“Mrs. Womack,” she said as she swallowed her last bite of sandwich, “take Mr. Grady to the phone room and get him a clear line. He has to make a phone call.”

She hadn’t asked him why he’d kept his daughter alive for so long on the machines; he was grateful for that. Other people asked. People who thought they understood what it was like. She’d been so tanned when it had happened—a long hot Texas summer, hours in the pool. He hardly recognized her now, white and thin, with eyes that sometimes opened but never focused. Her skin felt clammy and cool.

Carling hadn’t asked, How can you force her to live that way? Maybe Carling understood. Maybe.

He had a brief conversation with Nurse Varnas—no, her condition hadn’t changed—yes, they’d beep him immediately if it did. Nurse Varnas had a cool judgemental voice. When he was finished, he sat staring blankly at the squat black phone until Mrs. Womack put a warm hand on his shoulder and reminded him that his presence was needed in the office.

Carling had moved to sit behind her desk. She had on a pair of reading glasses that magnified her eyes. She looked at him over the top of the frames and tossed a red folder across to him. Papers skated over mahogany wood.

“Got another one,” she said. “Pastor at a church in Louisiana. No connection to the other cases, except that the majority of them seemed to be centered in the south and southwest. I’m sending Mrs. Womack and Mendoza down to do data collection.”

Grady pulled the papers closer and skimmed through the report, settled on the pictures. The upper half of the face was almost normal, except for the boiled-egg eyes. Whoever had tried to save him had gotten to him quickly. Even so, the tissue damage was incredible. It was impossible to tell what in the red and black mess was clothing, what was skin, what was muscle.

“I want to go,” he said. When she didn’t answer, he looked up at her. “I need to go.”

“My people can handle things.”

“I’m not disputing that, but—”

“Mrs. Womack?” Carling interrupted. He’d forgotten all about the older woman, who still sat in the back of the room, hands neatly folded on her lap. Mrs. Womack fussed with her floral skirt, picking invisible lint from it. “Your opinion?”

“Ma’am, I’m just an employee.” Mrs. Womack shot him a look that was nakedly ungrandmotherly. “However, if this nice young man insists on acting like a Junior G-man, I’ll cheerfully shoot him in the back. I don’t need your help, son. Tust do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

After a long chilly silence, Grady managed to clear his throat and nod.

“Lovely. Now, dear, Mendoza and I will need a few things from storage. I trust that’s all right?”