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rubble around them started to glow like the flowers in
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. ‘Acetone fluoresces in the right conditions. One of them is ultraviolet light.’
    Eklund stared with amazement. ‘I’ll be damned.’
    ‘Based on this, I’d say that your theory is correct. They blew the upper floors, and the acetone fell from above like a waterfall. It burns
really
hot, so there was no need to bring in gasoline or any other accelerants.’
    ‘They used the lab against itself.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    Dial hated to admit it, but he was impressed with the planning. He had seen a lot of creative ways to kill, but this was really ingenious. ‘Run a history of every scientist working here. I mean a
full
history. I want to know what their specialties were, where they went to school, what they did in their personal lives, all of it. Find out who might be targeting them.’
    ‘Already on it,’ Eklund assured him.
    ‘Good,’ Dial said as he glanced around the grisly room. ‘I get the sense these bastards aren’t done killing yet. The sooner we get to them, the better.’

6
Duquesne Heights
Pittsburgh, PA
    When Mattias Sahlberg first arrived in America, he had every intention of settling in one of the few communities in Pittsburgh with a recognized – albeit small – Swedish population. Friends who were familiar with the city’s ethnic composition had suggested Homestead, Munhall or Braddock: all Monongahela riverfront communities east of the city. There he had hoped to find a pocket of his countrymen, people he could turn to if he ever felt homesick or craved Swedish delicacies like
köttbullar
(meatballs) or
inlagd sill
(pickled herring).
    But his new employer had other ideas.
    They wanted him to focus on his research.
    To encourage his loyalty and to reward his talents, they bought Sahlberg a nice house in the hillside community of Duquesne Heights. With sweeping views of Pittsburgh’s skyline, its three rivers and dozens of bridges, the house was far more expensive than anything he could have afforded on his own. Having grown up in squalor, he jumped at the chance to live there, even though he was the first and only Swede in the neighborhood.
    Not that it really mattered.
    Once he’d settled in, he realized that Pittsburgh was an exceptionally friendly city, filled with immigrants who had left their war-torn countries for steady employment in the steel mills and, more importantly, a chance to pursue the American dream. Before long, he had made dozens of friends from around the world, most of whom had thick accents and calloused hands and a burning desire to give their children a better life than they’d ever had. And even though he had none of those things – thanks to his first-rate education, his job in academia, and his relative youth – he felt comfortable with those that did.
    So much so that he had lived there for nearly six decades.
    Sahlberg’s day started as it almost always did. After a restless night, he rose late to a tangle of sweaty sheets. The noonday sun was waging war against his air conditioner and was temporarily winning the battle. He adjusted his thermostat and waited for the ageing compressor to fight back. A few seconds later, he felt the rush of cold air on his face as he combed his hair and brushed his teeth. It reminded him of the winter winds that used to seep through the thin walls in his childhood home in Sweden.
    Sahlberg headed to his kitchen, where he made a sandwich and poured himself a glass of iced tea before carrying both to the living room table, where he would eat his lunch while surfing the web. It was all part of his daily routine. First he looked at the weather. Then he checked the headlines on several scientific websites. There were a few tidbits about the Human Genome Project, but nothing that really kept his interest.
    Finally he turned his attention to his homeland.
    Sahlberg had come to embrace modern technology in a way that few others of his generation had. Much of that acceptance had