“They drove off after a couple of hours. Came back again, just yesterday. It was late. One truck this time, two fellers inside. They parked some ways off and got out.”

“Yes?” Pendergast prompted.

“There was a full moon, I could see it real clear. One swept away all the tracks with a rake, and the other broomed the dust all around. They walked backward, like, sweeping up the tracks and everything, all the way back to the truck. Then they got in and drove away again.”

“Could you describe these men any further? What they looked like?”

“They was rough. Didn’t get a good look. I’ve already said more than I should. Remember your promise.”

“Fear not, Mr. Cayute.” Pendergast’s expression seemed to go far away for a moment. “What was that you said about a map of the mine?”

The venal gleam returned to the bleary old eyes, tempering the agitation and perpetual suspicion. “What about it?”

“I might be interested in acquiring it.”

Cayute remained motionless for a time. Then, without getting up from his improvised stool, he rummaged around in the litter at his feet, finally producing a faded, flyspecked roll of paper, torn and badly soiled. Wordlessly, he unrolled the map and showed it to Pendergast without offering it to him.

Pendergast bent in for a close look. Then, equally wordlessly, he peeled off four more fifties and showed them to Cayute.

The transaction was quickly completed. Then, rolling the map up and rising from his seat, Pendergast shook the leathery old hand. “Thanks and good day, Mr. Cayute,” he said, stuffing his purchases into his pockets and tucking the map and road sign beneath one arm. “Pleasure doing business with you. Don’t bother to get up — I’ll find my own way out.”

D’Agosta perched on a desk in the central laboratory of the Osteology Department, Margo Green standing beside him, arms folded, drumming the fingers of one hand restlessly against her elbow. D’Agosta was watching with suppressed irritation as the technician, Sandoval, worked at his terminal, alternately tapping on his keyboard and peering at the screen. Everything in the Museum happened so damn slowly, he wondered how they ever got anything done.

“I threw away the scrap of paper with that accession number,” Sandoval said. “I didn’t think you’d need to see it again.” He seemed put out having to go through the process again — or perhaps it was just the thought of Frisby walking in and seeing the NYPD taking up more of his time.

“I wanted Dr. Green to have a look at the specimen as well,” D’Agosta said, giving the slightest emphasis to the word doctor.

“Got it.” Another few taps and, with a low whine, a piece of paper spooled out from the nearby printer. Sandoval handed it to D’Agosta, who shared it with Margo. She scanned it.

“This is the summary,” she said. “Can I see the details, as well?”

Sandoval blinked at her a minute. Then he turned back to the keyboard, in no hurry, and resumed his tapping. Several more sheets emerged from the printer, and he handed them to Margo. She looked them over.

The room was chilly — like the rest of the Museum — but D’Agosta noticed that a few beads of sweat had sprung out on her forehead and she seemed pale. “Are you feeling all right, Margo?”

Margo gave him a dismissive wave, a fleeting smile. “And this is the only specimen that Vic showed the fake scientist?”

Sandoval nodded as Margo continued to glance through the accession record. “Hottentot, male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Complete. Preparator: Dr. E. N. Padgett.”

At this, Sandoval chuckled. “Oh. Him.”

Margo glanced at him briefly and returned her attention to the sheets.

“See anything interesting?” D’Agosta asked.

“Not really. I see it was acquired in the usual way — the usual way back then, that is.” More flipping of pages. “It seems the Museum contracted with an explorer in South America to supply skeletons for their Osteological collections. The field notes of the explorer — a man named Hutchins — are included here.” Silence while Margo read a little farther. “My guess is this Hutchins was little better than a grave robber. He probably learned about a Hottentot funeral ceremony, spied on it, and then in the dead of night robbed the grave, prepared and shipped the skeleton back to the Museum. This supposed cause of death — dysentery, contracted during the Seventh Frontier War — was likely a ruse to make the transaction palatable to the Museum.”

“You don’t know that,” Sandoval said.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I’ve examined enough anthropological accession records to know how to read between the lines.” She put the paperwork down.

D’Agosta turned to Sandoval. “Would you mind getting the skeleton now?”

Sandoval sighed. “Right.” He got up from the desk, picked up the sheet containing the accession record number, and made for the hallway. Halfway to the open door, he glanced over his shoulder. “You want to come?”

D’Agosta made a move to follow him, but Margo put a restraining hand on his forearm. “We’ll wait in the examination room across the hall.”

Sandoval shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He disappeared around the corner.

D’Agosta followed Margo down the hallway to the room where specimens were examined by visiting scientists. He was beginning to wish that he’d taken Singleton up on his offer of the jogger case. It was damn annoying that Pendergast vanished the way he did, without even saying why he thought the skeleton was important. It hadn’t occurred to D’Agosta until it was too late how much he’d been banking on the FBI agent’s assistance. And to top it off, he was starting to drown in reams of interview transcripts, evidence reports, and logs. All cases were full of useless paperwork, but this one — thanks to the size of the Museum and the number of its employees — was unique. Already, the empty office next to his at police headquarters was piling up with the spillover paperwork.

He watched as Margo put on a pair of latex gloves, glanced at her watch, and proceeded to pace back and forth. She gave every appearance of being agitated.

“Margo,” he said, “if this is a bad time, we can always come back later. I told you, it’s more a hunch than anything else.”

“No,” she replied. “It’s true, I’m due back at the institute soon — but that isn’t the problem.” She paced a moment longer, then — seeming to come to some decision — stopped and turned toward him. Her green eyes, so clear and intent, looked into his, and for a minute D’Agosta felt himself transported back, all those many years, to when he’d first questioned her about the Museum murders.

She held his gaze a long moment. Then she sank into one of the chairs surrounding an examination table. D’Agosta did the same.

Margo cleared her throat, swallowed. “I’d appreciate your not telling anyone this.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“You know what happened to me, back then.”

“Yeah. The Museum killings, the subway murders. It was a bad time.”

Margo looked down. “It’s not that. It’s what… what happened to me… afterward.”

For a moment, D’Agosta didn’t understand. And then it hit him like a load of bricks. Oh Christ, he thought. He’d totally forgotten about what had happened to Margo when she returned to the Museum to edit their scientific journal, Museology. How she’d been stalked like an animal in the darkened halls, terrorized, ultimately stabbed and nearly killed by a vicious and maniacal serial killer. It had taken her many months in a clinic to regain her health. He hadn’t considered how that might have affected her.

Margo remained silent for a moment. Then she began to speak again, a little haltingly. “Since then, it’s been… difficult for me to be in the Museum. Ironic, isn’t it, since my research can only be done here?” She shook her head. “I was always so brave. Such a tomboy. Remember how I insisted on accompanying you and Pendergast down into the subway tunnels — and beneath? But everything’s different now. There are only a few places I can go inside the Museum… without a panic attack. I can’t go too far into the collection areas. Stuff has to be brought out to me. I’ve memorized all the closest exits, how to get out in a hurry if I have to. I need people around me when I work. And I never stay past closing time — after dark. Just being here, on an upper floor, is difficult.”