Brain

Chapter 10

It was after seven when Denise woke up and grabbed for the clock. She was horrified at the time. Being so accustomed to Martin getting up at six, she didn't set the alarm when he slept over. Throwing back the covers, she dashed into the bathroom to jump into the shower. Philips opened his eyes in time to catch her bare back heading down the hallway. It was a wonderful image to start the day.

Oversleeping had been Philips' deliberate gesture of defiance to his old life, and he stretched luxuriously in the warm bed. He thought about going back to sleep but then decided showering with Denise was a better idea.

In the bathroom, he found she was almost finished and in no mood to kid around. Entering the shower stall he got in her way and she petulantly reminded him that she had to present the X rays at the CPC at 8:00 A.M.

"Why don't we make love again?" crooned Martin. "I'll give you a doctor's excuse for being late."

Denise draped her wet washcloth over Martin's head, and stepped out onto the bath mat. While she dried herself she spoke to Philips over the sound of the water. "If you finish at a decent hour, I'll make some dinner tonight."

"I'm not accepting any bribes," shouted Martin. "I'm going to see what Pathology says about my sections on McCarthy's brain, and I'm hoping to take some polytomes and a CAT scan on Kristin Lindquist. Besides, I've got to run a bunch of old skull films through the computer. Today research is going to get top billing."

"I think you're stubborn," said Denise.

"Compulsive," said Martin.

"When do you want me to go to the GYN clinic?"

"As soon as possible."

"Okay. I'll make it for tomorrow."

While Sanger used the hair dryer, conversation was impossible. Philips got out of the shower and shaved with one of her disposable razors. The two of them had to do a complicated dance in the confines of the small bathroom.

As Denise leaned close to the mirror to put on her eye makeup she asked, "What do you think is causing the density variation on those X rays?"

"I really don't know," said Philips, trying to tame his thick blond hair. "That's why I've got the section in Pathology."

Denise leaned back to assay her efforts. "It seems that answering that question would be the first step rather than associating the abnormality with a specific disease like multiple sclerosis."

"You're right," said Philips. "The multiple sclerosis idea originated from the charts. It was a stab in the dark. But you know something? You've just given me another idea."

Philips entered the old medical-school building from the tunnel. The entrance from the street had long since been sealed off. As he climbed the stairs to the lobby, he felt a surprising sentimentality for that time in his life when the future held nothing but promise. When he reached the familiar dark wood doors with the worn red leather panels, he paused. The carefully lettered sign saying MEDICAL SCHOOL had been desecrated by a crude board nailed haphazardly across it. Below, held in place with thumbtacks, was a cardboard sign which read, "Medical School located in the Burger Building."

Beyond the venerable old doors, the decor deteriorated. The old foyer had been demolished, its oak wainscoting sold at auction. The renovation funds had dried up even before the demolition had been completed.

Martin followed a path cleared of debris that ran around what had been an information booth, and started up the curved staircase. Looking down the length of the foyer he could see the barred entrance from the street. The doors had been chained together.

Philips' destination was the Barrow Amphitheater, When he arrived he noticed a new sign that read DEPARTMENT OF COMPUTER SCIENCE: DIVISION OF ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. Philips opened the door and, walking up to the iron piping that formed the railing, looked down into the semi-circular auditorium. The seats had been removed. Arranged in intervals on the various tiers were all sorts of components. Down in the pit were two large units constructed similarly to the small processor that had been brought to Philips' office. A young man in a short-sleeved white coat was working on one of them. He had a soldering gun in one hand and wire in the other.

"Can I help you?" he shouted.

"I'm looking for William Michaels," yelled Philips.

"He's not here yet." The man put down his tools and worked his way up toward Philips. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Just tell Mr. Michaels to give Dr. Philips a call."

"You're Dr. Philips. Nice to meet you. I'm Carl Rudman, one of Mr. Michaels' graduate students." Rudman stuck his hand out through the railing. Philips grasped it, looking out over the impressive equipment.

"Quite a setup you have down here." Martin had never visited the computer lab before and had not imagined that it was so extensive. "It gives me a strange feeling to be in this room," he admitted. "I went to med school here and back in sixty-one, I took microbiology in this amphitheater."

"Well," said Rudman. "At least we're putting it to good use. We probably wouldn't have gotten any space if they hadn't run out of money for the med-school renovation. And this place is perfect for computer work because there's never any people."

"Are the microbiology labs still intact behind the amphitheater?"

"They sure are. In fact, we're using them for our memory research. The isolation is perfect. I'll bet you don't realize how much spying goes on in the computer world."

"You're right," said Philips as his beeper began its insistent sound. He switched it off and asked, "Do you know anything about the skull-reading program?"

"Of course. That's our prototype artificial intelligence program. All of us know a great deal about it."

"Well, maybe you can answer my question. I wanted to ask Michaels if the subroutine dealing with densities can be separately printed."

"Sure can. Just ask the computer. That thing will do just about everything but polish your shoes."

By eight-fifteen Pathology was in full swing. The long counter top with its line of microscopes was packed with residents. Frozen sections had begun arriving fifteen minutes earlier from surgery. Martin found Reynolds in his small office in front of an elaborate microscope fitted with a thirty-five-millimeter camera on the top so he could photograph whatever he was looking at.

"You got a minute?" asked Philips.

"Sure. In fact I already looked at those sections you brought up last night. Benjamin Barnes brought them in to me this morning."

"He's a pleasant fellow," said Martin sarcastically.

"He is cantankerous, but an excellent pathology resident. Besides, I like having him around. He makes me feel skinny."

"What did you find on the slides?"

"Very interesting. I want someone from Neuropath to look at them because I don't know what it is. Focal nerve cells have either dropped out or are in bad shape with dark, disintegrating nuclei. There's little or no inflammation. But the most curious thing is that the nerve-cell destruction is in narrow columns perpendicular to the surface of the brain. I've never seen anything like it."

"How about the various stains. What did they show?"

"Nothing. No calcium or heavy metals if that's what you mean."

"Then there's nothing that you could see that would show up on an X ray?" asked Philips.

"Absolutely not," answered Reynolds. "Certainly not the microscopic columns of cell death. Barnes said you mentioned multiple sclerosis. Not a chance. There were no myelin changes."

"If you had to hazard a diagnosis, what would you say?"

"That would be tough. Virus, I guess. But I wouldn't feel confident. This stuff looks bizarre."

When Philips got to his office Helen was waiting with a virtual ambush. She jumped up and tried to bar entrance with a handful of telephone messages and correspondence. But Philips faked left and went around her to the right, grinning the whole time. The night with Denise had changed his whole outlook.

"Where have you been? It's almost nine o'clock." Helen began to give him his calls as he rummaged around on his desk for Lisa Marino's skull film. It was under the hospital charts, which were under the master skull-film list. With the X ray under his arm, Philips walked over to the small computer and turned it on. To Helen's annoyance he began keying in the information on the input typewriter. He instructed the machine to display the density subroutine.

"Dr. Goldblatt's secretary called twice," said Helen, "and you're supposed to call the instant you arrive."

The output unit activated and asked Martin if he wanted a digital and/or analog display. Philips didn't know so he asked for both. The printout told him to insert the film.

"Also," droned Helen, "Dr. Clinton Clark, Chief of Gynecology called, not his secretary, the doctor himself. And he sounded very angry. He wants you to call. And Mr. Drake wants a call too."

The printout leaped into action and began spewing out page after page of paper filled with numbers. Philips watched with mounting confusion. It was as if the little machine had had some sort of nervous breakdown.

Helen elevated her voice to compete with the rapid staccato typing. "William Michaels called and said he was sorry he wasn't in when you paid your surprise visit to the computer lab. He wants you to phone. The people from Houston called about your chairing the Neuroradiology section at the national meeting. They said they have to know by today. Let's see what else."

While Helen shuffled through her messages, Philips was lifting up the incomprehensible sheets of computer paper covered with thousands of digits. The printer finally stopped producing the numbers and then drew a schematic of the lateral skull where the various areas were letter-coded. Philips realized that by finding the proper letter code he could find the sheet corresponding to the areas he was interested in. But still the printout did not stop. It then produced a schematic of the various areas of the skull and the density values were printed in shades of gray. That was the analog printout and it was easier to look at.

"Oh yeah," said Helen. "The second angioroom is going to be out all day today while they install a new film loader."

At that point Philips was not listening to Helen at all. Comparing areas in the analog printout, Martin saw that the abnormal areas had an overall density less than the surrounding normal areas. This came as a surprise because even though the changes were subtle, he'd had the mistaken impression the density was greater. Looking at the digital readout, Philips understood why. In the digital form it was apparent that there were wide jumps between the values of neighboring digits, which was why on the X rays he had thought there might have been little flecks of calcium or some other dense material. But the machine was telling him that the abnormal areas were overall less dense or more lucid than the normal tissue, meaning the X rays could pass through more easily. Philips thought about the nerve-cell death he'd seen in Pathology, but clearly that wasn't enough to affect X-ray absorption. It was a mystery that Philips could not explain.

"Look at this," he said, showing the digital readout to Helen. Helen nodded and pretended to understand.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"I don't know, unless…" Martin stopped in mid-sentence.

"Unless what?" asked Helen.

"Get me a knife. Any kind of knife." Philips sounded excited.

Helen got the one from the peanut butter jar by the coffee urn, marveling at her weird boss. When she returned to his office she gagged, unprepared for what she saw. Philips was lifting a human brain out of a formaldehyde jar, and putting it on a newspaper, its familiar convolutions glistening in the light from the X-ray viewer. Fighting off a wave of nausea, Helen watched as Philips proceeded to cut a ragged slice from the back of the specimen. After returning the brain to the formaldehyde he headed for the door, carrying the slice of brain on the newspaper.

"Also, Dr. Thomas's wife is ready for you in the myelogram room," said Helen, when she saw Philips was leaving.

Martin didn't answer. He went quickly down the hall to the darkroom. It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dim red light. When he could see adequately, he took out some un-exposed X-ray film, put the brain slice on top of it, and put both into an upper cabinet. Sealing the cabinet with tape, he added a sign: "Unexposed film. Do not open! Dr. Philips."

Denise called the GYN clinic when she got out of the CPC conference. Deciding she would be better able to evaluate the personnel if they did not know she was a physician she just indicated that she was part of the university community. She was surprised when the receptionist put her on hold. When the next person picked up, Denise was impressed with the amount of information the clinic requested prior to an appointment. They insisted on knowing about her general health, and even her neurological status, as well as her gynecological history.

"We'll be happy to see you," said the woman finally. "In fact, we have an opening this afternoon."

"I couldn't make that," said Denise. "How about tomorrow?"

"Fine," said the woman. "About eleven forty-five?"

"Perfect," said Denise. After she hung up she wondered why Martin seemed suspicious about the clinic. Her initial reaction was very positive.

Leaning closer to the myelogram X ray on his viewer, Philips tried to figure out exactly what the orthopedic surgeon had done to Mrs. Thomas's back. It appeared as if she'd had an extensive laminectomy involving the fourth lumbar vertebra.

At that moment Philips' office door burst open, and an angry Goldblatt stormed in. His face was flushed and his glasses clung to the very tip of his nose. Martin gave him a glance, then went back to his X rays.

Being snubbed added to Goldblatt's fury. "Your impudence is astounding," he growled.

"I believe you stormed in here without knocking, sir. I respected your office. I think I should be able to expect the same from you."

"Your recent behavior regarding private property doesn't warrant such courtesy. Mannerheim called me at the crack of dawn screaming that you'd broken into his research lab and stolen a specimen. Is that correct?"

"Borrowed it," said Philips.

"Borrowed it, Christ!" shouted Goldblatt. "And yesterday you just borrowed a cadaver out of the morgue. What the hell has gotten into you, Philips? Do you have a professional suicide wish? If that's the case, tell me. It will be easier on both of us."

"Is that all?" asked Philips with deliberate calm.

"No! It's not all!" shouted Goldblatt. "Clinton Clark tells me you were haranguing one of his best residents in the GYN clinic. Philips, are you going crazy? You're a neuroradiologist! And if you weren't such a good one you'd be outta here on your ear."

Philips remained silent.

"The trouble is," said Goldblatt, with a voice that was losing its angry edge, "you are an outstanding neuroradiologist. Look, Martin, I want you to keep a low profile for a little while, okay? I know Mannerheim can be a pain in the ass. Just stay out of his way. And Christ! Stay out of his lab. The guy doesn't like anybody in there, anytime, much less sneaking around at night."

For the first time since his arrival, Goldblatt allowed his eyes to roam around Philips' cluttered office. His jaw slowly dropped in amazement at the unbelievable disorder. Turning back to Philips, he eyed him silently for a full minute.

"Last week you were fine and doing a wonderful job. You've been groomed from the first to eventually run this place. I want you to return to that old Martin Philips. I don't understand your recent behavior and I don't understand the way this office looks. But I can tell you this, if you don't shape up, you'll be looking for another position."

Goldblatt spun on his heels and walked out of the room.

Philips sat silently staring after him. He didn't know whether to be angry or laugh. After all his thoughts of independence, the idea of being fired was terrifying. As a result, Martin became a whirlwind of directed activity. He ran around the department and checked all the cases in progress giving certain suggestions when needed. He read all the morning films that had accumulated. Then he personally did a left cerebral angiogram on a difficult case, which definitely demonstrated the patient did not need surgery. Getting the medical students together he gave them a lecture on the CAT scanner which left them either dazzled or totally confused, depending on their degree of concentration. In between he kept Helen busy answering all the correspondence and messages that had accumulated over the last few days. And in addition to everything else, he had a clerk rearrange the mass of skull films in his office in a systematic way, so that by three in the afternoon he had also managed to run sixty of the old films through the computer and had compared the results to the old reading. The program was functioning superbly.

At three-thirty, he stuck his head out of his office and asked Helen if there'd been any calls from a Kristin Lindquist. She shook her head. Walking down to the X-ray rooms, Philips asked Kenneth Robbins if the young woman had shown up. The answer was no.

By four o'clock Philips had run another six films through the computer. Once again the machine suggested it was a better radiologist than was Philips by picking up a trace of calcification that suggested a meningioma tumor. Looking back at the film, Philips had to agree. He put the X ray aside to see if Helen could trace the patient down.

At four-fifteen Philips dialed Kristin Lindquist's number. It was answered on the second ring by her roommate.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Philips, but I haven't seen Kristin since before she left for the Metropolitan Museum this morning. She missed her eleven and one-fifteen classes, which is not like her."

"Would you try to locate her for me and have her give me a call?" said Philips.

"I'd be glad to. Frankly, I'm a little concerned."

At quarter-to-five Helen came into Philips' office with the day's correspondence for him to sign so she could post the letters on her way home. A little after five-thirty Denise stopped by.

"Looks like things are more under control," she said, looking around appreciatively.

"Just appearances,' said Philips as the laser scanner snatched an X ray out of his hand.

He closed his office door and gave her a solid embrace. He didn't want to let go of her and when he finally did, she looked up and said, "Wow, what did I do to deserve this?"

"I've been thinking about you all day and reliving last night." He wanted desperately to talk with her about the insecurities Goldblatt had evoked that morning, and tell her that he wanted her to stay with him for the rest of his life. The trouble was that he hadn't given himself any time to think, and while he didn't want to let go of her yet, he wanted to be alone, at least for a while. When she reminded him she had promised to make dinner, he hesitated. Seeing her hurt face he said, "What I was thinking is that if I can get a good enough head start running these old films, maybe we could drive out to the island Saturday night."

"That would be marvelous," said Denise, mollified. "Oh, by the way, I called GYN and made an appointment for tomorrow around noon."

"Good. Who'd you talk with?"

"I don't know. But they were very nice and seemed genuinely happy to accommodate me. Look, if you finish up early why don't you come over?"

Denise had been gone about an hour when Michaels arrived, delighted to see that Philips had finally started working on the program in earnest.

"It's exceeding all my expectations," said Martin. "There hasn't been a single false negative reading."

"Fabulous," said Michaels. "Maybe we're farther along than we'd guessed."

"It certainly looks like it. If this keeps up, we could have a functioning, commercially available system by early fall. We could use the annual radiology meeting to unveil it." Philips' mind raced ahead, imagining the impact. It made his professional insecurity that morning seem ridiculous.

After Michaels left, Philips went back to work. He'd developed a system of feeding the old X rays into the machine that speeded up the process. But as he worked he began to feel progressively more uncomfortable about Kristin Lindquist's absence. A growing sense of responsibility overtook his initial irritation at her apparent unreliability. It would be too much of a coincidence if something happened to this woman that precluded him from getting more X rays.

Around nine Martin dialed Kristin's number again. Her roommate answered it on the first ring.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Philips. I should have called you. But I cannot find Kristin anyplace. No one has seen her all day. I've even called the police."

Philips hung up, trying to deny reality by telling himself it couldn't happen. It was impossible… Marino, Lucas, McCarthy, Collins and now Lindquist! No. It couldn't be. It was preposterous. Suddenly he remembered he hadn't heard from Admitting. Lifting the phone, he was surprised when it was answered after four rings. But the woman who was looking into the case had left at five and wouldn't be back until eight the next morning, and there was no one else who could help him. Philips slammed the receiver down.

"Damn!" he shouted, getting up from his stool and beginning to pace. Suddenly he remembered the section of McCarthy's brain he'd put in the cabinet.

At the darkroom, he had to wait for a technician to finish processing some ER films. As soon as he could, Martin opened the cabinet and retrieved the film and the now dried-up slice of brain. Not knowing what to do with the specimen, he ended up dumping it into the wastebasket. The unexposed film went into the developer.

Standing out in the hallway next to the slot where his film would emerge, Martin wondered if Kristin's disappearance could possibly be just another coincidence. And if it were not, what would it mean? More important, what could he do?

At that moment the X ray dropped into the holding bin.

Martin expected the film to be totally dark, so that when he snapped it up on the viewer, he was shocked. "Holy Christ!" His mouth opened in disbelief. There was a lucent area the exact shape of the brain slice. Philips knew that there was only one possible cause. Radiation! The density abnormality on the X rays was from a significant amount of radiation.

Philips ran all the way down to Nuclear Medicine. In the lab next to the betatron he found what he needed: a radiation detector and a generous-sized, lead-shielded storage box. He could lift the box but it wasn't something he was interested in carrying so he put it on a gurney.

His first stop was his office. The jar with the brain was definitely hot so he donned some rubber gloves and put it into the lead box. He also found the newspaper he'd put the brain on and put that in the box. He even, went out and found the knife he'd used to cut the brain and put that in the box as well. Then with the radiation detector he went around his room. It was clean.

Down in the darkroom, Philips got the wastebasket and dumped its contents into the box. Testing the wastebasket afterward, he was satisfied. Back in his office he took off the rubber gloves, threw them into the box, and sealed it. He checked the room again with the radiation detector and was pleased to find only an insignificant amount of radiation. His next step was to take the film out of the dosimeter he wore on his belt and prepare it for processing. He wanted to know exactly how much radiation he'd received from the brain specimen.

During all this feverish physical activity, Martin tried unsuccessfully to relate all the disparate facts: five young women, presumably all with significantly high levels of radiation in their heads and maybe other parts of their bodies… neurological symptoms suggestive of a condition like multiple sclerosis… all with gynecological visits and atypical Pap smears.

Philips had no explanation for these facts, but it seemed to him that the radiation must have been the central issue. He reasoned that high levels of general radiation could cause alterations in cervical cells and therefore an atypical Pap smear. But it was peculiar that all of the cases had had atypical smears. Once again it seemed difficult to explain a specific phenomenon by coincidence. Yet what else could be the explanation?

When the cleanup was completed, Philips wrote down Collins' and McCarthy's unit numbers and the dates of their GYN visits on his list. Then he hurried down the central corridor of Radiology and cut through the main X-ray reading room. At the elevators, he pushed the down button with a rising sense of urgency. He realized that Kristin Lindquist was a walking time bomb. For the radiation in her head to show up on a regular X ray, there had to be a very large amount involved. And to find her, Martin believed he would have to solve all the puzzling events of the last week. To his surprise he found Benjamin Barnes draped over his work stool. The pathology resident might not have a pleasant personality but Martin had to respect the man's dedication.

"What brings you up here two nights in a row?" asked the resident.

"Pap smears," said Philips with no preamble.

"I suppose you have an emergency slide for me to read," said Barnes sarcastically.

"No. I just want some information. I want to know if radiation can cause an atypical Pap smear."

Barnes thought for a moment before answering. "I've never heard of it from diagnostic radiology but certainly radiotherapy will affect the cervical cells and hence the Pap smear."

"If you looked at an atypical smear, could you tell if it was caused by radiation?"

"Maybe," said Barnes.

"Remember those slides you looked at for me last night?" continued Philips. "The brain sections. Could those nerve-cell lesions be caused by radiation?"

"I kinda doubt it," said Barnes. "The radiation would have to have been aimed with a telescopic sight. The nerve cells right next to the damaged ones looked fine."

Philips face went blank while he tried to put together the inconsistent facts. The patients had absorbed enough radiation to show up on a X ray, yet, on a cellular level, one cell was totally knocked out while a neighbor was all right.

"Are Pap smear specimens saved?" he asked finally.

"I think so. At least for a while, but not here. They're over in the Cytology lab, which operates on bankers' hours. They'll be in in the morning after nine."

"Thanks," said Philips, sighing. He wondered if he should try to get into the lab right away. Perhaps if he called Reynolds. He was about to leave when he thought of something else. "When they read Pap smears, is the result in the chart just the classification, or do they describe the pathology?"

"I think so," said Barnes. "The results are stored on tape. All you need is the patient's unit number and you can read the report."

"Thanks a lot," said Philips. "I know you're busy so I appreciate your time."

Barnes gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, then put his eyes back to his microscope.

The Pathology computer terminal was separated from the lab by a series of room dividers. Pulling up a chair, Martin sat down in front of the unit. It was similar to the terminal in Radiology with a large TV-like screen directly behind the keyboard. Taking out the list of five patients, Philips keyed in the name Katherine Collins, followed by her unit number and the code for Papanicolaou Smear. There was a pause, then letters appeared on the screen as if someone were typing. First it spelled out Katherine Collins very rapidly, followed by a slight pause. Then the date of the first Pap smear followed by:

Adequate smear, good fixation, and proper staining. Cells show normal maturation and differentiation. Estrogen effect normal: 0/20/80. A few Candida organisms seen. Result: negative. Philips checked the date of the first smear while the machine spelled out the next report. The date corresponded to the first date Philips had written on the list. Looking back up at the computer screen, Philips' disbelieving eyes read that the second Pap smear on Collins was also negative!

Philips cleared the screen and rapidly entered Ellen McCarthy's name, her unit number, and the proper code. He felt his stomach tighten into a knot as the machine began to spell out the information. It was the same-negative!

As he went back downstairs, Martin felt stunned. In medicine he had learned to believe what he read in charts, especially in regard to laboratory reports. They were the objective data while the symptom of the patients and the impressions of the doctors were the subjective. Philips knew that there was a small chance there could be an error in laboratory tests just as he knew there was a possibility that he could miss or misinterpret something on an X ray. But the low probability of error was a far cry from deliberate falsification. That required some sort of conspiracy, and Philips took it very personally.

Sitting at his desk, Martin cradled his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. His first impulse was to call the hospital authorities, but that meant Stanley Drake, and he decided against it. Drake's response would be to keep it out of the papers, cover it up. The police! Mentally he ran through a hypothetical conversation: "Hello, I'm Dr. Martin Philips and I want to report that something funny is going on at Hobson University Medical Center. Girls get Pap smears that are normal but are entered into the chart as atypical." Philips shook his head. It sounded too ridiculous. No, he needed more information before the police were involved. Intuitively he felt the radiation was connected even though it didn't make any sense. In fact, radiation might cause an atypical Pap smear and it seemed to Philips that if someone wanted to avoid discovery of the radiation, they might report atypical Paps as normal, but not vice versa.

Philips thought again about the diener. After their abortive meeting the previous evening, Martin had been convinced Werner knew more about Lisa Marino than he'd been willing to disclose. Perhaps one hundred dollars wasn't enough. Maybe Philips should offer more. After all, the affair was no longer an academic exercise.

Martin realized that trying to successfully confront Werner in the morgue was an impossibility. Surrounded with the dead, Werner was in his element, whereas Martin found the place totally unnerving and he knew he would have to be forceful and demanding if Werner was going to be made to talk. Philips glanced at his watch. It was twenty-five after eleven. Werner obviously worked the evening shift, four to midnight. Impulsively Martin decided he'd follow Werner home and offer him five hundred dollars.

With some trepidation he dialed Denise's number. It rang six times before a sleepy voice answered: "Are you coming over?"

"No," said Philips evasively. "I'm in the middle of something and I'm going to keep at it."

"There's a nice warm spot here for you."

"We'll make up for it this weekend. Sweet dreams." Martin got his dark blue ski parka out of his closet and put on the Greek captain's cap he found in the pocket. It was April but the drizzly weather had brought in wind from the northeast and it was chilly.

He left the hospital through the emergency room, leaping from the platform to the puddle-strewn tarmac of the parking area. But instead of walking out to the street, he turned right, round the corner of the main hospital building and headed down a canyon formed by the north face of the Brenner Children's Hospital. After fifty yards it opened up to the inner courtyard of the Med Center.

The hospital buildings soared up into the misty night like sheer cliffs forming an irregular cement valley. The Med Center had been built in spurts without the benefit of a rational overall plan. This fact was obvious in the courtyard, where buildings impinged upon the space with chaotic angles and buttresses. Philips recognized the small wing that housed Goldblatt's office, and using that as a landmark, was able to orient himself. It was only about twenty-five yards farther on that he found the unmarked platform that he knew led into the depths of the morgue. The hospital did not like to advertise that it dealt in death, and the bodies were stealthily excreted into the waiting black hearses far from the public eye.

Martin leaned up against the wall and thrust his hands into his pockets. While he waited he tried to review the complicated events he'd experienced since Kenneth Robbins had handed him Lisa Marino's X ray. It hadn't even been two days, yet it seemed like two weeks. The initial excitement that he'd felt seeing the strange radiologic abnormality had now changed to a hollow fear. He almost dreaded to find out what was going on in the hospital. It was like a sickness in his own family. Medicine had been his life. If it weren't for his immediate sense of responsibility about Kristin Lindquist, he wondered if he'd just forget what he knew. Goldblatt's tirade about professional suicide rang in his ears.

Werner emerged on schedule, turning to secure the door behind him. Philips leaned forward and shaded his eyes in the half-light to make sure it really was Werner. He had changed his clothes, and was now wearing a dark suit, white shirt and tie. To Martin's surprise the diener looked like a successful merchant closing his boutique for the night. His gaunt face, which had appeared evil within the morgue, now gave the man an almost aristocratic cast.

Werner turned and hesitated a moment, stretching out an upturned palm to see if it was raining. Satisfied, he set off toward the street. In his right hand he carried a black briefcase. Over his flexed left arm dangled a tightly clasped umbrella.

Following from a safe distance, Martin noticed Werner had a strange gait. It wasn't a limp; it was more like a hop as if one leg was much stronger than the other. But he moved quickly and at a steady pace.

Martin's hopes that Werner lived close to the hospital were dashed when the man rounded the corner on Broadway and descended the subway stairs. Quickening his step, Philips closed the gap, taking the stairs two at a time. At first he did not see Werner. Apparently the man had had a token. Philips hastily purchased one, and went through the turnstile. The IRT elevator was empty, so Philips jogged down the sloping passage toward the IND platform. As he rounded the corner, he caught sight of Werner's head just disappearing down the stairs to the downtown platform.

Pulling a newspaper out of a waste bin, Philips pretended to read. Werner was only thirty feet away, sitting on one of the molded plastic chairs, engrossed in a book on, of all things, "Opening Chess Moves." In the pasty white subway light, Philips could better appreciate the man's attire. His suit was dark blue, and Edwardian, cut in at the sides. His closely cropped hair had been freshly brushed; with his high-boned, suntanned cheeks, he looked like a Prussian general. The only thing that marred his appearance was his shoes. They were badly scuffed and in need of polish.

With the hospital shift just changing, the subway platform was crowded with nurses, orderlies, and technicians. When the downtown express thundered into the station, Werner boarded and Philips followed. The diener sat on the train like a statue with his book in front of him; his deeply set eyes darted back and forth across the pages. His briefcase, clasped between his knees, stood upright on the floor. Philips sat halfway down the car across from a handsome Spanish fellow in a polyester suit.

At each stop, Martin was ready to disembark, but Werner never budged. As they passed Fifty-ninth Street, Philips became concerned. Perhaps Werner was not going directly home. For some reason that possibility had never occurred to Philips. He was relieved when he finally followed the diener off at Forty-second Street. It was now no longer a question of whether Werner was going home or not. Now it was a question of how long was he going to spend wherever he was headed. Philips felt foolish and discouraged when he reached the street.

The night people were out in force. Despite the hour and the damp chill, Forty-second Street was ablaze with its garish sights. The nattily dressed Werner ignored the bizarre and grotesque people who jostled one another in front of the pornographic movie houses and bookstores. He seemed to be accustomed to the world's psychosexual perversions. For Philips it was different. It was as if the alien world willfully impaired his progress, forcing him to twist and turn and even step into the street occasionally to pass clotted groups of humanity while he kept Werner in sight. Ahead he saw Werner abruptly turn and enter an adult bookstore.

Martin stopped outside. He decided he'd give Werner an hour of this nonsense. If the diener did not go back to his apartment within that time, Philips would give up. Waiting, Martin soon discovered he was fair game for a host of solicitors, peddlers, and outright beggars. They were an insistent lot, and to avoid their entreaties, Philips changed his mind and entered the store.

Just inside, situated in a pulpit-like balcony near the ceiling, sat a lavender-haired, hard-looking woman who peered down at Philips. Her eyes, deeply set above dark circles, wandered over Martin's body as she assessed his suitability for admission. Averting his gaze, embarrassed for anyone to see him in such a location, he walked down the nearest aisle. Werner was not in sight!

A customer pushed past Philips with his arms limply at his sides so that his hands brushed across Philips' backside. It wasn't until the man was already past that Martin realized what had happened. It made him sick, and he almost shouted out, but the last thing he wanted to do was to call attention to himself.

He moved around the shop to make sure Werner couldn't be hidden behind one of the bookshelves or magazine racks. The lavender-haired woman in her crow's nest seemed to follow every movement Philips made, so to appear less suspicious he picked up a magazine, but he discovered it was sealed in plastic wrap and he put it back. On the cover were two men acrobatically coupling.

Suddenly, Werner emerged from a door in the back of the shop and walked past the startled Philips, who quickly turned away to fondle some pornographic video cassettes. But Werner looked neither right nor left. It was as if he were wearing blinders. He was out of the shop in seconds.

Martin delayed as long as he thought he could without losing Werner. He didn't want it too apparent that he was following the man, but as he exited, the woman in the balcony leaned over and watched him go out the door. She knew he was up to something.

Reaching the street, Philips caught sight of Werner getting into a taxi. Frightened that he might lose him after all his effort, Philips leaped from the curb and frantically waved for a cab. One stopped across the street and Philips dodged the traffic to jump in.

"Follow that Checker cab behind the bus," said Philips excitedly.

The cabby just looked at him.

"Come on," insisted Philips.

The man shrugged and put the car in gear. "You some sort of cop?"

Martin didn't answer. He felt the less conversation the better. Werner got out at Fifty-second and Second Avenue; Martin got out about one hundred feet back from the corner and ran up to the end of the block, looking after him. Werner entered a shop three doors away.

Crossing the avenue Martin looked over at the store. It was called "Sexual Aids." It was very different from the adult bookstore on Forty-second Street with a very conservative exterior. Glancing around, Philips noticed that it was situated among antique shops, fashionable restaurants, and expensive boutiques. Looking up he could tell the apartment buildings were all middle class. It was a good neighborhood.

Werner appeared at the door accompanied by another man who was laughing and had his arm over the diener's shoulder. Werner smiled and shook hands with the man before setting out, walking up Second Avenue. Philips fell in behind him, keeping a safe distance.

If he had had any inkling that following Werner was going to entail all these stops, he wouldn't have done it. As it was, he kept expecting the odyssey to terminate. But Werner had other ideas. He crossed over to Third Avenue, making his way up to Fifty-fifth Street, where he entered a small building huddled in the shadow of a glass and cement skyscraper. It was a saloon that looked as if it stood in a 1920's photograph.

After debating with himself, Martin followed, afraid that he might lose Werner if he didn't keep him in view. To Philips' amazement the establishment was jammed with animated customers despite the hour, and he had to squeeze inside. It was a popular singles bar, again unfamiliar turf for Philips.

Scanning the crowd for Werner, Philips was shocked to see him immediately to his left. He was holding a mug of beer and smiling to a blond secretary. Philips pulled his hat a little lower on his head.

"What do you do?" asked the secretary, shouting to be heard over the din of voices.

"I'm a doctor," said Werner. "A pathologist."

"Really," said the secretary, obviously impressed.

"It's got its good and bad points," said Werner. "I usually have to work late, but maybe you'd like to have a drink sometime."

"I'd love it," shouted the woman.

Martin pushed up to the bar wondering if the girl had any idea what she was getting herself into. He ordered a beer, and worked his way over to the back wall, where he found a spot from which he could observe Werner. Sipping his drink, Martin began to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. After all his years of education, he was in a singles bar in the middle of the night, following a bizarre individual who looked frighteningly normal. In fact, when Philips glanced around he was impressed with how easily Werner merged with the businessmen and lawyers.

After taking the secretary's phone number, the diener polished off his beer, gathered his belongings, and caught another cab on Third Avenue. Martin had a short argument with his taxi driver about following, but it was solved by a five-dollar bill.

The ride passed in silence. Philips watched the city lights until they were blurred by an abrupt downpour. The cab's windshield wipers hurried to keep ahead of the rain. They crossed town on Fifty-seventh; went diagonally north on Broadway from Columbus Circle, then turned onto Amsterdam Avenue. Philips recognized Columbia University when they passed it on the left. The rain let up as suddenly as it had started. On One-hundred-forty-first they turned right, and Philips sat forward and asked what section of town they were in. "Hamilton Heights," said the driver, turning left on Hamilton Terrace, and then slowing down.

Ahead, Werner's taxi stopped. Philips paid his fare and got out. Although the cityscape on Amsterdam Avenue had deteriorated as they'd gone north, Philips now found himself in a surprisingly attractive neighborhood. The street was lined with quaint town houses whose varying facades reflected about every architectural school since the Renaissance. Most of the buildings clearly had been renovated, others were in the process. At the end of the street, facing down Hamilton Terrace, Werner entered a white limestone-fronted building whose windows were surrounded with Venetian Gothic decoration.

By the time Philips got to the building, the lights had gone on in the third-floor windows. Up close, the town house was not in such good condition as it appeared from afar, but its shoddiness did not detract from its overall effect; it gave Philips a feeling of tarnished elegance, and he was impressed by Werner's ability to provide for himself.

Entering the foyer, Philips acknowledged that he was not going to be able to surprise Werner by knocking directly on his door. As in Denise's apartment, there was a locked foyer with individual buzzers to the various apartments. Helmut Werner's name was third from the bottom.

Putting his finger on the buzzer, Philips hesitated, not sure if he wanted to go through with the whole thing. He wasn't even sure what he should say, but the thought of Kristin Lindquist gave him courage. He pressed the button and waited.

"Who is it?" Werner's voice, laden with static, issued from a tiny speaker.

"Dr. Philips. I've got some money for you, Werner. Bigmoney."

There was a moment or two of silence and Martin could feel his pulse.

"Who else is with you, Philips?"

"No one."

A raucous buzz filled the once sumptuous foyer and Philips pushed through the door. He headed up the stairs for the third floor. Behind the sole door he could hear multiple locks being released. The door opened slightly so that a sliver of light cut across Philips' face. He could see one of Werner's deeply set eyes looking at him. The brow was raised in apparent surprise. A chain was then removed and the door swung open.

Martin stepped briskly into the room, forcing Werner to back up to avoid a collision. In the center of the room Martin stopped.

"I don't mind paying, my friend," he said with as much assertiveness as he could muster. "But I want to find out what happened to Lisa Marino's brain."

"How much you willing to pay?" Werner's hands were opening and closing rhythmically.

"Five hundred dollars," said Philips. He wanted the amount to sound enticing without being ridiculous.

Werner's thin mouth pulled back in a smile so that deep lines appeared in his hollow cheeks. His teeth were small and square.

"Are you sure you're alone?" asked Werner.

Philips nodded.

"Where's the money?"

"Right here." Philips patted his left breast.

"All right," said Werner. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," said Philips.

Werner shrugged his shoulders. "It's a long story."

I got the time."

"I was just going to eat. You want to eat?"

Philips shook his head. His stomach was a tense knot.

"Suit yourself." Werner turned and with his characteristic gait, went into the kitchen. Philips followed, allowing himself a quick glance at the apartment. The walls were some sort of red velvet, the furniture Victorian. The room had a sleazy, heavy elegance, which was enhanced by the low-level illumination coming from a single Tiffany lamp. On the table was Werner's briefcase. A Polaroid camera, which had apparently been in the case, lay next to it, along with a stack of photos.

The kitchen was a small room with a sink, a tiny stove, and a refrigerator, the likes of which Martin hadn't seen since his childhood. It was a porcelain-surfaced box with a cylindrical coil on top. Werner opened the refrigerator and removed a sandwich and a bottled beer. From a drawer beneath the sink, he got an opener and removed the cap from the beer, putting the opener back where he got it.

Holding up the beer, Werner said, "Would you care for a drink?"

Philips shook his head. The diener came out of the kitchen and Philips backed up. At the dining-room table Werner pushed his briefcase and Polaroid to one side, motioning Martin to sit. The diener took a long draught of beer, then burped loudly as he set the bottle down. The longer he delayed, the less confident Philips felt. He had lost his initial advantage of surprise. To keep his hands from trembling, he put them on his knees. His eyes were glued to Werner, watching every move.

"Nobody can live on a diener's salary," said Werner. Philips nodded, waiting. Werner took a bite of his sandwich. "You know I come from the old country," said Werner with his mouth full, "from Rumania. It's not a nice story because the Nazis killed my family and took me back to Germany when I was five years old. That was the age I started handling corpses in Dachau…" Werner went on to tell his story in grisly detail, how his parents had been killed, how he'd been treated in the concentration camps, and how he was forced to live with the dead. The gruesome story went on and on and Werner did not spare Martin a single repulsive chapter. Philips tried on several occasions to interrupt the ghastly tale, but Werner persisted and Philips felt his fixity of purpose melt like wax before a hot coal. "Then I came to America," said Werner, finishing his beer with a loud sucking sound. He scraped back his chair and went into the kitchen for another. Philips, numb from the story, watched him from the table. "I got a job with the medical school in the morgue," yelled Werner as he opened the drawer beneath the sink. Below the bottle opener were several large autopsy knives Werner had spirited out of the morgue when autopsies were still done on the old marble slab. He grasped one of them, and point first, slid the knife up inside the left sleeve of his jacket. "But I needed more money than the salary." He opened the beer bottle and replaced the opener. Closing the drawer, he turned and came back toward the table.

"I only want to know about Lisa Marino," said Martin, limply. Werner's life story had made Philips conscious of his physical fatigue.

"I'm coming to that," said Werner. He took a sip from the fresh beer, then put it on the table. "I started making extra money around the morgue when anatomy was more popular than it is now. Lots of little things. Then. I hit on the idea of pictures. I sell them on Forty-second Street. I've been doing it for years." With one of his arms Werner made a gesture of introduction around his apartment.

Philips let his eyes roam the dimly lit room. He'd vaguely been aware the red velvet walls were covered with pictures. Now when he looked, he realized the pictures were lewd, gruesome photos of nude female corpses. Philips slowly turned his attention back to the leering Werner.

"Lisa Marino was one of my best models," said Werner. He picked up the pile of Polaroid shots on the table and dumped them in Philips' lap. "Look at them. They're bringing top dollar, especially on Second Avenue. Take your time. I've got to go to the bathroom. It's the beer; it goes right through me."

Werner walked around the stunned Philips and disappeared through the bedroom door. Martin reluctantly looked down at the sickeningly sadistic photos of Lisa Marino's corpse. He was afraid to touch them, as if the mental aberration they represented might rub off on his fingers. Werner had obviously misinterpreted Philips' interest. Perhaps the diener didn't know anything about the missing brain, and his suspicious behavior was only owing to his illicit trade in necropbilic photos. Philips felt the stirrings of nausea.

Werner had gone through the bedroom and into the bathroom. He ran the water at a rate that sounded like someone urinating and, reaching into his sleeve, he extracted the long slender autopsy knife. He grabbed it in his right hand like a dagger, then moved silently back through the bedroom.

Philips was sitting fifteen feet away, his back to Werner, his head bowed, looking at the photos in his lap. Werner paused just beyond the bedroom doorway. His slender fingers tightened around the worn wooden handle of the knife and he pressed his lips tightly together.

Philips picked up the pictures and lifted them in preparation of putting them face-down on the table. He got them as far as his chest when he was aware of motion behind him. He started to turn. There was a scream!

The knife blade plunged down just behind the right clavicle at the base of the neck, slicing through the upper lobe of the lung before piercing the right pulmonary artery. Blood poured into the opened bronchus, causing a reflex agonal cough, which sent the blood hurling from the mouth in a ballistic arc over the top of Philips' head, drenching the table in front of him.

Martin moved by animal reflex, jumping to the right and grabbing the beer bottle in the process. Spinning around, he was confronted by the sight of Werner staggering forward, his hand groping vainly to pull out a stiletto buried to the hilt in his neck. With only a gurgle issuing from his throat, his thrashing body fell forward onto the table before crashing in a heap on the floor. The autopsy knife Werner had been holding clattered as it hit the table and skidded off with a thump.

"Don't move, and don't touch anything," yelled Werner's assailant, who had come through the open door to the hallway. "It's a good thing we decided to put you under surveillance." He was the Spanish-American with the heavy mustache and polyester suit Philips remembered seeing on the subway. "The idea is to hit either a major vessel or the heart, but this guy wasn't going to give me any time." The man leaned over and tried to pull his knife from Werner's neck. Werner had collapsed with his head against his right shoulder and the blade was trapped. The assailant stepped over the twitching diener to give himself a better purchase on the weapon.

Philips had recovered enough from the initial shock to react as the man bent down by the table. Swinging the beer bottle in a full arc, Martin brought it down on the intruder's head. The man had seen the blow coming and, at the last minute, had turned slightly away so some of the force was dissipated on his shoulder. Still, it sent him sprawling on top of his dying victim.

In the grip of utter panic, Philips started to run, still clutching the beer bottle. But, at the door, he thought he heard noises in the hallway below, making him afraid that the killer wasn't alone. (Stabbing the doorjamb to reverse his direction, he dashed back through Werner's apartment. He saw that the killer had regained his feet but was still stunned, holding his head with both hands.

Martin rushed to a rear window in the bedroom and threw up the sash. He tried to open the screen but couldn't, so he bashed it out with his foot. Once out on the fire escape, he plummeted down. It was miraculous he didn't stumble, because his exit was more like a controlled fall. On the ground, he had no choice of direction; he had to run east. Just beyond the neighboring building, he entered a vegetable garden in a vacant lot. To his right there was a hurricane fence that barred the way back to Hamilton Terrace.

The ground fell off sharply as he ran eastward and he found himself sliding and falling down a steep rock-strewn hill. The light was now behind him and he advanced into darkness. Soon he tumbled against a wire fence. Beyond it was a drop often feet into an automobile junkyard. Beyond that was the weakly illuminated expanse of St. Nicholas Avenue. Philips was about to scale the low fence when he realized it had been cut. He squeezed through the convenient opening and swung himself down the cement wall, dropping the last few feet blindly.

It wasn't a real junkyard. It was just a vacant area where abandoned cars had been left to rust. Carefully, Martin picked his way between twisted metal hulks toward the light on the avenue in front of him. At any second he expected to hear pursuers.

Once on the street, he could run more easily. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Werner's apartment. Vainly, he looked for a police cruiser. He saw no one. The buildings on either side of him had deteriorated, and as Philips looked from side to side, he realized that many of the structures were burned out and abandoned. The huge empty tenements looked like skeletons in the dark, misty night. The sidewalks were cluttered with trash and debris.

Suddenly, Philips realized where he was. He'd run directly into Harlem. The realization slowed his pace. The dark and deserted scene accentuated his terror. Two blocks farther on Martin saw a ragged group of street-tough blacks who were more than a little shocked at Philips' running figure. They paused in their drug-dealing to watch the crazy white fellow run past them, heading toward the center of Harlem.

Although he was in good shape, the strenuous pace soon exhausted him and Martin felt as if he was about to drop, each breath bringing a stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, in desperation, he ducked into a dark, doorless opening, his breath coming in harsh gasps while his feet stumbled over loose bricks. By holding on to the damp wall, he steadied himself. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell. But he ignored it. It was such a relief to stop running.

Cautiously, he leaned out and struggled to see if anyone had followed him. It was quiet, deathly quiet. Philips smelled the person before he felt the hand that reached out from the black depths of the building and grabbed his arm. A scream started in his throat, but when it escaped from his mouth it was more like the bleat of a baby lamb. He leaped out of the doorway, thrashing his arm as if it were in the grasp of a venomous insect. The owner of the hand was inadvertently pulled from the doorway and Martin found himself looking at a drug-sodden junkie, barely capable of standing upright. "Christ!" shouted Philips as he turned and fled back into the night.

Deciding not to stop again, Philips settled into his usual jogging pace. He was hopelessly lost, but he reasoned that if he kept going straight, he'd eventually have to run into some sort of populated area.

It had started to rain again, a fine mist that swirled around in the glow of the infrequent street lamps.

Two blocks farther Philips found his oasis. He'd reached a broad avenue and on the corner was an all-night bar with a garish neon Budweiser sign that blinked a blood-red wash over the intersection. A few figures huddled in nearby doorways as if the red sign offered some sort of haven from the decaying city.

Running a hand through his damp hair, Martin felt a stickiness. In the light of the Budweiser sign, he realized it was a splattering of Werner's blood. Not wishing to appear like he'd been in a brawl, he tried to wipe the blood off with his hand. After several passes, the stickiness disappeared and Philips pushed open the door.

The atmosphere in the bar was syrupy and thick with smoke. The deafening disco music vibrated so that Martin could feel each beat in his chest. There were about twelve people in the bar, all in a partial stupor, and all black. In addition to the disco music, a small color television was transmitting a 1930's gangland movie. The only person watching was the burly bartender who was wearing a dirty white apron.

The faces of the customers turned toward Philips and sudden tension filled the air like static electricity before a storm. Philips felt it instantly, even through his panic. Although Philips had lived in New York for almost twenty years, he'd shielded himself from the desperate poverty that characterized the city just as much as the ostentatious wealth.

Now advancing into the bar warily, he half-expected to be attacked at any moment. As he passed, the threatening faces swung around to follow his progress. Ahead of him, a bearded man turned on the bar stool and planted himself directly in Philips' path. He was a muscular black whose body glistened with sheer power in the muted light. "Come on, Whitey," he snarled.

"Flash," snapped the bartender. "Ease off." Then, to Philips, he said: "Mister, what the fuck are you doin' here. You want'a get killed?"

"I need a phone," managed Philips.

"In the back," said the bartender, shaking his head in disbelief.

Philips held his breath as he stepped around the man called Flash. Finding a dime in his pocket, he then searched for the phone. He found one near the toilets but it was occupied by a fellow who was having an argument with his girlfriend. "Look, baby, whatta' you going and crying for?"

Earlier, in his panic, Martin might have tried to wrest the phone from the man, but now he was at least partially in control and he walked back into the bar and stood at the very end to wait. The atmosphere had relaxed a degree and conversations had recommenced.

The bartender demanded cash up front, then served him his brandy. The fiery fluid soothed his jangled nerves and helped focus his thoughts. For the first time since the unbelievable event of Werner's death, Martin was able to consider what had happened. At the moment of the stabbing he'd thought that he'd been a coincidental accessory and that the fight was between Werner and his assailant. But then the assailant had said something that suggested he'd been following Philips. But that was absurd! Martin had been following Werner. And Martin had seen Werner's knife. Could the diener have been about to attack him? Trying to think about the episode made Philips feel more confused, especially when he remembered he'd seen the assailant on the subway that night. Philips downed his drink and paid for another. He asked the bartender where he was and the man told him. The names of the streets meant nothing to Philips.

The black fellow who'd been arguing on the phone passed behind Philips and left the bar. Martin pushed off his stool, and taking his fresh drink, he headed back toward the rear of the room. He felt somewhat calmer and thought he could make a more intelligent case to the police. There was a little shelf below the phone and Philips put his drink there. Dropping in a coin, he dialed 911.

Over the sound of the disco and the TV he could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. He wondered if he should say anything about his discoveries and the hospital, but decided it would only add confusion to an already confused situation. He decided not to say anything about his medical concerns unless he was specifically asked what he was doing at Werner's apartment in the middle of the night. A bored husky voice answered.

"Division Six. Sergeant McNeally speaking."

"I want to report a murder," said Martin, trying to keep his voice even.

"Where about?" asked the sergeant.

"I'm not sure of the address, but I'll be able to recognize the building if I see it again."

"Are you in any danger right now?"

"I don't think so. I'm in a bar in Harlem…"

"A bar! Right, mac," interrupted the sergeant. "How many drinks have you had?"

Philips realized the man thought he was a crank. "Listen. I saw a man get knifed."

"A lot of people get knifed in Harlem, my friend. What's your name?"

"Dr. Martin Philips. I'm staff radiologist at the Hobson University Medical Center."

"Did you say Philips?" The sergeant's voice had changed.

"That's right," said Martin, surprised at the sergeant's reaction.

"Why didn't you say that immediately. Look, we've been waiting for your call. I'm supposed to transfer you immediately to the Bureau. Hold on! If you get cut off, call me right back. Okay!"

The policeman didn't wait for a response. There was a click as Philips was put on hold. Pulling the receiver away from his ear, Martin looked at it as if it would explain the odd conversation. He was sure the sergeant had said that he'd been waiting for his call! And what did he mean by the Bureau? The Bureau of what?

A series of clicks was followed by the sound of someone else picking up the other end of the line. This voice was intense and anxious.

"All right, Philips, where are you?"

"I'm in Harlem. Who is this?"

"My name is Agent Sansone. I'm the Assistant Director of the Bureau here in the city."

"What Bureau?" Philips' nerves, which had begun to settle, tingled as if he were connected to a galvanic source.

"The FBI, you idiot! Listen, we may not have much time. You've got to get out of that area."

"Why?" Martin was bewildered, but he sensed Sansone's seriousness.

"I don't have time to explain. But that man you clobbered on the head was one of my agents trying to protect you. He just reported in. Don't you understand? Werner's involvement was just a freak accident."

"I don't understand anything," shouted Philips.

"It doesn't matter," snapped Sansone. "What matters is getting you out of there. Hang on, I've got to see if this is a secured line."

There was another click while Philips was put on hold. Glaring at the silent phone, Philips' emotions were strung out to the point that he felt anger. The whole thing had to be a cruel joke.

"The line's not secure," said Sansone, coming back on the phone. "Give your number and I'll call you back."

Philips gave him the number and hung up. His anger began to fragment into renewed fear. After all, it was the FBI.

The phone jangled under Philips' hand, startling him. It was Sansone. "Okay, Philips. Listen! There is a conspiracy involving the Hobson University Medical Center, which we've been secretly investigating."

"And it involves radiation," blurted Philips. Things started to make sense.

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," said Philips.

"Very good. Listen, Philips, you're needed in this investigation, but we're afraid you might be under surveillance. We've got to talk to you. We need someone inside the medical center, understand?" Sansone didn't wait for Philips to respond. "We can't have you come here in case you are being followed. The last thing we want at this moment is to let them know the FBI is investigating them. Hold on."

Sansone went off the line but Philips could hear a discussion in the background.

"The Cloisters, Philips. Do you know the Cloisters?" asked Sansone, coming back on the line. "Of course," said Martin, bewildered.

"We'll meet there. Take a cab and get out at the main entrance. Send the cab away. It will give us a chance to make sure you are clear."

"Clear?"

"Not being followed, for God's sake! Just do it, Philips." Philips was left holding a dead receiver. Sansone hadn't waited for questions or acquiescence. His instructions weren't suggestions, they were orders. Philips couldn't but be impressed by the agent's utter seriousness. He went back to the bartender and asked if he could call a cab.

"Hard to get cabs to come to Harlem at night," said the bartender.

A five-dollar bill made him change his mind and he used the phone behind the cash register. Martin noted the butt of a forty-five pistol in the same location.

Before a taxi driver would agree to come, Martin had to promise a twenty-dollar tip and say his destination was Washington Heights. Then he spent a nervous fifteen minutes before he saw the cab pull up in front. Martin climbed in and the taxi squealed off down the once fashionable avenue. Right after they'd pulled away, the driver asked Martin to lock all doors.

They went over ten blocks before the city began to look less threatening. Soon they were in an area familiar to Philips and lighted store fronts replaced the previous desolation. Martin could even see a few people walking beneath umbrellas.

"Okay, where to?" said the driver. He was obviously relieved as if he'd rescued someone from behind enemy lines.

"The Cloisters," said Philips.

"The Cloisters! Man, it's three-thirty in the morning. That whole area will be deserted."

"I'll pay you," said Martin, not wishing to have an argument.

"Wait a minute," said the driver, stopping at a red light. He turned to look through the Plexiglas partition. "I don't want no trouble. I don't know what the fuck you're up to, but I don't want no trouble."

"There will be no trouble. I just want to be dropped offal the main entrance. Then you're on your way."

The light changed and the driver accelerated. Martin's comment must have satisfied him because he didn't complain anymore and Martin was glad of the chance to think.

Sansone's authoritative manner had been helpful. Under the circumstances, Philips felt he could not have made any decisions for himself. It was all too bizarre! From the moment Philips had left the hospital, he'd descended into a world not bound by the usual restraints of reality. He even began to wonder if his experiences had been imaginary until he saw Werner's bloodstains on his parka. In a sense, they were reassuring; at least Philips knew he had not gone mad.

Looking out the window, he stared at the dancing city lights and tried to concentrate on the improbable intervention of the FBI. Philips had had enough experience in the hospital to realize that organizations typically function for their own best interests, not those of the individual. If this affair, whatever it was, was so important to the FBI, how could Martin expect they'd have his best interests at heart. He couldn't! Such thoughts made him feel uneasy about the meeting at the Cloisters. Its remoteness disturbed him. Turning, he peered out the back of the taxi, trying to determine if he were being followed. Traffic was light and it seemed unlikely, but he couldn't be certain. He was about to tell the driver to change direction when he realized with a sense of impotence that there was probably no safe place to go. He sat tensely until they were almost at the Cloisters, then leaned forward and said:

"Don't stop. Keep driving."

"But you said you wanted to be dropped off," protested the cabby.

The taxi had just entered the oval cobblestoned area, which served as the main entrance. There was a large lamp over the medieval doorway and the light glistened off the wet granite paving.

"Just drive around once," said Philips, as his eyes scanned the area. Two driveways led off into the darkness. Some of the interior lights of the building could be seen above. At night the complex had the threatening aura of a Crusader's castle.

The cabby cursed but followed the circular road that opened up for a view of the Hudson. Martin couldn't see the river itself, but the George Washington Bridge with its graceful parabolas of lights stood out against the sky.

Martin swiveled his head around looking for any signs of life. There were none, not even the usual lovers parked next to the river. It was either too late or too cold or both. When they came full circle to the entrance, the taxi stopped.

"All right, what the fuck do you want to do?" asked the driver, looking at Philips in the rear-view mirror. "Let's get out of here," he said.

The driver responded by spinning the wheels and accelerating away from the building.

"Wait. Stop!" yelled Martin, and the cabby jammed on the brakes. Philips had seen three tramps who'd stood and looked over the stone wall lining the entrance drive. They'd heard the screeching of the tires. By the time the taxi had stopped, they were thirty yards back.

"How much?" asked Martin, looking out the window of the cab.

"Nothing. Just get out."

Philips put a ten-dollar bill in the Plexiglas holder and got out. The taxi sped away the second the door closed. The sound of the car died away quickly in the damp night air. In its wake was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of cars on the invisible Henry Hudson Parkway. Philips walked back in the direction of the tramps. On his right, a paved path led off the road and dipped down through the budding trees. Philips could vaguely see that the path split with one fork twisting back and running beneath the arched roadway.

He made his way down it and looked beneath the overpass. There weren't three tramps; there were four. One was passed out, lying on his back and snoring. The other three were sitting, playing cards. There was a small fire going, illuminating two empty half-gallon wine jugs. Philips watched them for a while, wanting to be certain that they were what they appeared, just vagrants. He wanted to figure out some way of using these men as a buffer between himself and Sansone. It wasn't that he expected to be arrested, but his experience with institutions motivated him to investigate and have some idea what to expect, and the use of an intermediary was the only method he could think of. After all, even if it made sense, meeting at the Cloisters in the middle of the night was hardly normal procedure.

After watching for a couple more minutes, Philips walked in under the archway acting as if he were a little drunk. The three bums eyed him for a moment and, deciding he meant no harm, went back to their cards.

"Any of you guys want to earn ten bucks?" said Martin.

For the second time, the three derelicts looked up.

"Whatta we have to do for ten bucks?" asked the youngest.

"Be me for ten minutes."

The three bums looked at one another and laughed. The younger one stood up.

"Yeah, and what do I do when I'm you?"

"You go up to the Cloisters and you walk around. If anybody asks you who you are, you say, Philips."

"Let me see the ten bucks."

Philips produced the money.

"How about me?" said one of the older men, getting to his feet with difficulty.

"Shut up, Jack," said the younger. "What's your whole name, mister?"

"Martin Philips."

"Okay, Martin, you got a deal."

Taking off his coat and his hat, Philips made the man put them on, pulling the hat well down. Then Martin took the bum's coat and reluctantly put his arms into the sleeves. It was an old shabby chesterfield with a narrow velvet lapel. In the pocket was part of a sandwich without a wrapper.

Despite Martin's objections, the other two men insisted on coming along. They laughed and joked until Philips said the whole deal was off if they didn't shut up.

"Should I walk real straight?" asked the younger fellow.

"Yes," said Martin, who was having second thoughts about the masquerade. The path approached the courtyard below the main driveway. There was a steep incline just before the cobblestoned area with a bench at the top for tired pedestrians. The stone wall bordering the entrance ended abruptly at the intersection. Directly across was the main doorway to the Cloisters itself.

"Okay," whispered Martin. "Just walk over to that door, try to open it, then walk back, and the ten spot is yours."

"How do you know I'm not going to just run away with your hat and coat," said the younger fellow.

"I'll take the chance. Besides, I'd catch you," said Philips.

"What's your name again?"

"Philips. Martin Philips."

The tramp pulled Philips' hat even lower on his forehead so that he had to tilt his head back to see. He started up the incline but lost his balance. Martin gave him a shove in the small of the back and he pitched forward and catwalked on his hands and feet up to the level of the drive.

Martin inched up the incline until his eye line was just above the stone wall. The tramp had already crossed the roadway and had reached the cobblestones, the irregular surface momentarily causing him to lose his balance, but he caught himself before he fell. He skirted the central island, which served as a bus stop, and made his way over to the wooden door. "Anybody home?" he yelled. His voice echoed in the courtyard. He stumbled out into the center of the yard and shouted: "I'm Martin Philips."

There was no sound except a light patter of rain, which had just begun. The ancient monastery, with its roughhewn ramparts, gave the scene an unreal, timeless quality. Martin wondered again if he was the victim of a giant hallucination.

Suddenly, a shot shattered the quiet. The tramp in the courtyard was lifted off his feet and dashed to the granite paving. The effect was the same as a high velocity shell hitting a ripe melon. The entrance of the bullet was a surgical incision; the exit was a horrid tearing force that took away most of the man's face and scattered it over a thirty-foot arc.

Philips and his two companions were stunned. When they realized that someone had shot the tramp, they turned and fled, falling over each other down the precipitous incline that fell away from the monastery.

Never had Martin felt such desperation. Even when he'd run from Werner's, he hadn't experienced such fear. Any second he expected to hear the rifle again and feel the searing pain of a deadly bullet. He knew that whoever was after him would check the body in the courtyard and immediately realize the mistake. He had to get away.

But the rocky hillside was a danger in itself. Philips' foot snagged and he fell headlong, just missing an outcropping. As he pulled himself up, he saw a path veering off to the right. Pushing away the underbrush, he made his way toward it.

A second shot was followed by an agonizing scream. Philips' heart leaped into his mouth. Once clear of the forest he ran as fast as possible, hurling himself down the walkway into the darkness.

Before he realized what was happening, he had launched himself into the air at the top of a stairway. It seemed like an incredibly long time before he hit the ground again. Instinctively, he fell forward to absorb the shock, tucking his head under and doing a somersault, like a gymnast. He ended up on his back, and sat up, dazed. From behind, he could hear running footsteps on the walkway, so he forced himself to his feet. He ran on, struggling against dizziness.

This time, he saw the stairs in time, and slowed. He took the steps in threes and fours, then ran on with rubbery legs. The path intersected another, crossing at right angles. It came up so quickly that Martin had no time to decide whether to change his direction.

At the next intersection, Martin's path ended, forcing him to hesitate for a moment. Below and to the right he could see the forest ended. At the edge of the trees there was some sort of balcony with a cement balustrade. Suddenly, Philips heard footsteps again and this time it sounded like more than one person. There was no time to think. He turned and raced down to the balcony. Below him, stretching out about a hundred yards, was a cement playground with swings and benches and a central depression that was probably a wading pool in the summer. Beyond the playground was a city street and Martin saw a yellow cab go by.

Hearing the running steps draw closer, he forced himself down the wide cement stairs that descended from the side of the balcony to the playground. It was only then, hearing the pounding footsteps drawing closer, that he realized he could not get across the open area before whoever it was behind him reached the balcony. He'd be exposed.

Quickly he ducked into the dark recess beneath the balcony, mindless of the stench of old urine. At that moment, he heard labored feet reach the roof. He stumbled blindly back until he hit up against a wall. Turning, he allowed himself to slowly sink to a silting position, trying to control his loud gasping for breath.

The columns supporting the balcony stood out against the dim image of the playground. A few lights could be seen in the city beyond. The heavy footsteps ran across the roof, then descended the stairs. Abruptly, a dark ragged figure whose frantic wheezing breath carried back to Martin was clearly silhouetted as the man stumbled out into the playground, heading for the street beyond.

A series of lighter steps sounded on the balcony above. Philips heard muffled words. Then silence. Ahead the figure was cutting diagonally across the wading pool.

The rifle spoke sharply above Philips and simultaneously the fleeing figure in the playground was sent crashing on its face. Once it hit the cement, it didn't move. The man had been killed instantly.

Martin resigned himself to fate. Further flight was impossible. He was cornered like a fox after a chase. All that was left was the coup de grace. If he hadn't been so exhausted, maybe he would have thought of resisting but, as it was, he just stayed still, listening to light footsteps cross the balcony and start down the stairs.

Expecting to see silhouetted figures appear momentarily within the frames of the columns in front of him, Philips waited, holding his breath.