“Don’t worry about getting all of them right,” Dr. Lane is saying over the intercom. “We don’t expect you to get all of them right.”

“Green, red, blue, red, blue, green,” Basil’s confident voice fills the room.

A researcher marks down results on a data-entry sheet while the MRI technician checks images on his video screen.

Dr. Lane pushes the talk button again. “Mr. Jenrette? You’re doing an excellent job. Can you see everything okay?”

“Ten-four.”

“Very good. Every time you see that black screen, you are nice and still. No talking, just look at the white dot on the screen.”

“Ten-four.”

She releases the talk button and says toBenton, “What’s with the cop jargon?”

“He was a cop. That’s probably how he was able to get his victims into his car.”

“Dr. Wesley?” the researcher says, turning around in her chair. “It’s for you. Detective Thrush.”

Bentontakes the phone.

“What’s up,” he asks Thrush, a homicide detective with the Massachusetts State Police.

“I hope you weren’t planning on an early bedtime,” Thrush says. “You hear about the body found this morning out byWalden Pond?”

“No. I’ve been locked up in this place all day.”

“White female, unidentified, hard to tell her age. Maybe in her late thirties, early forties, shot in the head, the shotgun shell shoved up her ass.”

“News to me.”

“She’s been autopsied already, but I thought you might want to take a look. This one ain’t the average bear.”

“I’ll be finished up in less than an hour,”Bentonsays.

“Meet me at the morgue.”

The house is quiet and Kay Scarpetta walks from room to room, turning on every light, unsettled. She listens for the sound of a car or a motorcycle, listens for Marino. He is late and hasn’t returned her phone calls.