"I see." Pendergast glanced at Wren, a strange look on his face. "Thank you; you've made an excellent start. Keep at it, if you please."

Wren returned the look, dark eyes alight with curiosity. "What is it exactly, hypocrite lecteur? What's your interest in all this?"

Pendergast did not answer immediately. For a moment, his expression seemed to go far away. Then he roused himself. "It's premature to discuss it."

"At least tell me this: is your interest… in matters iniquitous?" Wren repeated.

Pendergast made another small bow. "Please let me know when you've discovered more." And then he turned and began the long ascent back to the surface world.

Nora added a final entry to her database of samples, then terminated the program, sealed the bag of potsherds, and put it aside. She stretched, glanced at her watch. It was almost ten pm, and the museum offices were silent and watchful.

She looked around her lab: at the shelves of artifacts, the files and papers, the locked door. This was the first day she'd really been able to concentrate a little, get some work done. Partly, this was because the stream of sympathizers knocking at her door had finally subsided. But there was more to it than that. It was because she knew she was doing something — something concrete — about Bill's death. The DNA sequencing for Pendergast had been a start. But now, this very evening, she'd be taking the fight to the enemy.

She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Strange how she felt no fear. There was only a grim determination: to get to the bottom of Bill's death, restore a modicum of order and peace to her fractured world.

Picking up the bag of potsherds, she returned it to its storage rack. Earlier that afternoon she had paid a visit to her new boss, Andrew Getz, head of the anthropology department. She'd requested — and received — a written guarantee of funding for her expedition to Utah the coming summer. She wanted to have a long — term plan already in place, something to keep her going through what promised to be a long, dark winter.

Very faintly, she heard what sounded like a childish shout echo through the corridors. The museum had taken to allowing groups of schoolchildren to attend weekend sleepovers in certain heavily chaperoned halls. She shook her head: anything to generate a little hard cash, it seemed.

As the echo died away, another sound took its place: a single rap on her door.

She froze, turning toward the noise. Amazing, how fast her heart could start beating wildly. But almost as quickly, she reminded herself: Fearing would not have knocked.

The knock came again. She cleared her throat. "Who is it?"

"Agent Pendergast."

It was his voice, all right. She moved quickly to the door, unlocked it. The agent stood in the hallway, leaning against the door — jamb, wearing a black cashmere coat over the usual black suit. "May I enter?"

She nodded, stepped away. The agent glided in, pale eyes quickly scanning the lab before returning to her. "I wanted to thank you again for your assistance."

"Don't thank me. Anything I can do to help bring the killer to justice."

"Indeed. That's what I wanted to speak with you about." He closed the door, turned back to her. "I suppose there's nothing I can say that will stop you from pursuing your own investigation."

"That's right."

"Entreaties to leave things to the professionals — reminders that you are putting your own life in grave danger — will fall on deaf ears."

She nodded.

He regarded her closely for a moment. "In that case, there's something you must do for me."

"What's that?"

Pendergast reached into his pocket, retrieved something, and pressed it into her hand. "Wear this around your neck at all times."

She looked down. It was a charm of some kind, made of feathers and a small piece of chamois, sewn into a ball and attached to a fine gold chain. She pressed the chamois gently: it seemed to contain something powdery.

"What is this?" she asked.

"It is an arrêt."

"A what?"

"In common parlance, an enemy — be — gone charm."

She glanced at him. "You can't be serious."

"Highly useful against all save immediate family. There is something else." He reached into another pocket and plucked out a bag of red flannel, cinched tight by a drawstring of multicolored thread. "Keep this on your person, in a pocket or purse."

She frowned. "Agent Pendergast…" She shook her head. She didn't know what to say. Of all the people she knew, Pendergast had always seemed an immovable rock of logic and pragmatism. Yet here he was, giving her charms?

Looking at her, his eyes flashed slightly, as if reading her thoughts. "You're an anthropologist," he said. "Have you read The Forest of Symbols, by Victor Turner?"

"No."

"What about émile Durkheim's Elementary Forms of Religious Life?"

She nodded.

"Then you know that certain things can be analyzed and codified — and certain things cannot. And certainly, as one who studied anthropology, you understand the concept of phenomenology?"

"Yes, but…" She fell silent.

"Because our minds are trapped within our bodies, we cannot determine ultimate truth — or untruth. The best we can do is describe what we see."

"You're losing me…" "There is a wisdom on this earth, Nora, which is mysterious, which is very old, and with which we must not quarrel. Is it true? Untrue? We cannot know. Therefore, will you do as I ask? Keep these on your person?"

She glanced at the objects in her hand. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes, if you please. Because that is the only condition I shall permit."

Slowly, she nodded.

"Very good." He turned to go, then stopped, looked back at her. "And Dr. Kelly?"

"Yes?"

"It is not enough merely to possess these things. One must believe."

"Believe what?"

"Believe they work. Because those who wish you ill most certainly believe." And with that he slipped out of the office, closing the door silently behind him.

Midnight. Nora paused at the corner of Indian Road and 214th Street to check her map. The air was cool and smelled of fall. Beyond the low apartment houses, the dark treetops of Inwood Hill Park rose black against a luminous night sky. The lack of sleep made her feel light — headed, almost as if she had taken a stiff drink.

As she pored over the map, Caitlyn Kidd looked curiously over her shoulder.

Nora stuffed the map back in her pocket. "Up another block."

They continued along Indian Road. It was a quiet, residential street, bathed in yellow sodium light, the brick buildings on either side somber and plain. A car passed slowly, turning onto 214th Street, its headlights lancing the dark. Where Indian curved into 214th, an unmarked road, little more than an abandoned driveway, branched off, heading west between an apartment building and a shuttered dry cleaners. A rusty iron chain was draped across it, fixed to old iron posts set into each side of the lane. Nora looked down the narrow road, which headed past some baseball diamonds and disappeared into the darkness. The asphalt was cracked, heaving up in chunks. Tufts of grass and even the occasional small sapling poked up here and there through the gaps. She checked the newly printed map once again — her earlier excursion had clearly shown her the best route of approach.