"Iave got one here at the office."

"Well, tell me what you find out. Iave gotta hit the street."

Quickly, I made up a list of ten telephone numbers, each one beginning with the six digits Vander and I had been able to make out on the sheet of paper found on Jennifer Deightonas bed. I completed each number with a zero, a one, a two, a three, and so on, then began trying them out. Only one of them was answered by an inhuman, high-pitched tone.

The fax machine was located in my computer a.n.a.lystas office, and Margaret, fortunately, had begun her holiday early, too. I shut her door and sat down at her desk, thinking as the minicomputer hummed and modem lights blinked. Labels worked both ways. If I began a transmission, the label for my office was going to appear in the character-display window of the fax machine I had dialed. I would have to kill the process fast, before the transmission was completed. I hoped that by the time anyone checked the machine to see what was going on, "Office of the Chief Medical Examiner" and our number would have vanished from the window.

Inserting a blank sheet of paper into the tray, I dialed the Washington number and waited as the transmission began. Nothing materialized in the character-display window. d.a.m.n. The fax machine I had dialed did not have a label So much for that I killed the process and returned to my office, defeated.

I had just sat down at my desk when the telephone rang.

"Dr. Scarpetta, "I answered.

"Nicholas Grueman here. Whatever you just tried to fax, it didnat transmit."

"Excuse me?"

I said, stunned.

"I got nothing on this end but a blank sheet of paper with the name of your office stamped on it. Uh, error code zero-zero-one, aplease send again; it says."

"I see," I said as the hairs on my arms raised.

"Perhaps you were trying to send an amendment to your record? I understand you took a look at the electric chair."

I did not reply.

"Very thorough of you, Dr. Scarpetta. Perhaps you learned something new about those injuries we discussed, the abrasions to the inner aspects of Mr. Waddellas arms? The antecubitalfossas?"

"Please give me your fax number again," I said quietly.

He recited it for me. The number matched the one on my list.

"Is the fax machine in your office or do you share it with other attorneys, Mr. Grueman?"

"Itas right next to my desk. No need to mark anything for my attention. Just send it on - and do put a rush on it please, Dr. Scarpetta. I was thinking of going home soon."

I left the office a little later, frustration having driven me out the door. I could not get Marino. There was nothing more I could do. I felt caught in a web of bizarre connections, clueless as to the point in common they shared.

On impulse I pulled into a lot of West Cary where an old man was selling wreaths and Christmas trees. He looked like a lumberjack from a fable as he sat on a stool in the midst of his small forest, the cold air fragrant with evergreen. Perhaps my shunning of the Christmas spirit finally had gotten to me. Or maybe I simply wanted a distraction. At this late date, there wasnat much of a selection, those trees pa.s.sed over, misshapen or dying, each destined to sit out the season, I suspected, except for the one I chose. It would have been lovely were it not scoliotic. Decorating it proved more an orthopedic challenge than a festive ritual, but with ornaments and strands of lights strategically hung and wire straightening the problem places, it stood proudly in my living room.

"There," I said to Lucy as I stepped back to admire my work. "What do you think?"

"I think itas weird that you suddenly decided to get a tree on Christmas Eve. When was the last time you had one? "I suppose when I was married."

"Is that where the ornaments came from?"

"Back then I went to a lot of trouble at Christmas."

"Which is why you donat anymore."

"Iam much busier than I was back then," I said.

Lucy opened the fireplace screen and rearranged logs with the poker. "Did you and Mark ever spend Christmas together?"

"Donat you remember? We came down to see you last Christmas."

"No, you didnat. You came for three days after Christmas and flew home on New Yearas Day."

"He was with his family on Christmas Day."

"You werenat invited?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Mark came from an old Boston family. They had certain ways of doing things. What did you decide about this evening? Did my jacket with the black velvet collar fit?"

"I havenat tried anything. Why do we have to go to all these places?"

Lucy sail. "I wonat know anybody."

"Itas not that bad. I simply have to drop off a present to someone whoas pregnant and probably not coming back to work. And I need to show the flag at a neighborhood party. I accepted the invitation before I knew you were going to be visiting. You certainly donat have to come with me."

"Iad rather stay here," she said. "I wish I could get started on AFIS."

"Patience," I told her, though I did not feel patient at all.

In the late afternoon, I left another message with the dispatcher and decided that either Marinoas pager wasnat working or he was too busy to find a pay phone. Candles glowed in my neighborsa windows, an oblong moon shining high above trees. I played that Christmas music of Pavarotti and the New York Philharmonic, doing what I could to get into the proper frame of mind as I showered and dressed. The party I was to attend did not begin until seven. That gave me enough time to drop off Susanas gift and have a word with her.

She surprised me by answering the phone, and sounded reluctant and tense when I asked if I could drop by.

"Jasonas out," she said, as if that mattered somehow. "He went to the mall."

"Well, I have a few things for you," I explained.

"What things?"

"Christmas things. Iam supposed to go to a party, so I wonat stay long. Is that all right?"

"I guess. I mean, thatas nice."

I had forgotten she lived in Southside, where I rarely went and was inclined to get lost. Traffic was worse than I had feared, the Midlothian Turnpike choked with last minute shoppers prepared to run you off the road as they ran their Happy Holidays errands. Parking lots swarmed with cars, stores and malls so garishly lit up it was enough to make you blind. Susanas neighborhood was very dark and twice I had to pull over and turn on the interior light to read her directions. After much riding around, I finally found her tiny ranch-style house sandwiched between two others that looked exactly like it.

"Hi," I said, peering at her through leaves of the pink poinsettia in my arms.

She nervously locked the door and showed me to the living room. Pushing books and magazines aside, she set the poinsettia on the coffee table.

"How are you feeling?"

I asked.

"Better. Would you like something to drink? Here, let me take your coat."

"Thanks. Nothing to drink. I canat stay but a minute."

I handed her a package. "A little something I picked up when I was in San Francisco last summer."

I sat on the couch.

"Wow. You really do your shopping early."

She avoided my eyes as she curled up in a wing chair. "You want me to open it now?a "Whatever youad like."

She carefully sliced through tape with a thumbnail and slipped off the satin ribbon intact. Smoothing the paper into a neat rectangle, as if she planned to reuse it, she placed it in her lap and opened the black box.

"Oh," she said under her breath, unfolding the red silk scarf.

"I thought it would look good with your black coat," I said. "I donat know about you, but I donat like wool against my skin."

"This is beautiful. Itas really thoughtful of you, Dr. Scarpetta. Iave never had anybody bring me something from San Francis...o...b..fore."

The expression of her face p.r.i.c.ked my heart, and suddenly my surroundings came into sharper focus. Susan was wearing a yellow terry cloth robe, frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of black socks that I suspected belonged to her husband. Furniture was scarred and cheap, upholstery shiny. The artificial Christmas tree near the small TV was scanty decorated and missing several limbs. There were few presents underneath. Propped against a wall was a folded crib that was dearly secondhand.

Susan caught me glancing around and looked ill at ease.

"Everything is so immaculate," I said.

"You know how I am. Obsessive-compulsive."

"Thankfully. If a morgue can look terrific, ours does."

She carefully folded the scarf and returned it to its box. Pulling her robe more tightly around her, she stared silently at the poinsettia.

"Susan," I said gently, "do you want to talk about whatas going on?"

She did not look at me.

"Itas not like you to get upset as you did the other morning. Itas not like you to miss work and then quit without so much as calling me."

She took a deep breath. "Iam really sorry. I just canat seem to handle things too well these days. I really react. Like when I was reminded of Judy."

"I know your sisteras death must have been terrible for you."

"We were twins. Not identical. Judy was a lot prettier than me. That was part of the problem. Doreen was jealous of her."

I liked Susan and I felt hurt and deeply troubled. She was not being honest with me.

"Is there anything else youad like to tell me about?"

I asked, my eyes not leaving her.

She glanced at me and I saw fear. "I canat think of anything."

I heard a car door shut.

"Jasonas home," she barely said.

Our conversation had ended, and as I got up I said quietly to her, "Please contact me if you need anything, Susan. A reference, or just to talk. You know where I am."

I spoke to her husband only briefly on my way out. He was tall and well built, with curly brown hair and distant eyes. Though he was polite, I could tell he was not pleased to discover me in his house. As I drove across the river, I was shaken by the image that this struggling young couple must have of me. I was the boss dressed in a designer suit arriving in her Mercedes to deliver token gifts on Christmas Eve. The alienation of Susanas loyalty touched my deepest insecurities. I was no longer sure of my relationships or how I was perceived. I feared I had faked some test after Mark was killed, as if my reaction to that loss held the answer to a question in the lives of those around me. After all, I was supposed to handle death better than anyone. Dr. Kay Scarpetta, the expert. Instead, I had withdrawn, and I knew others felt the coolness around my edges no matter how friendly or thoughtful I tried to be. My staff no longer confided in me. Now it appeared security in my office had been violated, and Susan had quit.

Taking the Cary Street exit; I turned left into my neighborhood and headed for the home of Bruce Carter, a district court judge. He lived on Sulgrave, several blocks from me, and suddenly I was a child in Miami again, staring at what had seemed mansions to me then. I remembered going door-to-door with a wagon full of citrus fruit, knowing that the elegant hands doling out change belonged to unreachable people who felt pity. I remembered returning home with a pocket full of pennies and smelling the sickness in the bedroom where my father lay dying.

Windsor Farms was quietly rich, with Georgian and Tudor houses neatly arranged along streets with English names, and estates shadowed by trees and surrounded by serpentine brick walls. Private security jealously guarded the privileged, for whom burglar alarms were as common as sprinklers. Unspoken covenants were more intimidating than those in print. You did not offend your neighbors by putting up clotheslines or dropping by unannounced. You did not have to drive a Jaguar, but if your means of transportation was a rusting pickup truck or a morgue wagon, you kept it out of sight inside the garage.

At quarter past seven, I parked behind a long line of cars in front of a white-painted brick house with a slate roof. White lights were caught like tiny stars in boxwoods and spruces, and a fragrant fresh wreath hung on the red front door. Nancy Carter embraced my arrival with a gorgeous smile and arms extended to take my coat. She talked nonstop above the indecipherable language of crowds as light winked off the sequins of her long red gown. The judgeas wife was a woman in her fifties refined by money into a work of well-bred art. In her youth, I suspected, she had not been pretty.

"Bruce is somewherea"

She glanced about. "The baras over there."

She directed me to the living room, where the bright holiday attire of guests blended wonderfully with a large vibrant Persian rug that I suspected cost more than the house I had just visited on the other side of the river. I spotted the judge talking to a man I did not know. I scanned faces, recognizing several physicians and attorneys, a lobbyist, and the governoras chief of staff. Somehow I ended up with a Scotch and soda, and a man I had never seen before was touching my arm.

"Dr. Scarpetta? Frank Donahue," he introduced himself loudly. "A Merry Christmas to you."

"And to you," I said.

The warden, who allegedly had been ill the day Marino and I had toured the penitentiary, was small, with coa.r.s.e features and thick graying hair. He was dressed like a parody of an English toastmaster in bright red tails, a ruffled white dress shirt, and a red bow tie twinkling with tiny electric lights. A gla.s.s of straight whiskey tilted perilously one hand as he offered me the other.

He leaned close to my ear. "I was disappointed I was unable to show you around the day you came to the pen."

"One of your officers took good care of us. Thank you."

"I guess that would have been Roberts."

"I think that was his name."

"Well, itas unfortunate that you had to go to the trouble."

His eyes roamed the room and he winked at someone behind me. "A lot of horse c.r.a.p was what it was. You know, Waddellad had a couple of nosebleeds in the past, and high blood pressure. Was always complaining about something. Headaches. Insomnia."

I bent my head, straining to hear.

"These guys on death row are consummate con artists. And to be honest, Waddell was one of me worst" "I wouldnat know," I said, looking up at him.

"Thatas the trouble, n.o.body knows. No matter what you say, n.o.body knows except those of us who are around these guys every day."