Free Mortal Fear by Mortal Fear Page B

falling darkness, but mercifully free of mosquitoes. As soon as we sit, Drewe asks for a play-by-play of the meeting in New Orleans. I give it to her, glad not to have to keep anything back. She takes in every word with the machinelike precision that carried her through medical school with honors, and when I am done she says nothing. I have held one detail until the end, hoping for a silence like this one.
     “What’s the pineal gland?” I ask.
     She finds my eyes in the gloom. “The pineal body?”
     “I guess, yeah.”
     “It’s a small glandular structure at the core of the brain. In the third ventricle, I think. It’s about the size of a pea.”
     “What does it do?”
     “Until about thirty years ago, nobody thought it did anything. It was considered a vestigial organ, like the appendix. Scientists knew the pineal made melatonin, but no one knew what melatonin did. What does the pineal have to do with anything?”
     “The FBI says the killer cut off Karin Wheat’s head to get to her pineal gland.”
     “What?”
     “Sick, huh? The other victims might be missing theirs too, or else their whole heads.”
     Drewe grimaces.
     “Can you think of any reason why someone would want pineal glands? Do they have any medical use?”
     “I don’t think so. There were some pineal experiments going on at Tulane when I was there, related to breast cancer, I think. But I don’t remember what the findings were.” She pauses. “You can buy melatonin in health food stores, though. God, this reminds me of those PBS shows where they talk about Oriental medicine. You know, how Japanese men pay poachers hundreds of thousands of dollars for rhinoceros horns and tiger testicles and things. All to cure impotence or restore their lost youth or something.”
     My opinion of my wife’s mental acuity has been reaffirmed yet again. She has already broached a theory that seems more logical than that of the police in California, who believe the EROS murders may be the work of a cult.
     “So what is melatonin?” I ask. “What does it do?”
     “It’s a hormone that regulates your sleep cycle. Your circadian rhythms. You know, what causes jet lag. Some people take it to prevent or relieve jet lag symptoms.”
     “Can you remember anything else about it?”
     Drewe touches her forefinger to the tip of her nose and fixes her gaze somewhere out in the darkness. I know this posture well: concentration mode. “I think it controls the release of serotonin, maybe some other hormones. I seem to recall something from one of the journals. Neurobiological stuff. Something to do with the pineal and the aging process. Weird how that fits with the Oriental thing, isn’t it? But that doesn’t mean anything. Murderers don’t read JAMA or Journal of Neuroscience .”
     “Why not?”
     “Well . . . I guess it’s possible.” Drewe grimaces and says, “Men are scum.” A routine comic line of hers that doesn’t sound so funny tonight.
     “So what’s the plan?” I ask lightly, falling into our usual banter.
     “More dictation.” She stretches both arms above her head. “My personal cross to bear.” She begins gathering up the plates. “Which reminds me. Tomorrow you face yours.”
     I feel a sudden chill. “What are you talking about?”
     “Take it easy,” she says, giving me an odd look. “I meant the biweekly burden. Sunday dinner with your in-laws.”
     She turns away and moves through the screen door, but my chill does not dissipate. Over her shoulder she says, “Lately you’ve acted like it’s a trip to the dentist or something.”
     If only it were.
     I rise from the porch and head for my office. Combined with the stress of the past weeks, the trip to New Orleans has exhausted me. After months of anxiety, I have finally done what I should have done long ago. For months I’ve stayed up far too many hours and slept too few, lurking in Level Three in the hope of recognizing the error-free