Shestood up, grabbed her purse, walked toward the door, feeling a little dizzy.She held onto the doorjamb to steady herself. Suddenly Mr. Costa was next toher again. He was light on his feet.

    'Areyou all right?' he asked.

    'Yes,'Lucy said. 'Kinda.'

    Mr.Costa nodded. 'Shall we say tomorrow, then? Just at midday?'

    'Sure,'Lucy said, suddenly realizing she felt pretty good after all. As in reallygood. Like she'd taken a brief nap.

    'I believeyou made some progress today,' Mr. Costa said.

    Pipesmoke.

    'Idid?'

    'Yes,'he replied. He took off his bifocals, slipped them into an inside pocket of hissuit coat. 'I don't believe it was anything like a breakthrough - that maynever happen, I'm afraid - but you may have opened a door. Just the slightestbit.'

    Pipesmoke and apples.

    'Adoor?' Lucy asked.

    'Adoor to your subconscious. A portal to what happened to you nine years ago.'

    Had shetold him it was nine years? She didn't remember doing that.

    Mr.Costa put his hand on the doorknob. 'One last thing for today,' he said. 'Doesthe hotel in which you work have notepads in the rooms?'

    'Notepads?'

    'Notepadswith the hotel logo. For the guests.'

    'Yes,'Lucy said. She'd only placed a million of these pads - two inches from the leftedge of the desk, pen at a forty-five-degree angle across the center.

    'Excellent.Please bring one of these pads with you next time,' Mr. Costa said. 'Can you dothat?'

    'Sure,'Lucy said. 'I'll bring one.'

    Mr.Costa opened the door. 'Until tomorrow, my dear Lucinda.'

    Onthe way through the door Lucy glanced at the small picture on the wall next tothe casing, just above the grimy light switch. She only saw it for a fleetingmoment but that was long enough to see that it was a photograph of anothergazebo, this one a rather dilapidated pergola overgrown with ivy. It was onlyafter she'd stepped through the doorway and the door had closed behind her thatshe realized she knew the house in the background of that photograph, the wreckof a bungalow with its slanted porch and rusted gutters and broken brick walk.

    Itwas the house she had grown up in.

Chapter 18

    Itis said of Mozart that he could never sit still for his barber running insteadto his clavier every time he had an idea, forcing the man tasked with tonsorialduties to chase after him, ribbons in hand.

    Iunderstand. Sometimes, when the music of the dead is loud, I cannot sit still,I must go out and begin the hunt anew.

    Fornow I watch and wait, idling, my killing instruments at the ready.

    Isurvey the ground before me. The cemetery looks so different in the daytime. Noglowering ghouls, no hovering apparitions. Just the dead. Just a chorus ofplaintive voices asking for justice, for answers, for truth.

    Iwatch the people scramble callously about, the decaying dead underfoot, soulstrampled beneath the weight of duty. We all know why we are here.

    There.From the other side.

    Canyou hear it?

    Itis the rooster, a fresh voice in the choir.

    Thecarnivale has come to town.

Chapter 19

    MountOlive was an old cemetery in West Philadelphia, the final resting place of hundredsof Civil War dead as well as of some of Philadelphia's most famous and infamouscitizens.

    Aswith other areas of the City of Brotherly Love, including the design and layoutof Benjamin Franklin Parkway with its similarity to the Champs Elysees, theconcept of the pastoral graveyard was based on a Parisian model.

    Framedon three sides by residential neighborhoods, Mount Olive was bordered to thenorthwest by Fairmount Park. Incorporated in the mid-1800s, it was a non-sectariangraveyard that at one time had been nearly four hundred acres in area. It wasestablished at a time when older, smaller urban graveyards, located in cityblocks and alongside churches, had stood in the way of Philadelphia's boomingdevelopment, and over the course of many years a number of the interred hadbeen moved to Mount Olive. But even though the cemetery was a National HistoricLandmark and on the Philadelphia Register of Historic Places, over the years ithad become the victim of vandalism, dumping, and theft. And now, with many ofthe families of the dead having moved away, some areas of the graveyard hadfallen into a state of disrepair.

    Jessicaand Byrne stood on Kingsessing Avenue. Two sector cars were already on thescene, as well as a departmental sedan and a van from the Crime Scene Unit.

    Asecond team had already been dispatched to the other crime scene. The locationof the second body was a parking lot in Northern Liberties. Nicci Malone wouldbe the lead investigator on that case. Jessica and Byrne would be briefed byphone by Dana Westbrook.

    DavidAlbrecht appeared from behind a grove of trees at the northern end of thegraveyard. He shouldered his camera, took shots of the mausoleum, the grounds,the arriving personnel. After a few minutes he approached Jessica and Byrne.

    'Ishould have asked about this before,' he said. 'Is it okay to shoot here?'

    'Idon't see why not,' Jessica said. 'As long as you hang back until CSU has doneits job.'

    'Idon't want to disrespect the dead.'

    'Ithink it's okay.'

    Albrechtlooked out over the grounds. He pointed to a small monument. It was a singleheadstone, carved in Georgia gray granite. 'That's my father's grave,' he said.He shrugged, perhaps a bit apologetically. 'I haven't been here in a while. Iguess I should probably pay a visit.'

    Thethree of them fell silent for a moment. Finally Byrne broke the calm. 'We'regoing to be here for a while, David. Take your time.'

    'Okay,'Albrecht said. 'Thanks.'

    Heput the camera at his side, traversed the grounds, stopped at the monument. Hecrossed himself, bowed his head.

    Jessicascanned the area. On the corner, talking to a man Jessica assumed worked forthe cemetery, was Josh Bontrager. When the other man left, Bontrager noticedJessica and Byrne, waved them over.

    'Whatdo you have?' Byrne asked.

    'FemaleDOA,' Bontrager said, pointing over his shoulder. Jessica could see asheet-covered form about twenty yards away. Next to the body stood a CSU officer.Because the potential crime scene was so large, a wide area had been taped offaround the body, the sheet that covered it secured with stakes driven into theground.

    'Dowe know how long the body has been here?' Byrne asked.

    'Nottoo long.' Bontrager took out his notepad. 'There's a service here later today,and the guy who does the digging found the body about six this morning. He saidhe was here late yesterday afternoon and he went by the plot, didn't seeanything. So the dump occurred sometime between four yesterday afternoon andsix this morning.'

    Byrnelooked at the fences. 'How secure is this place?'

    'Notvery secure at all,' Bontrager said. He gestured toward the area bordering thetwo main streets. 'I walked two sides of it when I got here. Lots of placeswhere you can get in and not be seen. Lots of tree cover.'

    'Didthe man who works here move or touch anything?'

    'Hesays no. As you might imagine, he's not particularly disturbed by the sight ofdead bodies. But a homicide victim is another story. He said he saw the body,lit a cigarette, hit the flask of tequila he's not supposed to have, and calledhis boss.'

    'Didhe leave the area after the call?'