that.”

His voice had become wistful, though he wasn’t aware of that until Joyce looked down at her lap.

“Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be asking these things.”

“It’s okay,” Gentry assured her. “I don’t get to talk to people much, except to tell them to calm down or fill out a form or get me a report.”

“Or get out of a tunnel.”

“Or get out of a tunnel,” he agreed.

“I’ve got the same problem,” the young woman said with a little laugh. “I spend so much time looking after the bats at the zoo or telling school groups about them or keeping up on current literature and research that I actually forget how to talk to people sometimes.”

Gentry’s pager beeped while she was speaking. He looked down. “That’s the Stat Unit.”

“Do you need me to get off the Net?”

“No, I’ve got a second line.”Gentry walked toward the kitchen and punched in the number. “By the way,” he said. “You may not be around people much, but I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together. Even the rough spots.”

Even across the apartment Gentry could see her pale cheeks flush. She thanked him.

The conversation with the head of the Stat Unit was short, and Gentry didn’t bother writing anything down. He hung up and walked back.

“Well?” Joyce asked.

“There isn’t a lot to report. The only other bat attack they found that was like the others happened in New Paltz. That’s about, what-thirty or forty miles west of the Hudson?”

“Something like that. What happened?”

“Three days ago a group of hikers in the Catskill Mountains got blitzed,” he said. “They had to jump into a pond and stay underwater.”

“Are they all right?”

“Except for cuts and never wanting to go back there, yes. They said the bats left them alone after about fifteen minutes.”

“That was about how long the attack lasted at the Little League game,” Joyce said. She drummed the desktop. “So we’ve got three attacks that lead toward New York. Aggressive bat behavior that is localized in time and place.”

“No big bats,” Gentry said. “Not in the three reports, anyway.”

“Well,” Joyce said, “like an old geometry teacher of mine used to say, a point is just a point. But two points make a line and three points make a plane and a plane is something you can stand on. After we finish going through these articles, we’ll take a look at what we’ve got in the pattern of those bat attacks.”

Joyce finished reading the third list of bat anomalies and clicked on the fourth and last collection. She took another bite of pizza while it downloaded.

As the headings appeared, Gentry bent closer and read along with Joyce. Once again, he forgot about the bats.

Priscilla used to joke, and then complain, that when he would come home he would always want sex. However tired he was, however unclean inside or out.What she never understood was that he needed her. He needed the sanity and beauty that she alone brought to his life. He needed to be reborn and reassured that those things did exist. Intimacy was the only way he knew to take that in perfectly. Soft words spoken close to the cheek, a soft touch, a soft breath. Sex was a transfusion of all that was good and wholesome and healthy in her to all that was worn out and spoiled and dead in him.

Maybe that was too much responsibility to put on any one person. But that was what he needed. And right now, for the first time in a very long time, he wanted that kind of closeness again. He was both relaxed and excited by the warmth of Nancy’s bare neck and cheek. By the scent coming from her, not perfume but the slightly musky smell of dried sweat and fear that was almost like the smell of sex. By the smoothness of the flesh behind her ear. In a perfect world, where he could stop time and steal an indulgent moment without fear of rejection, he would touch that soft skin with his lips.

“Can you see okay?” she asked. She slid the chair to the left.

“Just fine,” he replied.

The moment was gone, but it had been filed away with the others. He backed up a little.

“Now here’s something I haven’t seen,” she said.

Gentry looked at the computer as she pointed to one of the items.

“A follow-up report from the town of Chelyabinsk in Siberia.” Joyce clicked on the file and finished her pizza while she waited for it to download. The article appeared a minute later. It was a week-old posting from theInternational Journal of Pediatrics. “That’s why I never saw it,” Joyce said. “I usually just stick to the bat sites.”

The paper was by radiation specialist Dr. Andrew Lipman. Lipman wrote in a preface that he’d returned to the Russian city on Lake Karachai where, just over eight years before, children had suffered from moderate radiation sickness at a newly opened camp near the lake. Accompanying a team of Russian scientists, he’d found leaking canisters of waste that had been buried years before by a secret munitions plant in nearby Kopeysk.

“ ‘However,’ ” Joyce read, “ ‘the illness suffered by the children was not due to the waste itself, which had been buried deep inside a cave two years before. It was due to radioactive bat guano that was found in the water. The guano was produced by bats that had been living in the cave and depositing droppings in a river that fed the lake.’ ”