“Radioactive waste,” Gentry said. “That could’ve caused some seriously screwed-up chromosomes.”

“Yes,” Joyce said, “but around eight thousand miles away.”

“You said bats migrate. Is there any way they could have flown here from Russia?”

“No.”

“But radiation could cause serious mutations.”

“Theoretically yes. If it didn’t kill the bats. But it’s still a huge, huge leap from finding radioactive guano in a lake in Russia eight years ago to what we’re seeing here.”

“That may be a huge leap in zoology,” Gentry said. “In my line of work we call it a ‘two-p’-poor prospect. But sometimes poor prospects pay off, even if it’s only to send you in a direction you hadn’t thought about. Maybe we should find this Dr. Lipman and ask him if there was anything unusual about the bats.”

“I suppose it’s worth a call.”

“Does the article tell you anything about him?”

“There’s usually a short biography at the end.” Joyce scooted to the bottom of the posting. “It says he’s a pediatrician who’s done work around the world under the auspices of the United Nations Children’s Fund. That was why he went to Siberia when they had the problem with the sick kids. It also says that he has a-” She stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Gentry asked.

She pointed. Gentry looked at the rest of the bio. It said Dr. Lipman had a practice in New Paltz.

“That’s got to be a coincidence,” Joyce said.

“Maybe,” Gentry said. “Or maybe he brought back samples.”

“Jesus,” Joyce said. “But even if he did, going from radioactive guano to completely aberrational bat behavior is a big step. And that was more than ten years ago.”

“I meant that maybe Lipman brought back samples of the bats.”

Joyce looked up at him. She didn’t say anything.

“Let’s call Dr. Lipman,” Gentry said. “Just to find out. Just to make sure nothing strange went on.”

Gentry called information, got the number of the office, and called. It would take just under two hours to drive to New Paltz. They made an appointment to see Dr. Lipman at six o’clock. Then they cabbed up to Gentry’s garage on West Forty-sixth Street, picked up his car, and headed north.

Nancy Joyce felt herself winding down as she sat in Gentry’s Cutlass. The running, the long hours, the thinking. Being stonewalled by the lieutenant and his rat catcher.

And the anger. Gentry and Lieutenant Kilar had both drilled in the same deep, rich oil field and gotten a gusher.

She was tired inside and out. But that was to be expected. What was unexpected was what came with the exhaustion. As Gentry picked his way through the moderately heavy afternoon traffic on the West Side Highway-he didn’t grumble at the other cars the way she would have-Joyce found herself slipping into an unexpected contentment. The horrors of the day hadn’t left her. But there was a welcome familiarity to at least one part of it: being back in the field. And this time it was not with a man she revered and feared, but someone who was more of an equal. A partner.

A companion?

Joyce opened her eyes wide to snap away the reverie and get off that track. She had known Gentry half a day. And it hadn’t been love at first or second sight. But she couldn’t shake the surprising awareness she felt of the man next to her. If there wasn’t exactly a magnetic pull, there wasn’t a desire to go anywhere either. And for her, Ms. Camp Alone, Stay at Home, that was something truly different and a little unsettling.

“You can go ahead and shut your eyes if you want,” Gentry said.

“Pardon?”

“I saw you start to doze a little.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He nodded. “If you want music there are a bunch of tapes in the glove compartment. I don’t know if it’s your taste, but you can look.”

Joyce popped open the door and looked in at the tossed-in collection. “This reminds me of the way I used to store tapes of Professor Lowery’s lectures. You have any preferences?”

“Anything’s fine. It’s all fifties and sixties rock.”

“No seventies and eighties, huh?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“That was my era,” Joyce said. “Queen. Prince. Michael Jackson.”

“The King of Pop. All the royalty.”

“You got it.” Joyce began looking through the only occasionally labeled tapes.

“I used to like them too,” Gentry said. “But when I was undercover, this guy we were trying to bring down always listened to contemporary rock in the car. His favorite was the Police, which I guess was kind of ironic. Now it’s one of those association things. I can’t listen to any of that music without thinking of the son of a bitch.”

“Why did you give up undercover work?” Joyce asked.

“Because I was burned out. I was pretty close to quitting anyway.”

“Anyway?”

“Yeah. Even if it weren’t for what happened to Bernie Michaelson. My junior partner.”

“What did he do to drive you out?”

“Exactly what I told him,” Gentry said.

Joyce frowned. “You lost me.”

“Never mind. It’s a long story.”

“That’s what you said when you called before,” she replied. “It’s a long drive. I’m interested in hearing about it if you feel like talking.”

Gentry looked at her. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Mine?”

“Whatever it was you said I had no idea about back at the hospital.”

“I’m still not following-”

“What you said I didn’t know the half of. When you told me about SDS.”

“Sorry. No deal,” she said emphatically. Then she added, slightly softer, “I can’t, Robert. I’m not sure I could even articulate it all. I’m not sure Iunderstand it.”

Gentry turned his eyes back to the road. Joyce resumed going through the tapes, but her mind wasn’t on them. She understood this much: men alwayspushed. Why? Because they wanted to help or because knowledge gave them some kind of control-

“Bernie Michaelson was my partner for seven years,” Gentry said suddenly.

Joyce stopped shuffling the cassettes. She looked over. His hands were squirming slowly around the wheel.

“All he ever wanted to be was a cop. Son of cop, grandson of cop, that kind of thing. He started out as my ghost-someone who covers an undercover cop when he’s making buys in the street. See, when you’re undercover you can’t wear a bulletproof vest. It’s bulky, and if you get patted down you’re screwed. The ghost stays until you’re clear of the scene or makes the buy if you don’t show. Mizuno, this guy we’d been after for years, spent the summers in Colombia and the winters in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He stayed at home every night during basketball season and watched the game. Every night, no exceptions. We finally had the goods on him-audiotapes, fingerprints, bank account numbers, paper trail-and arranged with the cops up there to pick a night for the pinch. On the night we picked, the Knicks were getting creamed so Mizuno decided to go out and see his girl in Fairfield. His two bodyguards got up to start the car and make sure the coast was clear. This is two minutes before the Bridgeport narc squad is due to move in. If the guys had left then, they would have seen the strike team taking up positions on the lawn and outside the doors. We have to keep everyone where they were, in front of the TV, for two more minutes.

“This Mizuno happened to like my sense of humor. So I told him he had to wait and listen to this joke I’d heard. I told the bodyguards I needed their help, it was a visual. I was going to make something up, some story. But Mizuno wasn’t in the mood. He told the guys to go ahead, and then he started to get out of his chair. I was standing between him and the TV. The front door was a few steps to my left. Bernie was sitting in the chair next to Mizuno. We looked at each other. There was nothing to do but try to take the three of them down ourselves and have the narc guys back us up.