It was odd, but for a moment I thought I could smell her blood, the pungency of old flesh that has been dead for days. I remembered the doughy texture of her skin, and the peculiar eruptions that made me wonder if she had shingles.

“She wasn’t random,” I said.

“And the others were.”

“The other cases are nothing like this one. I’m getting double imagery. Can you adjust that?”

“Vertical retinal image disparity.”

Then I felt her hand on my arm.

“Usually goes away after fifteen or twenty minutes,” she said. “It’s time to take a break.”

“I don’t feel too good.”

“Image rotation misalignment. Visual fatigue, simulation sickness, cybersick, whatever you want to call it,” she said. “Causing image blurring, tears, even queasiness.”

I couldn’t wait to remove the helmet, and I was on the table again, facedown in blood before I could get the LCDs away from my eyes.

My hands were shaking as Lucy helped me take off the glove. I sat down on the floor.

“Are you all right?” she asked, kindly.

“That was awful,” I said.

“Then it was good.” She returned the helmet and glove to a counter. “You were immersed in the environment. That’s what should happen.”

She handed me several tissues, and I wiped my face.

“What about the other photograph? Do you want to do that one, too?” she asked. “The one with the hands and feet?”

“I’ve been in that room quite enough,” I said.

Eight

I drove home haunted. I had been going to crime scenes most of my professional life, but had never had one come to me. The sensation of being inside that photograph, of imagining I could smell and feel what was left of that body, had shaken me badly. It was almost midnight by the time I pulled into my garage, and I couldn’t unlock my door fast enough. Inside my house, I turned the alarm off, then back on the instant I shut and locked the door. I looked around to make sure nothing was out of place.

Lighting a fire, I fixed a drink and missed cigarettes again. I turned on music to keep me company, then went inside my office to see what might await me there. I had various faxes and phone messages, and another communication in e-mail. This time, all deadoc had for me was to repeat, you think you re so smart. I was printing this and wondering if Squad 19 had seen it, too, when the telephone rang, startling me.

“Hi,” Wesley said. “Just making sure you got in okay.”

“There’s more mail,” I said, and I told him what it was.

“Save it and go to bed.”

“It’s hard not to think about.”

“He wants you to stay up all night thinking. That’s his power. That’s his game.”

“Why me?” I was out of sorts and still felt queasy.

“Because you’re the challenge, Kay. Even for nice people like me. Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. I love you.”