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sorry for.”
    Deucalion had no psychic power. Sometimes, however, knowledge arose in him, profound insights and understandings that he recognized as truths, and he did not doubt them or question their source. He
knew
.
    “I don’t
care
that he kills and eats people because he had a bad childhood,” Jelly railed. “If he kills good people, I want some good people to get together and pound the crap out of him. I don’t want them to see that he gets
therapy
.”
    Deucalion turned away from the books. He feared nothing that might happen to him. For the fate of others, however, for this city, he was overcome by dread.
    Victor’s assault on nature and humanity had built into a perfect storm. And now the deluge.

CHAPTER 7
    THE GUTTERS OF THE stainless-steel dissection table were not yet wet, and the glossy white ceramic-tile floor in Autopsy Room Number 2 remained spotless.
    Poisoned by gumbo, the old man lay in naked anticipation of the coroner’s scalpel. He looked surprised.
    Jack Rogers and his young assistant, Luke, were gowned, gloved, and ready to cut.
    Michael said, “Is every elderly naked dead man a thrill, or after a while do they all seem the same?”
    “In fact,” said the medical examiner, “every one of them has more personality than the average homicide cop.”
    “Ouch. I thought you only cut stiffs.”
    “Actually,” Luke said, “this one will be pretty interesting because analysis of the stomach contents is more important than usual.”
    Sometimes it seemed to Carson O’Connor that Luke enjoyed his work too much.
    She said, “I thought you’d have Harker on the table.”
    “Been there, done that,” said Luke. “We started early, and we’re moving right along.”
    For a man who had been profoundly shaken by the autopsy that he had performed on one of the New Race little more than a day ago, Jack Rogers seemed remarkably calm about his second encounter with one of them.
    Laying out the sharp tools of his trade, he said, “I’ll messenger the prelim to you. The enzyme profiles and other chemical analyses will follow when I get them from the lab.”
    “Prelim? Profiles? You sound like this is SOP.”
    “Why shouldn’t it be?” Jack asked, his attention focused on the gleaming blades, clamps, and forceps.
    With his owlish eyes and ascetic features, Luke usually appeared bookish, slightly fey. Now he regarded Carson with hawkish intensity.
    To Jack, she said, “I told you last night, he’s one of them.”
    “Them,” said Luke, nodding gravely.
    “Something came out of Harker, some creature. Tore its way out of his torso. That’s what killed him.”
    “Falling off the warehouse roof killed him,” Jack Rogers said.
    Impatiently, Carson said, “Jack, for God’s sake, you saw Harker lying in that alleyway last night. His abdomen, his chest—they were like blown open.”
    “A consequence of the fall.”
    Michael said, “Whoa, Jack, everything inside Harker was just
gone
.”
    Finally the medical examiner looked at them. “A trick of light and shadow.”
    Bayou-born, Carson had never known a bitter winter. A Canadian wind in January could have been no colder than the sudden chill in her blood, her marrow.
    “I want to see the body,” she said.
    “We released it to his family,” Jack said.
    “What family?” Michael demanded. “He was cloned in a cauldron or some damned thing. He didn’t
have
family.”
    With a solemnity not characteristic of him, eyes narrowed, Luke said, “He had us.”
    The folds and flews of Jack’s hound-dog face were as they had been a day ago, and the jowls and dewlaps, all familiar. But this was not Jack.
    “He had us,” Jack agreed.
    As Michael reached cross-body, under his coat, to put his right hand on the grip of the pistol in his shoulder holster, Carson took a step backward, and another, toward the door.
    The medical examiner and his assistant did not approach, merely watched in silence.
    Carson expected to find the door locked. It