The diener peered over D'Agosta's shoulder, chewing his bagel. "Looks like we got a real psychopath running around. Think what thePost would do with this one!" A loud crunch, followed by the sounds of mastication.

D'Agosta turned to him. "If the Post finds out," he growled, "I'll personally see to it you spend the rest of your life toasting bagels instead of eating them."

"Hey, sorry, man. Touchy, touchy." The diener backed away.

Pendergast's eyes flickered up at D'Agosta. He straightened up and stepped away from the corpse. "Vincent, it occurs to me that I haven't paid a visit to my dear aunt Cornelia in ages. Would you care to accompany me?"

Nora turned the keyin the deadbolt and pushed her apartment door open. It was two in the afternoon, and the low — angle sunlight flooded through the blinds and illuminated — pitilessly — every last fragment of her life with Bill. Books, paintings, objets d'art, even carelessly thrown magazines: each brought back a flood of unwanted, painful memories. Double — locking the front door, she walked, eyes down, through the living room and into the bedroom.

Her work on the PCR machine was complete. The DNA samples supplied by Pendergast had each been multiplied by millions, and she had stashed the test tubes in the rear of the lab refrigerator where nobody would notice them. She had then put in a respectable day in the anthropology lab. No one minded that she'd left early. Tonight, at one, she would return for the second and final stage: the gel electrophoresis test. In the meantime, she desperately needed sleep.

Dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor, she threw herself on the bed and covered her head with pillows. And yet, though she lay motionless, sleep refused to come. An hour went by, then two, and finally she gave up. She might as well have stayed at the museum. Perhaps she should return there now.

Nora glanced over at her answering machine: twenty — two messages. Additional expressions of sympathy, no doubt. She simply could not bear to hear any more. With a sigh, she pressed the replay button, deleting each message as soon as she heard a note of concern sound in the caller's voice.

The seventh message was different. It was from the West Sider reporter.

"Dr. Kelly? It's Caitlyn Kidd. Listen, I was just wondering if you'd found out anything more about those animal stories Bill was working on. I read the ones he published. They're very hard hitting. I was curious if he'd found out anything new that he hadn't had time to publish — or maybe that someone didn'twant him to publish. Call me when you get the chance."

As the next message started, Nora pressed the stop button. She stared thoughtfully at the machine a moment. Then she rose from the bed, walked back into the living room, sat down at the desk, and booted up her laptop. She didn't know Caitlyn Kidd, didn't especially trust Caitlyn Kidd. But she'd work with the devil himself if he could help her track down the people behind Bill's death.

She stared at the screen, took a deep breath. Then — quickly, before she could reconsider — she logged into her husband's private account at theNew York Times. The password was accepted: the account had not yet been deactivated. A minute later, she was staring at an index of articles he'd written over the last year. Sorting them chronologically, she moused back several months, then began scrolling forward through them, examining the titles. It was remarkable how many sounded unfamiliar, and now she bitterly regretted not being more involved in his work.

The first topical story on animal sacrifice had been published about three months back. It was primarily a background piece on how, far from being a thing of the distant past, animal sacrifice was still being actively — if secretly — practiced in the city. She continued moving forward. There were several other articles: an interview with somebody named Alexander Esteban, spokesman for Humans for Other Animals; an investigative piece on cockfighting in Brooklyn. Then Nora came upon the most recent article, published two weeks before, titled "For Manhattanites, Animal Sacrifice Hits Close to Home."

She brought up the text and scanned it quickly, her eye hovering over one paragraph in particular:

With this discovery, it seemed that Bill had secured the paper's backing for still further investigation, because the article concluded with an italicized note:

Nora sat back. Now that she thought about it, she did remember Bill coming home one evening a week or so ago, crowing about some minor coup he'd achieved in his ongoing work on the animal sacrifices story.

Perhaps the coup hadn't been so minor, after all.

Nora frowned at the screen. It had been around then that the strange little artifacts had begun showing up in their mailbox, and the creepy designs inscribed in dust started appearing outside their front door.

Closing the index of articles, she opened up Bill's information management software, scanning for the notes he always kept for upcoming stories. The most recent entries were what she was looking for. Concentrate on the Ville — follow up in next article. ARE THESE REALLY ANIMAL SACRIFICES? Need to PROVE IT — no allegations. Review police files. SEE with own eyes.

Write up Pizzetti interview. Other neighbors who've complained? Schedule second interview with Esteban, animal rights guy? Local PETA chapter, etc.

Where obtaining animals?

What is history of Ville? Who are they? Check Times morgue for Ville backstory/history. Good color: rumors of zombies (zombiis?)/cults/etc. (Check w/copydesk correct spelling zombie/zombiis.)

Possible article title: "Ville d'Evil?" Nah, Times would nix.

First anniversary — don't forget reservation at Café des Artistes & tickets to The Man Who Came to Dinner for the weekend!!!!

This final entry was so unexpected, so out of context with the others, that in a defenseless moment Nora felt hot tears spring to her eyes. She immediately closed the program and stood up from the desk.

She paced the living room once, then glanced at her watch: four fifteen. She could catch the train at 96th and Central Park West and be in Inwood in forty minutes. Firing up a new program on the computer, she typed briefly, examined the screen, then sent a document to the printer. Striding into the bedroom, she plucked her bag from the floor; took a quick look around; then headed for the front door.

A quarter of an hour before, she had felt rudderless, adrift. Now — suddenly — she found herself filled with overwhelming purpose.

D'Agosta had brought an entire squad along — twelve armed and uniformed officers — and the elevator was filled to capacity. He pressed the button for thirty — seven, then turned his gaze to the illuminated display above the doors. He felt calm and cool. No, that was wrong: he felt cold. Ice cold.