She struggled free of his hands and bent over, hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. She said something without looking up.

Vern frowned, bending down to catch what she was saying. What? I can‘t hear you. What did you say?

Haynes stood up straight, face red from the blood rushing to it. It‘s Lyda. Vern stood up with her. What about her?

She‘s dead.

Kate went cold all over. Mutt looked up at her and gave a soft whine. What do you mean, she‘s dead? Truax said. Holly, if this is some kind of joke I have to say I don‘t find it a bit funny.

It‘s not a joke. Haynes was trembling and there were tears in her eyes. She took Truax‘s hand and stared up at him. She‘s dead. I saw her.

Where is she? Kate said.

Haynes looked at Kate. What? I—

Where is she? Kate said.

The hard, inflexible voice had its effect. Haynes stiffened, almost to attention. In her room.

Did you lock the door when you left?

I—No, I didn‘t, I—

Who has been in it, besides you?

Just me. She didn‘t come into work this morning. Everybody was out of the office and no one knew she wasn‘t there until I got back from Rig 36. I went to check on her.

And no one else has been in the room since?

No. I don‘t think so.

Before Kate could say anything else Truax was double-timing it down the side of the airstrip. Kate followed through the buildings, up the steps and into the trailer and down the hall to Lyda‘s room. Stay, she told Mutt, and Mutt took up station a few feet away from the door.

There were people standing around, among them Jules the chef, who had tears streaming down his face. Break it up, folks, Truax said. Go on, get back to your jobs.

I can‘t believe it, Jules said, smearing snot and tears with his hand, I just saw her at dinner last night, and she was fine then. What—

Vern thumped him on his shoulder and turned it into a shove toward the exit. We all saw her at dinner last night, Jules. Go on, get back to the kitchen. God knows what the rest of the kitchen crew‘s getting up to without you there to keep an eye on them.

Jules stumbled off, the last one out, his face a picture of misery.

Open it, Kate said.

Vern did, and took an involuntary step back.

The smell hit them first, like it always did. The dead void themselves as their last living act, death‘s first triumph before decomposition kicks in. Way down deep in that subconscious swamp, the one filled with snakes and heights and airplane crashes and commitment, the smell of our own mortality is the fear most immediate and most visceral. It wasn‘t the first time Kate had smelled it and it wasn‘t something she ever got used to. She had often thought that that smell alone validated the larger part of the salary any practicing policeman earned. The room reminded her of her dorm room at Lathrop, single bed, pressboard closet and desk, single upright chair. One window looked onto its twin in the next building over, the blackout blind drawn firmly down to present a bland blank face to the world. Lyda was lying half on her bed, half on the floor, the covers tangled around her legs. Her nightgown had ridden up her thighs. Kate went into the room, stepping with care, and laid two fingers against Lyda‘s throat. The flesh was cold and motionless. She put the same two fingers beneath Lyda‘s left wrist and tried to push it up. It remained locked in place. She looked around the room, eyes pausing for a moment here and there, and then came out into the hall. The lock on the door was of the button-on-the-knob variety. She pushed it in and closed the door behind her, testing to see that it was secure. There‘s a key? she said.