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But if you limit your goals, you get limited results, and she always looked to the top, for her practice, for herself, and for Juan. She noted Juan’s delight at the refrigerator, and how he couldn’t wait to bring Carlos there and let him play with the door within the door. His face had lit up when he saw the photos of Central America in the coffee table book that had pride of place in the little barrio apartment Grady had set them up in. Homesick, poor kid. Then she had remembered—the Breadfruit Park, as people had labeled the place. It had tropical foliage, as close to the feel of the Panamanian rain forest as they’d find in Nevada. She had gotten Grady a pass and was delighted that he took the boys there—and gave her a day free of them.
    Grady had already flown back to Panama the first time when she realized that looking in on the boys, as she’d agreed to, meant more than the occasional ten-minute visit. It was shopping for them, cleaning for them, and cleaning up after them in the case of the first stove fire. After that it was either overseeing the cooking, cooking for them, or arranging for some kind of takeout that they might or might not find too foreign to eat.
    And then they got sick! She ran every test. Checked every source. But she was flying blind with them. Poor kids couldn’t even tell her where it hurt. In desperation she had brought them here to the clinic, where she never kept overnight patients, slept on the waiting-room couch, and watched over them like a mother. She had monitored their condition, kept records worthy of the CDC. Maybe she should have taken them to Children’s, but what kind of care would they get there, on an overcrowded ward? Two boys who couldn’t speak, couldn’t understand? She would spend more time there answering questions than she’d spent caring for the two of them here. Why didn’t you bring them sooner? Couldn’t you see the danger of contagion in an impoverished, overcrowded neighborhood? What kind of doctor … ?
    She’d never meant to leave them alone. Never would have for anything less than the call from Anne Barrington, already in labor. You don’t tell the governor’s niece to make do with an intern because you can’t get a baby-sitter. The delivery should have taken an hour, not four. She was worried when she drove back here. But she never dreamed the boys would be gone. No way they could have walked out of the clinic with their killer fevers, and the bleeding through the skin. Grady, of course, had taken them. That became real clear when she picked up the police message about the break-in. She could have sicced the cops on Grady. But there’d be so many questions. What kind of doctor … ?
    And if they were contagious …
    And now at five-thirty in the morning they were gone. Grady Hummacher could have taken them anywhere. Beyond her help. Two-legged time bombs.

CHAPTER 9
    K IERNAN ADJUSTED HER MASK , stepped back into the autopsy room, and pulled out the gurney. The woman’s face and neck were swollen grotesquely, the edema almost obliterating her features. The skin had torn from the pressure in two places. Postmortem tearing, thank God.
    “Kiernan?” a male voice asked.
    Kiernan turned, shocked to realize she had been so engulfed in the procedure. Jeff Tremaine eyed her questioningly. She said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
    His pale lips twitched nervously, but he said nothing more. She remembered that about him, the silences. Physically, the last five years had been hard on him. The once athletically lanky torso now seemed gaunt and already past the flexibility of youth. His sandy hair was thinner, shorter, now. His face was weathered rather than lined, the blue eyes she recalled glistening in the African night now were dull, his shoulders stooped from years of bending over the sick. It struck her again, as it had on the plane out of Africa, that Jeff Tremaine seemed to be a different man each time she met him.
    The bulky mask hung from