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revenge.”
    Dumenco was silent for a moment. “In the grand scheme I think you’ve found the difference. My life is more than just a drop in a tiny pond in a vast universe. Justice is what I really want.”
    Craig followed a cement mixer and a dump truck leaving the Main Injector construction site. “And that’s what I’m here for. Let’s solve this case quickly so you can use any remaining time on your physics.”
    “A good plan, kind sir.”
    “All right,” Craig answered. “This morning we went to the site of your accident and also viewed the crater left by the blockhouse explosion. Dr. Piter walked us through the details. My partner, Agent Goldfarb, is right now looking at one of the intact substations to see if he can pick up any clues.”
    “I know nothing of the explosion,” Dumenco said, stifling a cough. “I know only that someone intentionally caused the beam dump, and that I am paying the price for it.”
    Craig wished he had been able to take out his notepad. “So why would someone want to kill you?”
    “I have done many things in my career, Agent Kreident.” Dumenco’s voice was strong but carried a hint of hoarseness from phlegm building up in his throat and lungs. “I left the Ukraine during the downfall of the Soviet Union. I abandoned my career and all my work, and I came here to work as a high-energy physicist. Your American government has been very kind, but I have paid a high price.”
    Craig made a mental note. “And were you welcome here, or did some of the other physicists resent your work?”
    “On the contrary, I was most heartily welcomed. Fermilab is accustomed to international collaborations. After the Soviet collapse, your government was most eager for me to use my talents for your benefit, rather than some less desirable country. They allowed me to work here . . . without hassle, and without the usual paperwork that comes with being a foreign national. The United States values scientific talent.”
    Dumenco cleared his throat, then delicately spat into a wadded handkerchief he withdrew from his pocket. Craig could see flecks of blood in the spittle before the scientist quickly tucked the cloth away.
    “The Russians were quite . . . upset after I had fled. My recent work has apparently made some people very nervous. I received veiled threats, but I was promised protection from your State Department. But it seems someone has managed to kill me anyway, here on the eve of my Nobel nomination.”
    The Ukrainian closed his reddened eyes and took a deep breath. “Did you know the Committee is not allowed to give a Nobel Prize to a dead man? I hope I don’t miss my chance.”
    Craig stopped at a traffic signal, watched the trucks and cars bustling through the center of Aurora. Tall brick buildings lined the narrow main street, coffee shops and greasy-spoon cafes at street level; several blocks away from the downtown area, old suburban houses sat on broad, grassy lots.
    “What about your graduate student, Mr. Bretti?” Craig asked, focusing on the case again. “Was he aware of these threats on your life? Did he feel himself in any danger or assisting you?”
    Dumenco gave a wan smile. “No, Bretti would never have been a target. He is a big talker, and often indignant, but the truth is he has not managed to complete his thesis during the six years he has assisted me, and I doubt he ever will.” He snorted. “I hope he is a better fisherman than a scientist, otherwise he will have a very disappointing vacation.”
    Inside the Medical Center, Trish LeCroix met them like a mother hen, scolding Dumenco for leaving her. She helped Craig whisk him off to his hospital room. The old physicist endured her ministrations as she took his blood pressure, temperature, heart and respiratory rate, and prodded him into changing back into his hospital gown. She made a point of taking his street clothes, his keys, and his wallet, so she could put them in a hospital locker.
    Dumenco seemed