“Don’t look so concerned,” Mary called back. “I’m only here for a visit.”

“Does he not like you?” asked Ponter softly.

“No, it’s not that,” said Mary, chuckling. “He’s the guy who’s teaching my classes while I’m working for the Synergy Group.”

As he came closer, Cornelius’s eyes went wide when he realized who was accompanying Mary. But, to his credit, he recovered his composure quickly. “Doctor Boddit,” he said, with a bow.

Mary thought about saying to Cornelius that, see, not all the bigwigs are called “Professor,” but she decided against it; Cornelius was sensitive enough as it was.

“Hello,” said Ponter.

“Ponter, this is Cornelius Ruskin.” And, as she always did, Mary repeated the introduction with an exaggerated gap between the first and second names, so that Ponter could distinguish them. “He has a Ph.D.—our highest academic standing—in molecular biology.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Professor Ruskin,” said Ponter.

Mary didn’t want to correct Ponter—he was trying so hard to get human niceties right; he certainly deserved an A for effort. But if Cornelius had noticed, he let it pass without sign, still clearly fascinated by Ponter’s countenance. “Thank you,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Mare’s car,” said Ponter.

“We’re on our way back to Sudbury,” said Mary. “Ponter’s daughter is getting married, and there’s a ceremony he wants to attend.”

“Congratulations,” said Cornelius.

“Is Daria Klein around?” asked Mary. “Or Graham Smythe?”

“I haven’t seen Graham all day,” said Cornelius, “but Daria’s in your old lab.”

“What about Qaiser?”

“She might be in her office. I’m not sure.”

“Okay,” said Mary. “Well, I just want to pick up a few things. See you later.”

“Take care,” said Cornelius. “Goodbye, Dr. Boddit.”

“Healthy day,” said Ponter, and he followed Mary as she walked along. They came to an office, and Mary knocked.

“Who’s there?” called a woman’s voice.

Mary opened the door a bit.

“Mary!” exclaimed the woman, shocked.

“Hi, Qaiser,” said Mary, grinning. She opened the door wider, revealing Ponter. Qaiser’s brown eyes went wide.

“Professor Qaiser Remtulla,” said Mary, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Ponter Boddit.” She turned to Ponter. “Qaiser is the head of the genetics department here at York.”

“Incredible,” said Qaiser, taking Ponter’s hand and shaking it. “Absolutely incredible.”

Mary considered saying, “Yes, he is,” but she kept the thought to herself. She chatted with Qaiser for a few minutes, catching up on all the departmental news, then, when Qaiser had to leave to teach a class, Mary and Ponter continued farther down the same corridor. They came to a door with a window in it, and Mary knocked, then walked in.

“Anybody home?” called Mary to the woman’s back hunched over a worktable.

The young woman turned around. “Professor Vaughan!” she exclaimed with delight. “It’s great to see you! And—my God! Is that—?”

“Daria Klein, I’d like you to meet Ponter Boddit.”

“Wow,” said Daria, and, as if that weren’t quite enough, “Wow,” she said again.

“Daria is working on her Ph.D. Her specialty is the same as mine—recovering ancient DNA.”

Mary and Daria talked for a few minutes, and Ponter, always the scientist, looked around the lab, endlessly fascinated by Gliksin technology. Finally, Mary said, “Well, we’ve got to get going. I just wanted to pick up a couple of specimens I left here.”

She walked across the room to the refrigerator used to store biological specimens, noting that a few new cartoons had been taped to it, joining the selection of Sidney Harris and Gary Larson panels she’d put up herself. She opened the metal door and felt the blast of cold air coming out.

There were maybe two dozen containers inside, of varying sizes. Some had laser-printed labels; others just had strips of masking tape that had been written on with Magic Marker. Mary couldn’t see the specimens she was looking for; doubtless they’d been shuffled to the very back by others using the fridge in her absence. She started moving containers, taking out two big ones—“Siberian Mammoth Skin,” “Inuit Placental Material”—and placing them on the counter, so that she could more easily see inside.

Mary felt her heart pounding.

She rummaged through the specimens again, just to make sure.

But there was no room for error.

The two containers she’d labeled “Vaughan 666,” the two containers that held the physical evidence of her rape, were gone.

“Daria!” Mary shouted. Ponter loomed close to her, clearly wondering what was wrong. But Mary ignored him and shouted out Daria’s name again.

The slim grad student dashed across the room. She said, “What’s wrong?” in that defensive tone that implies, “What have I done now?”

Mary stepped away from the refrigerator so that Daria could see its interior, and she stabbed an accusatory finger toward it. “I had two specimen jars in here,” said Mary. “What happened to them?”

Daria was shaking her head. “I didn’t take anything. I haven’t even been into that fridge since you left for Rochester.”

“Are you sure?” said Mary, trying to control the panic in her voice. “Two specimen jars, both opaque, both labeled in red ink with the date August 2nd”—she would remember that date for the rest of her life—“and the words ‘Vaughan 666.’”

“Oh, yeah,” said Daria. “I saw those once—when I was working on Ramses. But I didn’t touch them.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes, of course I am. What’s wrong?”

Mary ignored the question. “Who has access to this fridge?” she demanded, although she already knew the answer.

“Me,” said Daria, “Graham and all the other grad students, the faculty, Professor Remtulla. And the janitorial staff, I suppose—anyone who has a key to this room.”

The janitorial staff! Mary had seen a janitor working in the ground-floor corridor of this building, just before…

Just before she’d been attacked.

And—God damn it, how could I be so stupid?—you didn’t need a bloody degree in genetics to recognize that something labeled with the name of the victim, the number of the beast, and marked with the date of the rape was what you were looking for.

“Is everything okay?” asked Daria. “Was it some of the passenger-pigeon material?”

But Mary yanked another container out of the fridge. “ That’s the fucking passenger pigeon!” she shouted, slamming the container down on the counter top.

Ponter’s translator bleeped. “Mare…” he said, softly.

Mary took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her whole body was shaking.

“Professor Vaughan,” said Daria, “I swear I didn’t—”

“I know,” said Mary, forcing calmness back into her voice. “I know.” She looked at Ponter, whose face was a study in concern, and Daria, whose expression was segueing to that from fear. “I’m sorry, Daria. It’s just that—just that they were irreplaceable specimens.” She shrugged a little, still furious at herself but trying not to show it. “I never should have left them here.”

“What were they?” asked Daria, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Nothing,” said Mary, shaking her head and stalking across the room without looking to see if Ponter was following. “Nothing at all.”

Ponter caught up with Mary in the corridor, and he touched her shoulder. “Mare…”

Mary stopped walking and closed her eyes for a second. “I will tell you,” she said, “but not here.”

“Then let us leave this place,” said Ponter. And he and Mary headed down the stairs. On the way down, they passed a blue-shirted janitor coming up, taking the steps two at a time, and Mary thought her heart was going to rocket through the roof of her skull. But, no, no, it was Franco—she knew him well enough—and Franco was Italian. With brown eyes.