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clothes, there were almost no personal touches to the place. There was a clean water glass on top of the bedside cabinet, but nothing else. Nightingale took a look through the drawers, but they were all empty, except the top one which contained an old Bible. Nightingale flicked through some of the dog-eared pages. It had obviously been well read over the years. He slipped it into his raincoat pocket, and opened the door to the corridor.
    Marlon was leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Thanks, Marlon. I can find my own way out.”
    The big man gave his head a little shake. “Ms. Winthrop said to see you out, so I’ll walk to the main door with you.”
    He didn’t actually say, ‛and make sure you leave,’ but Nightingale thought the implication was clear. Marlon showed Nightingale out and pulled the door closed behind him. Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the darkening sky. He was trying to blow a smoke ring when the door opened again and Ms. Winthrop walked out, carrying a leather briefcase. She saw the cigarette in his hand. “Those things will kill you, you know.”
    “They certainly will, Ms. Winthrop. Still, I’ve heard that non-smokers all die too.” Now she was standing next to him he could see that the business suit came with a skirt that finished a few inches above the knee. The glasses had gone, and so had a little of her formal office manner.
    “But smokers die sooner.”
    “Can I be honest with you?” he said. “Maybe that’s no bad thing. I’m not sure that the extra years would be worth the sacrifice.” He gestured at the door. “No offense, But I’m not sure I’d want to be a guest in there.”
    “I suppose a quick tour of our facility isn’t the best advert for prolonging life to its limits. You have another one of those?”
    Nightingale proffered the pack, then lit her cigarette. She took a drag, trickled smoke slowly out of her nose, then looked carefully at the glowing end. “Eight years,” she said quietly.
    “You gave up eight years ago? Why start again today?”
    “I only gave up buying them eight years ago. I still borrow one from time to time. Just an occasional display of rebellion in the great State of Conformity.” She sighed and took another drag.
    “Long day?”
    “They all are. Where are you staying?”
    He told her.
    “Do you need a ride? Taxis don’t often prowl for fares round here and I’m headed downtown.”
    “I’m okay, thanks. I’ve got a car. Do you have a card? In case I need anything else?”
    “Sure.” She took out a metal card-holder, opened it and handed him a crisp white business card. “What about you? Do you have a card? In case something comes up.”
    “I’m out,” he lied. He took out a pen. “But I can write my number on one of yours.”
    “A reporter without a notebook and cards. This is a first.”
    She handed him another card and Nightingale wrote down his number and gave it back.
    “At least you have a cell,” she said, pocketing the card. She smoked the last of her cigarette, crushed the butt underfoot and gave him a small wave. “Good luck with your story.”
 

CHAPTER 7
     
    It was almost midnight. Nightingale had showered, twice, and he was wearing a brand new white cotton robe that he’d bought from a WalMart store. He lit two white candles and switched off the light, then took off the robe and placed it on the bed next to a small brown leather bag. The bag was several hundred years old but the leather was supple and glossy, as smooth as silk. He untied the bag and took out a large pink crystal, about the size of a pigeon’s egg, which was attached to a silver chain. Also on the bed was the Bible he had taken from the priest’s room.
    He knelt down on the floor, placed the Bible in front of him, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer, the crystal pressed between his palms. When he had finished he opened his eyes and let the crystal swing free on its chain. He pictured a pale blue aura around