"Yeah," said the assistant, "what you say."

"Mr. Audran?" called Dr. Besharati. I turned around and saw him standing in the doorway. "Come back here and I'll show you what I was talking about."

I followed him into a high-ceilinged workroom. The lighting was a little better, but the air was, if anything, even worse. The walls of the room were entirely taken up with shelves, from floor to ceiling. On each twelve-inch shelf were a couple of thousand white plastic tubs, stacked four high and four deep, filling every available inch of volume.

Dr. Besharati saw what I was looking at. "I wish we could get rid of them," he said sadly.

"What are they?" I asked.

"Specimens. By law, we're required to keep all the specimens we take for ten years. Like the heart and brain samples I removed from Maxwell. But because the form-aldehyde is a danger, the city won't let us burn them when the time is up. And the city won't permit us to bury them or flush them down the drain because of contamina-tion.

We're about out of room here."

I looked around at the roomful of shelves. "What are you going to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe we'll have to start renting a refrigerated warehouse. It's up to the city, and the city's always telling me it doesn't have the money to fix up my office. I think they'd just rather forget that we're even down here."

"I'll mention it to the amir the next time I see him."

"Would you?" he said hopefully. "Anyway, take a look through this." He showed me an old microscope that was probably new when Dr. Besharati was first dreaming of going to medical school.

I peered through the binocular eyepieces. I saw some stained cells. That was all I could see. "What am I looking ^at?" I asked.

"A bit of Khalid Maxwell's muscle tissue. Do you see the pattern of disruption I mentioned?"

Well, I had no idea what the cells were supposed to look like, so I couldn't judge how they'd been changed by the jolt from the static pistol. "I'm afraid not," I said. "I'll have to take your word for it. But you see it, right? If you found another sample that had the same pattern, would you be willing to testify that the same gun had been used?"

"I'd be willing to testify," he said slowly, "but, as I said, it would carry no weight in court."

I looked at him again. "We've got something here," I said thoughtfully. "There's got to be a way to use it."

"Well," said Dr. Besharati, ushering me out through the Chamber of Horrors, to the outer waiting room, "I hope you find a way. I hope you clear your name. I'll give this job special attention, and I ought to have results for you later this evening. If there's anything else I can do, don't hesitate to get in touch with me. I'm here twelve to sixteen hours a day, six days a week."

I glanced back over my shoulder. "Seems like an awful lot of time to spend in these surroundings," I said.

He just shrugged. "Right now, I've got seven murder victims waiting to be examined, in addition to Khalid Maxwell. Even after all these years, I can't help wondering who these poor souls were, what kind of lives they had, what land of terrible stories led to their ending up on my tables. They're all people to me, Mr. Audran. People. Not stiffs. And they deserve the best that I can do for them. For some of them, I'm the only hope that justice will be done.

I'm their last chance."

"Maybe," I said, "here at the very end, their lives can acquire some meaning. Maybe if you help identify the killers, the city can protect other people from them."

"Maybe," he said. He shook his head sadly. "Some-times justice is the most important thing in the world."

I thanked Dr. Besharati for all his help and left the building. I got the impression that he basically loved his work, and at the same time hated the conditions he had to work in. As I headed out of the Budayeen, it occurred to me that I might end up just like Khalid Maxwell someday, with my guts scattered about on a stainless steel table, with my heart and brain sliced up and stored away in some little white plastic tubs. I was glad I was on my way anywhere, even Hajjar's station house.

It wasn't far: through the eastern gate, across the Bou-levard il-Jameel, south a few blocks to the corner of Walid al-Akbar Street. I was forced to take an unplanned detour, though. Papa's long black car was parked against the curb.

Tariq was standing on the sidewalk, as if at attention, wait-ing for me. He wasn't wearing a cheerful expression.

"Friedlander Bey would like to speak with you, Shaykh Maiid," he said. He held the rear door open, and I slid in. I expected Papa to be in the car, too, but I was all alone.

"Why didn't he send Kmuzu for me, Tariq?" I asked.

There was no answer as he slammed the door shut and walked around the car. He got behind the wheel, and we started moving through traffic. Instead of driving toward the house, though, Tariq was taking me through the eastside of the city, through unfamiliar neighborhoods.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

No answer. Uh oh.

I sat back in the seat, wondering what was going on. Then I had a horrible, icy suspicion. I'd come this way once before, a long time ago. My suspicions mounted as we turned and twisted through the poverty-ridden eastern outskirts. The suppressor daddy was doing its best to 'damp out my fear, but my hands began to sweat anyway.

At last Tariq pulled into an asphalt driveway behind a pale green cinderblock motel. I recognized it at once. I recognized the small, hand-lettered MOTEL NO VA-CANCY sign. Tariq parked the car and opened the door for me.

"Room 19," he said.

"I know," I said. "I remember the way."

One of the Stones That Speak was standing in the doorway to Room 19. He looked down at me; there was no expression on his face. I couldn't move the giant man, so I just waited until he decided what he was going to do with me. Finally he grunted and stepped aside, just far enough for me to squeeze by him.

Inside, the room looked the same. It hadn't been dec-orated since my last visit, when I first came to Friedlander Bey's attention, when I was first made a part of the old man's tangled schemes. The furnishings were worn and shabby, a European-style bed and bureau, a couple of chairs with rips in their upholstering. Papa sat at a folding card table set up in the middle of the room. Beside him stood the other Stone.

"My nephew," said Papa. His expression was grim. There was no love in his eyes.

"Hamdillah as-salaama, yaa Shaykh," I said. "Praise God for your safety." I squinted a little, desperately trying to find an escape route from the room. There was none, of course.

"Allah yisattimak," he replied bluntly. He wished the blessings of Allah on me in a voice as empty of affection as a spent bullet.

As I knew they would, the Stones That Speak moved slowly, one to each side of me. I glanced at them, and then back at Papa. "What have I done, O Shaykh?" I whispered.

I felt the Stones' hands on my shoulders, squeezing, tightening, crushing. Only the pain-blocking daddy kept me from crying out.

Papa stood up behind the table. "I have prayed to Allah that you would change your ways, my nephew," he said.

"You have made me unutterably sad." The light glinted off his eyes, and they were like chips of dirty ice. They didn't look sad at all.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I knew what he meant, all right.

The Stones kneaded my shoulders harder. The one on my left-Habib or Labib, I can never tell which-held my arm out from my side. He put one hand on my shoulder and began to turn the arm in its socket.

"He should be suffering more," said Friedlander Bey thoughtfully. "Remove the chips from his implants." The other Stone did as he was told, and yes, I began suffering more. I thought my arm was going to be wrenched loose. I let out one drawn-out groan.

"Do you know why you're here, my nephew?" said Papa, coming closer and standing over me. He put one hand on my cheek, which was now wet with tears. The Stone continued to twist my arm.

"No, O Shaykh," I said. My voice was hoarse. I could only gasp the word out.

"Drugs," said Papa simply. "You've been seen in publie too often under the influence of drugs. You know how I feel about that. You've scorned the holy word of Prophet Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace. .He prohibits intoxication. I prohibit intoxication."

"Yes," I said. It was clear to me that he was angrier at the affront to him than the affront to our blessed religion.

"You had warnings in the past. This is the last. The last of all time. If you do not mend your behavior, my nephew, you will take another ride with Tariq. He won't bring you here, though. He'll drive away from the city. He'll drive far into the desert wastes. He'll return home alone. And this time there will be no hope of your walking back alive. Tariq won't be as careless as Shaykh Reda. All this despite the fact that you're my great-grandson. I have other great-grandsons."

"Yes, O Shaykh," I said softly. I was in severe pain. "Please."

He flicked his eyes at the Stones. They stepped away from me immediately. The agony continued. It would not go away for a long time. I got out of the chair slowly, grimacing.

"Wait yet a moment, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey. "We're not finished here."

"Yallah," I exclaimed.

"Tariq," called Papa. The driver came into the room. 'Tariq, give my nephew the weapon."

Tariq came to me and looked into my eyes. Now I thought I could see a touch of sympathy. There had been none before. He took out a needle gurTand laid it in my hand.

"What is this gun, O Shaykh?" I asked.

Papa's brow furrowed. "That, my nephew, is the weapon that killed the imam, Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq. With it, you should be able to discover the identity of the murderer."

I stared at the needle gun as if it were some unearthly alien artifact. "How-"

"I have no more answers for you."

I stood up straighter and looked directly at the white-haired old man. "How did you get this gun?"

Papa waved a hand. It evidently wasn't important enough for me to know the answer to that. All I had to do was find out who owned it. I knew then that this interview was over. Friedlander Bey had come to the end of his patience, with me, with the way I was handling the inves-tigation.

I realized suddenly that he could well be lying-the needle gun might not actually have been the murder weapon.Yet in the vast, complicated web of intrigues that surrounded him and me and Shaykh Reda, perhaps that was irrelevant. Perhaps the only important thing was that the gun had been so designated.

Tariq helped me outside to the car. I maneuvered myself slowly into the backseat, holding the needle gun close to my chest. Just before he slammed the door, Tariq reached in and handed me the suppressor daddies. I looked at him, but I couldn't find anything to say. I reached up and chipped them in gratefully.

"Where shall I drive you, Shaykh Marid?" said Tariq, as he got behind the wheel and started the engine.

I had a short list of three choices. First, I wanted to go home, climb back in bed, and take a few medicinal Son-neine until my tormented arm and shoulders felt better. I knew, however, that Kmuzu would never permit it. Fail-ing that, I preferred to go to Chili's and knock back a few White Deaths. My watch told me that the day shift hadn't even arrived yet. In third place, but the winner by default, was the police station. I had an important clue to check out.

"Take me to Walid al-Akbar Street, Tariq," I said. He nodded. It was a long, bumpy ride back to the more famil-" iar districts of the city. I sat with my head tilted back, my eyes closed, listening to the gray noise in my head from suppressors. I felt nothing. My discomfort and my emotions had been planed off electronically. I could have been in a restless, dreamless sleep; I didn't even think about what I'd do when I got to my destination.

Tariq interrupted my respite. "We're here," he said. He stopped the car, jumped out, and opened my door. I climbed out quickly; the pain suppressor made it easy.

"Shall I wait for you here, Shaykh Marid?"

"Yes," I said. "I won't be long. Oh, by the way, do you have some paper and something to write with? I don't .vant to take this needle gun in there. I need to write down the serial number, though."

Tariq searched his pockets and came up with what I needed. I scribbled the number down on the back of some stranger's business card and put it in the pocket of my gallebeya. Then I hurried up the stairs.

I didn't want to run into Lieutenant Hajjar. I went straight to the computer room. This time, the female ser-geant on duty only nodded to me. I guess I was getting to be a familiar fixture around there. I sat down at one of the streaked and smudged data decks and logged on. When the computer asked me what I wanted, I murmured, "Weapons trace."

I passed through several menus of choices, and finally the computer asked me for the serial number of the weapon in question. I took out the busi-ness card and read off the combination of letters and dig-its.

The computer mulled it over for a few seconds, then its screen filled with enlightening information. The needle gun was registered to my pal Lieutenant Hajjar himself. I sat back and stared at the computer. Hajjar? Why would Hajjar murder the imam? Because Hajjar was Shaykh Reda Abu Adil's tame cop. And Shaykh Reda thought he owned Abd ar-Razzaq, too. But the imam had made a dangerous mistake-he'd permitted me to proceed with the exhumation of Khalid Maxwell, against Abu Adil's strongest wishes. Abd ar-Raz-zaq had apparently had a few shreds of integrity left, a tarnished loyalty to truth and justice, and Abu Adil had ordered his death because of it. Shaykh Reda was watch-ing helplessly as his plan to get rid of Friedlander Bey and myself slowly unraveled. Now, to save his own ass, he had _ to make sure that he wasn't connected in any way to the death of Khalid Maxwell.

There was more data on the computer screen. I learned next that the needle gun hadn't been stolen, that it had been properly registered by Hajjar three years ago. The file listed Hajjar's residence, but I knew for a fact that it was long out of date. More interesting, however, was that the file included Hajjar's complete rap sheet, detailing every misstep and misdemeanor he'd committed since coming to the city. There was an extensive recitation of all the charges that had been brought against him, in-cluding those for drug dealing, blackmail, and extortion on which he'd never actually been convicted.

I laughed, because Hajjar had worked so carefully to erase all this information from his entry in the personnel files and from the city's criminal information database. He'd forgotten about this entry, and maybe someday it would help to hang the stupid son of a bitch.

I had just cleared the screen when a voice spoke in Hajjar's Jordanian accent. "How much more time you got before the axman takes you, Maghrebi? You keepin' track?"

I swiveled the chair around and smiled at him. "Ev-erything's falling into place. I don't think we've got any-thing- to worry about." Hajjar bent toward me and sucked his teeth. "No? What did you do, forge a signed confession?

Who you pinning the rap on? Your mama?"

"Got everything I need right out of your computer. I want to thank you for letting me use it. You've been a good sport, HajjarI'

"The hell you talkin' about?"

I shrugged. "I learned a lot from Maxwell's autopsy, but it wasn't conclusive." ' The lieutenant grunted. "Tried to warn you."

"So I came here and started poking around. I accessed the city's police procedure libraries and found a very in-teresting article. It seems there's a new technique to iden-tify the killers of victims done by static pistols. You know anything about that?"

"Nah. You can't trace back a static pistol. It don't leave evidence. No bullets or flechettes or nothing."

I figured a couple more lies in a good cause couldn't hurt. "This article said every static pistol leaves its individ-ual trace in the cells of the victim's body. You mean you never read that? You're not keeping up with your home-work, Hajjar."

His smile vanished, replaced by a very worried expres-sion. "You making all this up?"

I laughed. "What do I know about this stuff? How could I make it up? I told you, I just read it in your own library.

Now I'm gonna have to go to Shaykh Mahali and ask to have Maxwell exhumed again. The M.E. didn't look for those static pistol traces. I don't think he knew about 'em, either."Hajjar's face turned pale. He reached out and grabbed the material of my gallebeya below my throat. "You do that," he growled, "and every good Muslim in the city will tear you to pieces. I'm warning you. Let Maxwell alone.

You had your chance. If you don't have the evi-dence by now, you're just out of luck."

I grabbed his wrist and twisted it, and he let go of me. "Forget it," I said. "You get on the wire and tell Abu Adil what I said. I'm only one step away from clearing my name and putting somebody else's head on the block."

Hajjar reached back and slapped me hard across the face. "You've gone too far now, Audran," he said. He looked terrified. "Get out of here and don't come back. Not until you're ready to confess to both murders."

I stood up and pushed him backward a step. "Yeah, you right, Hajjar," I said. Feeling better than I had in days, I left the computer room and ran down the stairs to where Tariq was waiting for me.

I had him drive me back to the Budayeen. I'd gotten a lot done that morning, but it was lunchtime now and I felt I'd earned myself some food and a little relaxation. Just inside the eastern gate, on First Street across from the morgue, was a restaurant called Meloul's. Meloul was a Maghrebi like me, and he owned another cookshop not far from the police station. It was a favorite of the cops, and he'd done so well that he'd opened a second location in the Budayeen, managed by his brother-in-law.

I took a seat at a small table near the rear of the restaurant, with my back to the kitchen so I could see who came in the door. Meloul's brother-in-law came over, smiling, and handed me a menu. He was a short, heavy-set man with a huge hooked nose, dark Berber skin, and a bald head except for thin fringes of black hair over each ear. "My name is Sliman. How do you do today?" he asked.

"Fine," I said. "I've eaten at MelouFs place. I enjoyed the food very much."

"I'm happy to hear it," said Sliman. "Here I've added some dishes from all over North Africa and the Middle East. I hope you will be pleased."

I studied the menu for a little while and ordered a bowl of cold yogurt and cucumber soup, followed by broiled skewered chicken. While I waited, Sliman brought me a glass of sweet mint tea.

The food came quickly, and it was plentiful and good. I ate slowly, savoring every mouthful. At the same time, I was waiting for a phone call. I was waiting for Kenneth to tell me that if I went ahead with the phony second exhu-mation, Shaykh Reda would condemn me to all the ago-nies of Hell.

I finished my meal, paid my bill, and left Sliman a hefty tip, and went back outside. Immediately, I heard a boy whistling the child's tune. I was being watched. After the meal, and with the suppressor daddies still chipped in, I didn't really care. I could take care of myself. I thought I'd demonstrated that time and time again. I started walk-ing up the Street.