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look at her, a quick look into the van at the rest of us, and dashed back into his concrete and glass hut. He picked up a phone, said something, and nodded. The phone went back into the cradle and he poked his head outside.
    “Visitor parking is on the first level,” he said. “Dr. Kinsey will meet you there.”
    The gate buzzed and parted. A thrill danced up my spine as we drove through. Years ago, I had stood on the sidewalk across the street, desperate for a way in, never dreaming I would be invited inside to poke around.
    The parking structure was dimly lit and chilly. It reeked of gasoline, exhaust fumes, and something else. Something darker, mysterious. Dank places like basements and garages give me the creeps. We walked back into the brilliant sunlight, and I basked in the glow. Much better.
    Past an immaculate flower garden and a tended lawn, we found the main entrance to Weatherfield Research and Development. A revolving glass doorway welcomed us inside. Passing through the spiral was like entering another world.
    The odor of antiseptic hit me hard and tempted a sneeze. I pinched my nose and squinted under the glare of bright fluorescent lighting. The lobby floor was polished white marble, the walls painted a sparkling silver-gray. A stark white security desk took up the center of the room, punctuated by a bank of monitors. Black and white leather sofas created a small waiting area immediately to the right, near a long line of tinted windows. On the left was a bank of elevators, four in a row, each gleaming chrome surface reflecting our images back to us with perfect clarity.
    The desk guard stood up. He looked just as uncomfortable in his black uniform as the guard outside had, and I suddenly smiled. Even the guards matched the décor. Not a single potted plant or hint of color anywhere.
    “Dr. Kinsey will be with you in a moment,” the guard said. His name badge read Smith.
    Yeah, right.
    Smith stared openly. He either didn’t know he was being rude, or plain didn’t care.
    The elevator dinged; the doors to the first on the left slid open. The man who emerged wasn’t the stodgy, bespectacled scientist schlub I’d expected to see running the show. Dr. Kinsey had a lean, swimmer’s body that he showed off beneath brown slacks, a royal blue shirt, and immaculate tie. No lab coat, no clipboard or spectacles. Just thick brown hair, cutshort in a style almost spiky and modern. His pale eyes might have been hazel. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee that showed no trace of gray, even though he had to be at least forty, if not older. The only giveaway that he might be a doctor at all was the silver stethoscope looped around his neck.
    His attention moved around the room, landing on me last. He narrowed his eyes and practically snarled, “No press. You can ask your questions, but no press is allowed in here.”
    My throat squeezed. I was so taken aback by his anger, I couldn’t utter a word in my own defense. His voice had a dry, sandpaper quality that was at once commanding and frightening.
    Trance took a step forward, unafraid. “She isn’t a journalist anymore, sir, she’s one of us.”
    He didn’t seem to hear her. “I remember you,” he said, still glaring at me. “You caused a lot of trouble a few years ago. What is it with you, girl? You get off on this?”
    “Hey!” Trance snapped her fingers. A violet orb the size of a grapefruit hovered above her hand, twirling and crackling, and finally got his attention. “That’s better. Now, if you would curb the attitude for a minute, I will reiterate that Ember is a member of my team. She is not a reporter, and if you deny her access, you can just explain to Detective Pascal and the LAPD that you are not cooperating with an official investigation. Understand?”
    He narrowed his eyes at Trance, then at the orb. “Put that thing away. We’re not here to fight, just share information.”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    Turns out he was Dr.