Periodical y I checked the unknown female's skul , pouring off muck as the water loosened it. Just before noon, as I was draining sediment, something broke free and tapped against the cranial interior I placed the skul back on the ring and slipped my fingers inside.

The object felt long and thin. I tried to dislodge it, but the thing had a tail of some sort stil embedded in the mud. Barely able to contain my curiosity, I adjusted the tap and went back to the Gately report.

By 1 P.M. the object floated free, but the trailer was stil firmly cemented. Impatient, I al owed the sink to fil , immersed the skul , and went downstairs to the cafeteria.

When I returned from lunch the soaking had liquefied the last of the dirt, and I was able to pour it off easily. Holding my breath, I inserted my fingers and delicately manipulated the object free.

The device was less than four inches long, and consisted of a length of tubing with a valve at one end. I cleaned it and placed it on a tray. Certain of its importance, but unsure as to what it was, I washed my hands and went in search of a pathologist.

According to the duty board, LaManche was at a meeting of the committee on infant mortality. Marcel Morin was at his desk.

He looked up when I tapped on the door.

"Got a minute?"

"But of course." His French was warm and lyrical, reflecting the Haiti of his boyhood. I entered the office and placed the tray in front of him.

"Ah, a surgical implant." His eyebrows rose behind rimless glasses. They were graying, like the tightly cropped frizz of hair retreating backward on his scalp.

"I thought so. Can you tel me more about it?"

He lifted both palms. "Not much. It looks like a ventricular shunt, but I'm not a neurosurgeon. You might want to talk to Carolyn Russel . She's done some neuro consults for us."

He flipped through his Rolodex, jotted down a number, and handed it to me, saying, "She's at the MNI."

I thanked him, went to my office, and dialed the Montreal Neurological Institute. Dr. Russel was in a meeting, sol left a message. I'd just hung up when the phone rang. It was Claudel.

"You've talked to Bergeron?" he asked.

"He just left."

"So two make the jump from the list of missing to the list of dead."

I waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

"And?"

A Claudel pause, then, "We've started making cal s, but no one knows a thing. Not surprising, given the fact that more than a decade has passed and these people aren't geographical y stable. Of course they wouldn't tel us spit if we'd hauled their grandmothers out of that hole."

"What about Rinaldi?"