Al Doyle wandered over. Weeks introduced Nancy. Chris Henry was right about him. Doyle was a short, round-shouldered man with an elongated nose, a sloping forehead, a small, recessed chin, and buck teeth. He looked like a mouse.

Joyce turned from Doyle back to Weeks. Even Gentry felt the chill rolling from her shoulders.

“What are you going to do about protecting your people from the small bats?” Joyce asked Weeks.

“The teams at the entrances are wearing their Viking dry suits-SCUBA gear. Al Doyle says that should afford the officers as much protection as they’ll need. And when we do go in, they’ll also have full face masks and air tanks so they’re completely covered.”

“That’ll give them about fifteen to twenty seconds of protection,” Joyce told him.

Doyle said, “Those suits have been tested in central South American freshwater against piranhas. They should hold against bats.”

“They won’t,” Joyce said.

“Why not?” Weeks asked.

“Piranhas don’t have claws. They can’t make repeated attacks at the same part of the body.”

Weeks arched a brow in Doyle’s direction. Doyle kept his narrow eyes on Joyce. Neither man looked happy.

“There are also a few hundred thousand bats in the city now,” Joyce said. “The male bat was able to summon them from miles around. I’m betting the female bat can do the same thing. If and when she moves in or out of the tunnel, she’ll have an escort like the heavenly host. Their weight alone, piled on top of your suits, will make movement difficult. The heat of their bodies will cause the heat inside the suits to rise very quickly. And the sounds of a few hundred batting wings won’t be pleasant.”

“So what do we do?” Weeks asked.

“I agree with guarding the subway entrances in case the big bat shows up,” Joyce said. “As for going inside, I’d wait. If we can find a way to jam her signal or lure her out, then we can capture her and kill her quickly. Then the other bats will either fly off or they can be disposed of through normal means.” She looked at Doyle. “As pests.”

“How do we lure her out?” Weeks asked.

Doyle said, “When the large bat flew down the Hudson, she was probably following the male’s call. If we can duplicate that sound, we can take her anywhere we want.”

“Is that possible?” Weeks asked Joyce.

“In theory, yes,” Joyce said. “In practice, it could take months or years to replicate the male’s call.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons. First of all, bats generate sounds that range between twenty and one hundred kilohertz,” Joyce said. “Humans can hear sounds only up to twenty kilohertz.”

“So we can’t hear what we’re listening for,” Weeks said.

“We can, but we’ll need special equipment to do it. We can get the gear in a day or two. That’s not the big problem. Where it gets complicated is that bat cries consist of both FM and CF elements. The frequency-modulated sounds cover a very wide range in a very short time-one hundred kilohertz down to fifty in about two milliseconds.”

“So the sounds are fast,” Weeks said.

“Incredibly so,” Joyce replied. “On top of which you’ve got the CF, the constant frequency. That sound remains at a single frequency and lasts for about fifty milli-seconds. Which means that each frequency has to be isolated and charted. Even if we can duplicate the sounds themselves, that won’t give us the specific ‘buzz’ that called the female or summoned the small bats. That could be any combination of FM and CF sounds, in any range and duration. It could take months or even years to figure out.”

“We obviously need a faster fix,” Weeks said. “Any suggestions?”

“Yes. To start with, I suggest you try and get any videotape that may have been taken of the female’s approach. There may be something that could help us. Her reaction to light, her control over the other bats, possible soft spots for your marksmen.”

Weeks got on his radio and told Marius Pace to hit the TV stations for copies of their tapes.

“What else?” Weeks asked.

“Not much,” Joyce admitted. “We may know more when we get a look at the dead bat. Cell structure, possible microbial weaknesses, circulation and respiration-to tell us how much sleep and food the big bats need.

“Dr. Joyce,” Weeks said, “will you be available when we do the autopsy on the big bat?”

“Actually,” Joyce said, “unless anyone has any objections, I was going to suggest that you let me handle it.”

Weeks shoved his hands into the pockets of his white windbreaker. He looked at Joyce. “Al?”

“We have a long-standing relationship with Dr. Berkowitz at the Central Park Zoo,” Doyle said.

“Berkowitz isnot a bat person,” Joyce huffed.

Weeks said, “The long relationship aside, would you personally have any problem with Dr. Joyce conducting the autopsy?”

Doyle’s thin lips and heavy eyebrows dipped in disapproval. “I’d have no problem with herbeing there-”

“Mr. Doyle,” Joyce said, “I’ve done microdissections on more than seventy different species of bats. I know what to look for and how to get it without damaging the surrounding tissue.”

“Al,” Weeks said, “Dr. Joyce has been the point person on this situation from the get-go.I’d like her to conduct the autopsy and write the report. Can we do that?”

Gentry was watching with interest. Weeks hadn’t left Doyle much room to maneuver.

Doyle said, “Berkowitz probably won’t let us use the zoo facility.”

“That’s not a problem,” Joyce said quickly. “I’d be taking the bat to Professor Lowery’s laboratory at the Museum of Natural History. I’d also want him to work with me on this.”

“Professor Kane Lowery?” Doyle sniffed.

“That’s right.”

“He’s very good.”

“Right again.”

“Then we’re all okay?” Weeks said. “Let me know, because I’ve got to run.”

Doyle nodded once. “We’ll bring the bat to Professor Lowery’s laboratory. But your report goes to me, Dr. Joyce, and I take it from there. And you don’t talk to the press.”

“I don’t care about the press,” she said.

Still standing off to the side, Gentry frowned.

“Excellent,” Weeks said. “Thank you, Al. Thank you both.”

Weeks went over to talk to the mayor, who was watching the ironworkers rig lifelines before walking up the cables. He was trailed by a small string of deputies who held reports about bat activity from around the city. From what Gentry could overhear, the worst problem at the moment was dogs going wild whenever bats flew past windows or went down chimneys. Weeks said he could live with that.

Doyle walked over to the DOT personnel at the bridge. Gentry came over to Joyce. She was looking across the river. The lights of the bridge were sparkling on its dark surface.

Gentry looked at Nancy. Her black hair was twisting away from her neck, riding the wind. There was a moment when her courage, her mind, her determination, her eyes, the smoothness of her skin, the delicate curve of her shoulders, her slender fingers, the way she stood with her feet pointing outward slightly-when everything came together and made his breath catch in his throat. It was a moment such as Gentry had never experienced.

“I can probably scare you up some coffee or a windbreaker if you want,” he said.

“No thanks.” She was frowning. “That bastard Doyle let me have the bat as soon as I put Lowery in the picture.”

“At least you have it.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a boys’ club.”

“I’m still not sure I agree with that. Doyle jumped at your Lowery reference because it gave him a way out. Who could refuse letting a scientist of his stature examine the bat? He can sell that to Berkowitz and to the press. Anyway, like I said back at the apartment, Weeks is on your side.”

“That’s true, at least.” She looked at Gentry. “You know what I’d really like?”

“What?”

“I’d like to sit down somewhere and close my eyes.”

“I think we can arrange that,” he said. “There are a couple of ESU REP trucks on the corner of Front Street. They’re probably going to hang around in case they’re needed for rescues or a bat attack. I’m sure no one would mind if you stretched out in one of them.”