“All this is for your protection, Envoy Boddit.”

“I understand that. But I require no protection. I am carrying a shield device that will prevent me from being injured again. So: I am at no risk, and I am not a criminal. I am a free citizen, and I wish to move about unfettered and unaccompanied.”

“I—um, I’ll have to contact my superior,” said Donaldson.

“Let us not waste time on intermediaries,” said Ponter. “I dined recently with your prime minister, and he said if I ever needed anything, I should call him. Let us get him on the phone.”

Mary and Ponter rode up the mining elevator and got in Mary’s car, which had been parked at the SNO surface building since she’d gone over to the other side. It was early enough in the day that they were able to drive back to Toronto, and, although at first Mary thought they were nonetheless being followed, soon enough they were the only car on the road. “Astonishing,” said Mary. “I never thought they’d let you go on your own.”

Ponter smiled. “What sort of romantic trip would this be if we were accompanied everywhere we went?”

The rest of the drive back to Toronto was uneventful. They went to Mary’s condo on Observatory Lane in Richmond Hill, showered together, changed—Ponter had brought along his trapezoidal case, full of his clothes—then drove off to the 31 Division police station. Mary needed to deal with that bit of unfinished business first, saying she wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d done so. She brought her scrapbook with her.

To get to the police station, they actually drove through the York campus, and then into what even Ponter could tell was a rough neighborhood. “I noticed this on our first trip here,” said Ponter. “Things seem in disrepair in this area.”

“Driftwood,” said Mary, as if that explained everything. “It’s a very poor part of the city.”

They continued on, passing a number of dilapidated apartment buildings and a small strip mall with iron bars across all the shop windows, and at last parked in the tiny lot next to the police station.

“Hello, Professor Vaughan,” said Detective Hobbes, after he’d been summoned to the front desk. “Hello, Envoy Boddit. I didn’t expect to see you two again.”

“Can we talk in private?” said Mary.

Hobbes nodded and led them back to the same interrogation room they’d been in before.

“You know who I am?” Mary asked. “Outside of this case, I mean?”

Hobbes nodded. “You’re Mary Vaughan. You’ve been in the press a lot lately.”

“Do you know why?”

Hobbes jerked a thumb at Ponter. “Because you’ve been accompanying him.”

Mary waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, yes. But do you know why I was called in to see Ponter in the first place?”

Hobbes shook his head.

Mary lifted her scrapbook and placed it on the table in front of Hobbes. “Have a look at this.”

Hobbes opened the pressed-cardboard cover. The first page had a clipping from the Toronto Star taped to it: “Canadian Scientist Receives Japanese Award.” He turned the page. There was a piece from Maclean’s: “Breaking the Ice: Ancient DNA Recovered in Yukon.” And the facing page had a little item from the New York Times: “Scientist Extracts DNA from Neanderthal Fossil.”

He turned the page again. A press release from York was tipped in: “York Professor Makes Prehistory: Vaughan Recovers DNA from Ancient Man.” Facing that was a sheet torn out of Discover: “Degraded DNA Yields Secrets.”

Hobbes looked up. “Yes?” he said, perplexed.

“I am…Well, some would say that I’m…”

Ponter interjected. “Professor Vaughan is a geneticist, and this world’s leading expert on recovering degraded DNA.”

“And?”

“And,” said Mary, speaking more forcefully now that the topic wasn’t her, “we know you have a full rape kit from the attack on Qaiser Remtulla.”

Hobbes looked up sharply. “I can’t confirm or deny that,” he said.

“Of course it’s true,” said Mary, feeling guilty even as she said it. “Is there any way we could know that unless Qaiser had told me herself? She’s my friend, and my colleague, for God’s sake.”

“Be that as it may,” said Hobbes.

“I’d like to examine the rape kit,” Mary said.

Hobbes looked stunned by the suggestion. “We have our own experts.”

“Yes, yes. But, well—”

“None of them can possibly be as qualified as Professor Vaughan,” said Ponter.

“Perhaps so, but—”

“Have you done any work on the rape kit?” asked Mary.

Hobbes took a deep breath, biding time. Finally, he said, “If there is a rape kit, we wouldn’t do much of anything with it until we had a subject to match the DNA against.”

“DNA degrades quickly over time,” said Mary, “especially if it’s not stored in absolutely ideal conditions. If you wait, it may be impossible to get a DNA fingerprint.”

Hobbes’s tone was level. “We know how to refrigerate specimens, and we’ve had considerable success in the past.”

“I’m aware of that, but—”

“Ma’am,” said Hobbes, gently. “I understand this case is important to you. Every case is important to its victims.”

Mary tried to keep from sounding annoyed. “But if you’d just let me take the rape kit to my lab at York, I’m sure I can recover much more DNA from it than you’ll be able to.”

“I can’t do that, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, York isn’t cleared for doing forensic work, and—”

“Laurentian,” said Mary, at once. “Send the kit up to Laurentian University, and I’ll do the work there.” The labs at Laurentian, the university where she’d first studied Ponter’s DNA, did contract forensics work for the RCMP and the Ontario Provincial Police.

Hobbes raised his eyebrows. “Well, now,” he said, “Laurentian’s a different story, but…”

“Whatever paperwork it takes,” said Mary.

“Perhaps,” said Hobbes, but he sounded very dubious. “It would be highly irregular, though…”

“Please,” said Mary. She couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to the only remaining physical proof. “Please.”

Hobbes spread his arms. “Let me see what I can do, but, honestly, I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ve got very strict rules about the chain of custody for evidence.”

“But you’ll try?”

“Yes, all right, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. “Thank you.”

Ponter spoke up, surprising Mary. “Can she at least see the rape kit here?”

Hobbes looked as astonished as Mary felt. “Why?” asked the detective.

“She should be able to tell at a glance if it is in adequate condition for her technique to work.” He looked at Mary. “Is that not right, Mare?”

Mary wasn’t sure what Ponter was up to, but she trusted him completely. “Umm, yes. Yes, that’s right.” She turned to the detective and flashed her most charming smile. “It’d just take a second. Might as well find out up front if there’s any point to this. Don’t want to put you through all that red tape if the specimens have already degraded.”

Hobbes frowned and looked into the middle distance for a time, thinking. “All right,” he said at last. “Let me get it.”

He left the room, and returned a few minutes later holding a cardboard container about the size of a shoe box. He removed its lid, and showed the box’s contents to Mary. Ponter stood up and looked over her shoulder. Inside were some glass specimen slides and three Ziploc bags, each labeled with various information. One appeared to contain a pair of panties. Another, a small pubic comb with a few hairs caught in it. The third had a few vials, presumably containing vaginal swabbings.

“It’s been in the fridge the whole time,” said Hobbes, defensively. “We do know what we’re—”

Suddenly Ponter’s right arm shot out. He grabbed the bag with the panties, ripped it open, and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.