Taking everything to my office, I placed Anne's material in my briefcase and lay the mismatched sheet on my desk. As I read the contents, my adrenaline rocketed even higher.

The left column contained code names, the middle one real names. Dates appeared after some individuals, forming an incomplete third column.

Ilus Henry Arlen Preston 1943

Khaffre Sheldon Brodie 1949

Omega A. A. Birkby 1959

Narmer Martin Patrick Veckhoff

Sinuhe C. A. Birkby

Itzmana John Morgan 1972

Arrigatore F. L. Warren

Rho Wiliam Glenn Sherman 1979

Chac John Franklin Battle

Ometeotl Parker Davenport

Only one name was unfamiliar. John Franklin Battle.

Or was it? Where had I heard that name?

Think, Brennan. Think.

John Battle.

No. That's not right.

Franklin Battle.

Blank.

Frank Battle.

The magistrate who'd stonewaled the search warrant!

Would a mere magistrate qualify for membership? Had Battle been protecting the H&F property? Had he sent me the fax? Why?

And why was the most recent date more than twenty years old? Was the list incomplete? Why?

Then a terrifying thought.

Who knew I was here?

Alone.

Again I froze, listening for the faintest indicator of another presence. Picking up a scalpel, I slipped from my office to the main autopsy room.

Six skeletons stared upward, fingers and toes splayed, jaws silent beside their heads. I checked the computer and X-ray sections, the staff kitchenette, the makeshift conference room. My heart beat so loudly it seemed to overpower the stilness.

I was poking my head into the men's toilet when my cel phone sounded for the third time. I nearly screamed from the tension.

A voice, smooth as a double lane.

'You're dead.'

Then empty air.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I caled McMahon. No answer. Crowe. Ditto. I left messages: Seven thirty-eight. Leaving Alarka for High Ridge House. Cal me.

Picturing the empty lot, the deserted county road, I punched Ryan's number.

Another image. Ryan, facedown on an icy drive. I'd asked for his help that other time in Quebec. It had gotten him shot.

Ryan has no jurisdiction, Brennan. And no personal responsibility.

Instead of 'send,' I hit the delete button.

My thoughts ricocheted like the metal sphere in a pinbal game.

Someone should be told of my whereabouts. Someone I would not be placing in danger.

Sunday night. I dialed my old number.

'Helo.' A woman's voice, melow as a purring cat.

'Is Pete there?'

'He's in the shower.'

I heard a wind chime tinkle. A wind chime I'd hung years ago outside my bedroom window.

'Is there a message?'

I clicked off.

'Fuck it,' I muttered. 'I'l take care of myself.'

Slinging purse and laptop over one shoulder, I rewrapped my fingers around the scalpel and readied my keys in the other hand. Then I cracked the door and peered out.

My Mazda was alone with the exiled hook-and-ladder trucks. In the deepening twilight, it looked like a warthog facing off with a herd of hippos.

Deep breath.

I bolted.