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black-and-yellow insect had projected her back through time and space, back to that place that was so long ago and yet never far away … She was once again a seven-year-old girl in an upsidedown ’57 Chevy Bel Air.
    The car weaved from side to side in a widening arc, then abruptly lunged from the road. With a crumple of metal and the dull whump of exploding air bags, it came to a final stop against a massive, smooth-faced silver beech.
    She was stunned for only an instant—then she groped frantically for the chrome handle, flung open the door, and bolted out. She spun to face the car and her invisible assailant, her arms still beating at the air, backing away into the center of the road. Exhausted, she began to slow down and then stopped. She stood silently for a moment, panting, then lifted both arms and examined herself. Her navy blue A-line skirt was blotched with a musty white powder. Her blouse hung loose and her silver wire choker was nowhere in sight. She stared in dismay at her shoes, her legs, and her arms; she wiped her face with the back of her forearm and studied her hands.
    Finally, she looked at her car.
    The gleaming silver hood lay crumpled back, echoing the contour of the stately beech, and steam hissed up through the grill and from under both sides. The driver’s door was still open, revealing two limp air bags sagging from the console, and the once-spotless black interior was now blasted with the same white powder that thoroughly covered her.
    Kathryn took a deep breath and inched back toward the car, hesitating at the open door; there was her purse, still resting in the center of the passenger seat. She ducked her head, anxiously searching every inch of air space inside. Then, with a lunge, she snatched her purse and scrambled backward, taking one last swing at the air in front of her face.
    She dusted her skirt, straightened her blouse and hair, and then stopped. She listened again to the chorus of cicadas, crickets,and beetles that now seemed to completely surround and press in on her. She stood for a moment weighing her options. She glanced back up the road toward the open gate now a quarter of a mile behind her. She could go back—but back to what? Back to ignorance and frustration and doubt? Back to where no one would listen or help? Back to a funeral where the truth would be buried forever along with the body? Along with Jimmy’s body …
    She peered down the road in the direction of the mysterious biohazard, still nowhere in sight. She refastened the top button of her blouse and then, turning toward the invisible research facility somewhere in the distance, Kathryn Guilford continued to do what she came to do.
    Ten sweltering minutes later her blue sling-back sandals were coated with gravel dust. Sweat ran freely down her face and neck, and her satin blouse clung heavily to the center of her back. Rounding a bend, she came at last upon a building—a pale green Quonset hut attached to a rectangular outbuilding at the back, forming a large T. The curved, corrugated surface of the roof was broken by a series of large skylights, giving it more the appearance of a greenhouse than a building. The gravel road dead-ended into a small parking lot directly in front of the Quonset.
    In the parking lot were two automobiles. On the right was a tidy, silver-blue Camry; on the left was a faded, rusting relic that during some geologic era had been a ’64 Dodge Dart. The car slumped decidedly to the left; the original color was anyone’s guess. The backseat was split open across the top with puffs of twisted oatmeal poking through. The seat itself was piled with stacks of black and blue vinyl binders and thick stapled papers, accented by a single Papa John’s Pizza box on top. In the rear window black-and-gold Pittsburgh Pirates and Pittsburgh Steelers caps posed proudly side by side.
    Kathryn stepped up onto the narrow landing, took one last accounting of herself, and knocked. There was no answer. After