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body.”
    “Anatomy is a first-semester class at Fearington.” Commander Fellows had begun to look green around the gills.
    “Aced her courses, she said,” O’Banion growled as he took up position directly behind Alli.
    Naomi Wilde frowned as she bent over for a look. “But why a straw, of all things?”
    O’Banion was virtually breathing fumes from his sour stomach down Alli’s neck. “Why don’t you ask her?”
    Saunderson turned his half-dead face up to Wilde. “Like sucking an ice-cream soda, you can control the volume of flow.”
    A deep and horrific silence ensued, which ended abruptly with O’Banion’s bray. “Doc, please, you’re telling us that Ms. Carson might be a vampire?”
    “You’ve been seeing too many horror films, O’Banion.” The ME shook his head. “No, this is something far worse. Your perp is a deeply disturbed individual—a psychopath, though there’s nothing textbook about him. He—”
    “Or she.” O’Banion stared at the back of Alli’s head with newfound venom.
    Saunderson took a breath. “Your killer is both a sadist and, I would venture to guess, insane, or at least has become unhinged.”
    “Traumatized,” Willowicz said. He, too, was watching Alli as if she were already in a cage. “As from a terrible ordeal.”
    Saunderson, clueless as to his true meaning, nodded. “Something in the past, yes, that’s a distinct probability with psychosis.” He tapped the straw. “Who else would think of varying the flow of blood in order to prolong a victim’s agony?”
    *   *   *
    H ARRISON J ENKINS , Carson’s attorney, drove up minutes after Jack had exited the car. Carson was walking back and forth over the frosty ground like a caged animal impatient to be fed. Jenkins was one of those sleek men you see giving sound bites on CNN or Fox News. His gray hair was thick, and long enough to cover the tops of his ears, his cheeks were a healthy pink, and, Jack noted, he had perfectly manicured nails that shone like ten tiny mirrors. He gave the impression of being tall, but up close he was less than median height, maybe five six. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase. His expensive overcoat was open, revealing a steel-gray suit, white shirt, and a striped red tie. There was an enamel pin of the American flag on the lapel of his overcoat. All he needed, Jack thought, was a bald eagle perched on his shoulder. He walked like a lawyer should, as if he owned the ground over which he strode. Jack supposed he should be grateful for Jenkins’s appearance, but something about the man chilled him.
    Carson whirled around when he saw his attorney approach.
    “Anything more you can tell me?” Jenkins asked as he pumped Carson’s hand.
    Carson shook his head. When he introduced Jack, a small, secret smile played briefly across Jenkins’s face. Then he asked Jack to brief him on Alli’s recent history.
    When he had finished, the attorney said, “In your opinion, as of today, is she of sound mind?”
    “Absolutely,” Jack said.
    “I strongly disagree,” Carson responded.
    Jenkins blew air through his nostrils like a racehorse at the starting gate. Then, putting his PDA to his ear, he walked several paces away from them and spoke into it for several moments. When he returned, he said, “Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
    Following the directions they’d been given, they skirted the obstacle course, where shapes reared up out of the gloom of a false dawn like pieces of a wrecked ship, then they descended a shallow embankment via a set of narrow stairs, and almost immediately turned left, threading their way through a copse of old trees that smelled of leaf mold and loam. Up ahead was a fierce pool of light, as concentrated as a key spot illuminating an actor on stage. In this case, however, the actor wasn’t moving.
    Jack felt as if he were in an elevator whose cable had been cut.
    “Jesus Christ,” Carson muttered, “what the hell is this?”
    Then Jack