"That is true.”

Patterson hesitated for an instant, his surprise visible. He had counted on my taking the Fifth.

"And is it true that on this occasion you did not deposit the money in any of your various accounts?”

"That is also true," I said.

"So several weeks before your morgue supervisor inexplicably deposited thirty-five hundred dollars into her checking account, you walked out of Signet Bank with ten thousand dollars cash on your person?”

“No, sir, I did not. In my financial records you should have found a copy of a cashier's check made out to the sum of seven thousand, three hundred and eighteen pounds sterling. I have my copy here.”

I got it out of my briefcase.

Patterson barely glanced at it as he asked the court reporter to tag it as evidence. "Now, this is very interesting," he said. "You purchased a cashiers check made out to someone named Charles Hale. Was this some creative scheme of yours to disguise payoffs you were making to your morgue visor and perhaps to others? Did this individual termed Charles Hale turn around and convert pounds flack into dollars and route the cash elsewhere - perhaps to Susan Story?”

“No," I said. "And I never delivered the check to Charles Hale.”

“You didn't?”

He looked confused “What did you do with it?”

'I gave it to Benton Wesley, and he saw to it that the a was delivered to Charles Hale. Benton Wesley -"

He cut me off. “The story just gets more preposterous who is Charles Hale?”

"I would like to finish my previous statement," I said.

"Who is Charles Hale?”

"I'd like to hear what she was trying to say," said a man in a plaid blazer.

"Please," Patterson said with a cold smile.

"I gave the cashier's check to Benton Wesley. He is a special agent for the FBI, a suspect profiler at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico." A woman timidly raised her hand. "Is he the one I've read about in the papers? The one they call in when there are these awful murders like, the ones in Gainesville?”

"He is the one," I said. "He is a colleague of mine. He was also the best friend of a friend of mine, Mark James, who also was a special agent for the FBI.”

"Dr. Scarpetta, let's get the record straight here," Patterson said impatiently. "Mark James was more than a quote, friend of yours.”

"Are you asking me a question Mr. Patterson?”

"Aside from the obvious conflict of interest involved in the chief medical examiner's sleeping with an FBI agent, the subject is non-germane. So I won't ask-.“

I interrupted him. "My relationship with Mark James began in law school. There was no conflict of interest, and for the record, I object to the Commonwealth's Attorney's reference to whom I allegedly was sleeping with.”

The court reporter typed on.

My hands were clasped so tightly my knuckles were white.

Patterson asked again, "Who is Charles Hale and why would you give him the equivalent of ten thousand dollars?”

Pink scars flashed in my mind, and I envisioned two tigers attached to a stump shiny with scar tissue.

"He was a ticket agent at Victoria Station in London," I said.

"Was?”

"He was on Monday, February eighteenth, when the bomb went off.”

No one told me. I heard reporters on the news all day and had no idea until my phone rang on February 19 at two-fourty-one A.M. It was six-forty-one in the morning in London, and Mark had been dead for almost a day. I was so stunned as Benton Wesley tried to explain, that none of it made any sense.

“That was yesterday, I read about that yesterday. You mean it happened again?”

"The bombing happened yesterday morning during rush hour. But I just found out about Mark. Our legal in London just notified me.”

"You're sure? You're absolutely sure?”

“Jesus, I'm sorry, Kay.”

“They've identified him with certainty?”

“With certainty.’

"You're sure. I mean.. “

"Kay. I'm at home. I can be there in an hour.”

"No, no.”

“I was shivering all over but could not cry. I wandered through my house, moaning quietly and wringing my hands.

"But you did not know this Charles Hale prior to his being injured in the bombing, Dr. Scarpetta. Why would you give him ten thousand dollars?”

Patterson dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

"He and his wife have wanted children and could not have them.”

"And how would you know such an intimate detail about strangers?”

“Benton Wesley told me, and I responded by suggesting Bourne Hall, the leading research facility for in vitro fertilization. IVF is not covered by national health insurance.”

"Bur you said the bombing was way back in February. You just wrote the check in November.”

"I did not know about the Hales' problem until this past fall, when the FBI had a photo spread for Mr. Hale to look at and somehow learned of his difficulties. I'd told Benton long ago to let me know if there was ever anything I could do for Mr. Hale.’

"Then you took it upon yourself to finance in vitro fertilization for strangers?” Patter asked as if I'd just told him that I believed in leprechauns.

"Yes.”

"Are you a saint, Dr. Scarpetta?”

"'No.”

"Then. please explain Your motivation.”

"Charles Hale tried to help Mark.”

"Tried to help him?” Patterson was pacing. "Tried to help him buy a ticket or catch a train or find the men's room? Just what is it that you mean?”

"Mark was conscious briefly, and Charles Hale was seriously injured on the ground next to him. He tried to move rubble off Mark. He talked to him, took off his jacket, and wrapped it around… He, uh, tried to stop the hemorrhaging. He did everything he could. There was nothing that would have saved him, but he wasn't alone. I am so grateful for that. Now there will be a new life in the world, and I am thankful I could do something in return. It helps. There is at least some meaning. No. I'm not a saint. The need was mine, too. When I helped the Hales, I was helping me.”

The room was so quiet it was as if it were empty.

The woman wearing red lipstick leaned forward a little to get Patterson's attention.

"I expect Charlie Hale is way over there in England. But I wonder if we could subpoena Benton Wesley?”

"It's not necessary to subpoena either one of them," I answered. "Both of them are here.”

When the foreman informed Patterson that the special grand jury had refused to indict, I was not there to see it. Nor was I present when Grueman was told. As soon as I had finished testifying, I had begun frantically looking for Marino.

"I saw him come out of the men's room maybe a half hour ago," said a uniformed officer I found smoking a by a water fountain. "Can you try him on your radio?” I asked.

Shrugging, he unfastened his radio from his belt and asked the dispatcher to raise Marino. Marino did not respond. I took the stairs and broke into a trot when I got outside. When I was in my car, I locked the doors and started the engine. I grabbed the phone and tried headquarters, which was directly across the street from the courthouse. While a detective in the squad room told me that Marino wasn't in, I drove through the lot in back looking for his white Ford LTD. It. wasn't there. Then I pulled into an empty reserved place and called Neils Vander.

"You remember the burglary on Franklin - the prints you recently ran that matched up with Waddell?”

"The burglary in which the eiderdown vest was-.”

"That's the one.”

“I remember it.”

"Was the complainant's ten print card turned in for exclusionary purposes?”

“No, I didn't have that. Just the latents recovered from the scene.”

"Thank you, Neils.”

“Next I called the dispatch.

“Can you tell me if Lieutenant Marino is marked on?”

I asked.

She came back to me, "He is marked on.”

“Listen, please see if you can, raise him and find out where he is. Tell him this is Dr. Scarpetta and it's urgent.”