Martin reached down and moved a strand of auburn hair away from Carling’s face, touched the curve of her cheek with one finger.

“I think I do,” he said. She huffed indignantly and crumpled the tissue in her fingers, over and over, until it was a wad the size of a walnut.

Agent Jennings looked in the door, gave Martin a cold stare, and addressed his remarks to Mrs. Womack.

“Ma’am, Agent Mendoza has those results you wanted. Want to look them over?”

“Have him bring them in, Bryce, thank you. Oh, and get yourself a cup of coffee. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Mrs. Womack gave Martin a sharp-toothed smile. “Mr. Grady here will protect us.”

Jennings said, “Yes, ma’am,” and held the door open for Agent Mendoza. Mendoza gave Carling an expressionless glance and didn’t bother giving any notice to Martin at all.

“You have the report?” Mrs. Womack asked. He crossed the room to hand it to her and then stood in the corner like a Coldstream guard, hands at his sides, eyes on the still form of Agent Carling. Mrs. Womack flipped pages and raised her eyebrows. “My. How very interesting.”

She let Martin stew in silence while she read, pulling her half-glasses down her nose and holding the folder almost at arm’s length. The benevolent grandmotherly mask was back in place. She smiled at Agent Mendoza.

“Oh, Antonio, do sit down, dear, please.”

Mendoza sank into a chair, stiff as a corpse. A nurse came in and bustled around adjusting tubes, checking monitors. Mendoza’s lethally intense concentration shifted to observe her. Martin pulled up a chair to Carling’s bedside and sat, holding her hand. She had neat clever hands. He turned one palm up and winced at the long needles in her forearm, the outlines of forming bruises. He traced her lifeline with one fingertip.

“I expected you to ask,” Mrs. Womack said, sounding peeved. He stared at the thin blue line of Carling’s vein.

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

“Hmm.” She fixed him with a sharp-eyed stare and passed him the folder over Carling’s unconscious body. “Page three. It’s a chemical analysis of the preacher’s clothing.”

“Give me the short form,” he said, an automatic bureaucratic reflex.

“Executive, aren’t we?” She paused long enough to let him know who was in charge. “The principal thing is that there is no dichlorhyradine present, although it’s definitely in his tissue samples.”

“So it starts from the body and works its way out.”

“I’m afraid you’re jumping to a conclusion, Mr. Grady. You’re assuming that dichlorhyradine is the agent of chemical ignition.”

“It’s present in every one of the victims. It’s highly exothermic under laboratory conditions—”

“It’s a byproduct,” she said. “Page three.”