I moved a chair close. 'What about your friend?'

'We broke up.'

'But he knows.'

'I just found out a couple weeks ago.'

'You've got to tell him and anybody else you've been intimate with,' I said. 'It's only fair. If someone had done that for you, maybe you wouldn't be sitting here now, crying.'

He was silent, staring down at his hands. Taking a deep breath, he said, 'I'm going to die, aren't I.'

'We're all going to die,' I gently told him.

'Not like this.'

'It could be like this,' I said. 'Every physical I get, I'm tested for HIV. You know what

I'm exposed to. What you're going through could be me.'

He looked up at me, his eyes and cheeks burning. 'If I get AIDS, I'm going to kill myself.'

'No, you're not,' I said.

He began to cry again. 'Dr Scarpetta, I can't go through it! I don't want to end up in one of those places, a hospice, the Fan Free Clinic, in a bed next to other dying people I don't know!' Tears flowed, his face tragic and defiant. 'I'll be all alone just like I've always been.'

'Listen.' I waited until he calmed down. 'You will not go through this alone. You have me.'

He dissolved in tears again, covering his face and making sounds so loud I was certain they could be heard in the hall.

'I will take care of you,' I promised as I got up. 'Now I want you to go home. I want you to do what's right and tell your friends. Tomorrow, we'll talk more and figure out the best way to handle this. I need the name of your doctor and permission to talk to him or her.'

'Dr Alan Riley. At MCV.'

I nodded. 'I know him, and I want you to call him first thing in the morning. Let him know I'll be contacting him and that it's all right for him to talk to me.'

'Okay.' He looked furtively at me. 'But you'll be… You won't tell anyone.'

'Of course not,' I said with feeling.

'I don't want anyone here to know. Or Marino. I don't want him to.'

'No one will know,' I said. 'At least not from me.'

He slowly got up and stepped toward the door with the unsteadiness of someone drunk or dazed. 'You won't fire me, will you?' His hand was on the knob as he cast blood-shot eyes my way.

'Wingo, for God's sake,' I said with quiet emotion. 'I would hope you would think more of me than that.'

He opened the door. 'I think more of you than anyone.' Tears spilled again, and he wiped them on his scrubs, exposing his thin bare belly. 'I always have.'

His footsteps were rapid in the hall as he almost ran, and the elevator bell rang. I listened as he left my building for a world that did not give a damn. I rested my forehead on my fist and shut my eyes.

'Dear God,' I muttered. 'Please help.'

The rain was still heavy as I drove home, and traffic was terrible because an accident had closed lanes in both directions on I-64. There were fire trucks and ambulances, rescuers prying open doors and hurrying with stretchers and boards. Broken glass glistened on wet pavement, drivers slowing to stare at injured people. One car had flipped multiple times before catching fire. I saw blood on the shattered windshield of another and that the steering wheel was bent. I knew what that meant, and said a prayer for whoever the people were. I hoped I would not see them in my morgue.

In Carytown, I pulled off at P. T. Hasting's. Festooned with fish nets and floats, it sold the best seafood in the city. When I walked in, the air was spicy and pungent with fish and Old Bay, and filets looked thick and fresh on ice inside displays. Lobsters with bound claws crawled in their tank of water, and were in no danger from me. I was incapable of boiling anything alive and wouldn't touch meat if the cattle and pigs were first brought to my table. I couldn't even catch fish without throwing them back.

I was trying to decide what I wanted when Bev emerged from the back.

'What's good today?' I asked her.

'Well, look who's here,' she exclaimed warmly, wiping her hands on her apron.

'You're about the only person to brave the rain. So you sure got plenty to choose from.'

'I don't have much time, and need something easy and light,' I said.

A shadow passed over her face as she opened a jar of horseradish. 'I'm afraid I can imagine what you've been doing,' she said. 'Been hearing it on the news.' She shook her head. 'You must be plumb worn out. I don't know how you sleep. Let me tell you what to do for yourself tonight.'

She walked over to a case of chilled blue crabs. Without asking, she selected a pound of meat in a carton.

'Fresh from Tangier Island. Hand-picked it myself, and you tell me if you find even a trace of cartilage or shell. You're not eating alone, are you?' she said.

'No.'

'That's good to hear.'

She winked at me. I had brought Wesley in here before.

She picked out six jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined, and wrapped them. Then she set a jar of her homemade cocktail sauce on the counter by the cash register.

'I got a little carried away with the horseradish,' she said, 'so it will make your eyes water, but it's good.' She began ringing up my purchases. 'You saute the shrimp so quick their butts barely hit the pan, got it? Chill 'em, and have that as an appetizer. By the way, those and the sauce are on the house.'

'You don't need to…'

She waved me off. 'As for the crab, honey, listen up. One egg slightly beaten, one-half teaspoon dry mustard, a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce, four unsalted soda crackers, crushed. Chop up an onion, a Vidalia if you're still hoarding any from summer. One green pepper, chop that. A teaspoon or two of parsley, salt and pepper

to taste.'

'Sounds fabulous,' I gratefully said. 'Bev, what would I do without you?'

'Now you gently mix all that together and shape it into patties.' She made the motion with her hands. 'Saute in oil over medium heat until lightly browned. Maybe fix him a salad or get some of my slaw,' she said. 'And that's as much as I would fuss over any man.'

It was as much as I did. I got started as soon as I got home, and shrimp were chilling by the time I turned on music and climbed into a bath. I poured in aromatherapy salts that were supposed to reduce stress, and shut my eyes as steam carried soothing scents into my sinuses and pores. I thought about Wingo, and my heart ached and seemed to lose its rhythm like a bird in distress. For a while, I cried. He had started out with me in this city, then left to go back to school. Now he was back and dying. I could not bear it.

At seven P.M., I was in the kitchen again, and Wesley, always punctual, eased his silver BMW into my drive. He was still in the suit he had been wearing earlier, and he had a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay in one hand, and a fifth of Black Bush Irish whiskey in the other. The rain, at last, had stopped, clouds marching on to other fronts.

'Hi,' he said when I opened the door.

'You profiled the weather right.' I kissed him.

'They don't pay me this much money for nothing.'

'The money comes from your family.' I smiled as he followed me in. 'I know what the

Bureau pays you.'

'If I was as smart with money as you are, I wouldn't need it from my family.'

In my great room was a bar, and I went behind it because I knew what he wanted.

'Black Bush?' I made sure.

'If you're serving it. Fine pusher that you are, you've managed to get me hooked.'

'As long as you bootleg it from D.C., I'll serve it any time you like,' I said.

I fixed our drinks on the rocks with a splash of seltzer water. Then we went into the kitchen and sat at a cozy table by an expansive window overlooking my wooded yard and the river. I wished I could tell him about Wingo and how it felt for me. But I could not break a confidence.