No, he used acid to make the holes.

There was an ancient story about that as well. The source was on the tip of her tongue but she could not place it and it frustrated her mightily. But one of her teachers at Princeton, Professor McKinley, would know it. He was the one who had told her about the story, that much she remembered. She had his number at home—she could call him tonight. And later, Slate had said he would call her. Hopefully he would appreciate how important these clues were. The Acid Man almost certainly had an academic background. That fact alone would significantly narrow the FBI’s search.

Kelly decided to leave work early. She still wanted to make that special dinner for her family and she was tired. There had been the pressure of the stakeout followed by the emotional strain at home. She needed quiet time to recover. She hoped Tony would give her that. She could not remember the last time they’d had sex. Their first year of marriage it had been every day.

Before going to the market, she swung by home to check on Anna. They had a wonderful nanny from El Salvador who helped care for their daughter. However, Kelly found neither Anna nor her nanny at the house. She assumed they had gone out. Maybe Anna was at a rehearsal for her play. Kelly still could not get over the fact that she had not known about her daughter’s upcoming performance.

There was a message from Tony, however. He said he would be working late and would not be home until after ten. So much for the big dinner.

Kelly called Professor McKinley. He was delighted to hear from her, although his hearing was poor. At eighty-four, the university had finally forced him into retirement two years ago. His mind was still as precise as an encyclopedia, though. She went to explain the story she was thinking of and he interrupted her in midsentence.

“‘The Tears of Rati,’” he said. “It’s from the Vedas, the Arundha Purana.”

“I don’t remember that Purana.”

“It hasn’t been translated into English. But Maya Press prints it, I believe. I doubt there are a thousand copies in all of India. It’s one of those ancient texts that’s largely a compilation of other works.”

“Is ‘The Tears of Rati’ in any other book?”

“Not that I’m aware of. What’s your interest in the story?”

“I need a copy of it. Did it have something in it about a hole in the heart? A burnt hole?”

“Yes. The Purana itself hasn’t been translated, but I personally wrote down Rati’s tale in English.” He paused. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

“It might be better to fax it,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t keep one of those contraptions at my house.”

She hoped she had not offended him. He had used to read to groups of them in class. Grandfather surrounded by his eager grandchildren. It had been a love of his. He was a natural born storyteller.