Someone was following him—he was sure of it! For nearly fifty miles, from the start of the New Jersey Turnpike leaving Delaware to beyond Trenton, the headlights remained constantly at the same distance behind him; switching lanes as he did, seeming to mirror his every change of speed.

Pulling off at a rest stop, he did not leave the car—just sat and waited, staring into his rearview mirror, the exit ramp in full view behind him. Nothing—just a steady flow of cars driving up to the pumps and then off into the night. After ten minutes, he eased back onto the turnpike.

He snapped on the radio. Listening—even to a late-night talk-radio crazy going on about the JFK assassination—steadied his nerves. It at least provided the illusion he wasn’t entirely alone.

Then, suddenly, just outside of New Brunswick, it was back. Or—he couldn’t be sure—maybe this was a different car. This one stayed with him for ten minutes, fifteen. But when he slowed down to take the exit, it zoomed right past him, a boxy Volvo wagon. A family car.

Had his eyes been playing tricks on him? Or—worse—was it his mind?

It occurred to him, an oddly comforting thought, that he’d had only four or five hours’ sleep over the past two days; his perceptions might be off simply as a physiological result. Thinking about it, he was hit by a wave of exhaustion.

Briefly, he considered spending the rest of the night at a motel. But, no, he was no more than an hour and a half from the city. And—if they were out there—why make it easier on them?

He traveled the rest of the way in the right-hand lane, at a steady fifty-five. Dropping off the car at the lot, he caught a cab and made it home by 1:30 A.M.

The flashing red light at his bedside indicated he had only one message. He was not surprised it was from Perez.

“Hey, Logan, what are you doing to me, man? Lemme hear from you as soon as you get back. Immediately! I don’t care how late!”

Kicking off his shoes, Logan collapsed on the bed. What time is it in Italy? he wondered. But before he’d even done the math, he was asleep.

At that moment, Seth Shein was wide awake, his every sense on full alert. His eye moved from one to another of the four files open before him on his desk at the ACF, each distinctly labeled in black marker: RHOME, KOBER, WILLIAMS, DIETZ.

Again, he picked up the Dietz autopsy report, almost identical to those of Williams and Rhome: “Fulminent hepatic necrosis … pleural effusion … question of pericardial tamponade.” Each of these women had gone from apparent good health to total physiological decompensation and death in a matter of a few hours; their livers shut down, their lungs no longer performing, their hearts weakened beyond hope.

But what about Kober? She’d had the same initial positive reaction to the drug as the others. Why in her case had there been no comparable devastation afterward?

He chuckled to himself. In a way, it was too bad she hadn’t died—that way he’d have an autopsy report on her for comparative purposes.

Already, he’d carefully examined all the women’s treatment schedules. They’d been close to identical. Kober had not missed any treatments, as one line of inquiry had led him to speculate; nor had her dosage ever been even marginally reduced. Like the others, she’d received her full complement of Compound J—two grams’ worth, every other week for over four months.

Idly, he flipped through the Kober file; then, for the third time, pulled out her CAT scan.

He held the film over his head so it was illuminated by the overhead light. There were eight pictures, each representing a slice of the patient’s body at a different level. The liver, homogeneous, took up almost one entire picture; in the next, he once again noted the upper pole of the left kidney, the kidney hilum, the indentation in it where the blood vessels enter and exit. Then … wait a minute, what was this? Where was the upper pole of the right kidney?

Quickly, he turned to the notes on her initial examination. Here was confirmation: this woman has only one kidney!

Shein laid the file aside and leaned back in his chair. On the face of it, this made no sense at all. In fact, it was backward. Like many drugs, Compound J was eliminated via the kidneys. Lacking a kidney, she’d have had more drug in her body than the others, not less. Given the drug’s established toxicity, she should’ve gotten sick and died sooner!

He cupped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. This was always the part where it got to be fun.

He didn’t quite have it yet, but it was coming.