It was a charred wallet with the black partial remains of two passports folded into it. Cutter said, “Oakley’s wallet, I imagine. And we knew he had a French passport. Look at this.”
The edges were gone and it had blistered but it was recognizably a photograph of Miles Kendig in the passport.
“First photograph I’ve ever seen of him,” Cutter said. “Except for that basic-training group shot. And it looks like it’ll be the last.”
The medical examiner said, “As soon as possible we shall provide you with the fingerprints and the dental survey.”
Ross thought, that meant nothing; they had no fingerprints to compare, no dental records on him.
The sunshine was brittle on the rolling vine-yards. Cutter’s flat stare drew Ross’s eyes up from the ugly remains: Cutter was watching him with a curious fixed intensity. “Well, Ross-what do you think?”
He knew well enough what he thought. He’d traveled so closely with Cutter that he had the feeling he’d developed an ability to read Cutter’s mind. Cutter had no more factual knowledge than Ross had but that didn’t matter. Ross knew what Cutter believed instinctively: that it wasn’t Kendig’s body. He didn’t see how the hell Kendig could have done it.
Abandoning the manuscript-that could be an olive branch: Kendig’s farewell message, the assurance he was quitting the game. But if he was alive he still had it all in his head. He could start the whole business all over again any time he wanted to.
Cutter’s eyes bored deep into him: a plea. Cutter was asking his complicity. It was no good asking himself why; if it had to be explained then probably it wasn’t worth deciding.
A rage to survive was a natural thing, he thought; everybody had it. Everybody had a right to it.
He wondered if someday he’d earn a friend as good as Cutter was to Kendig.
He spoke: a strangled exclamation that escaped from him in a burst. “As far as I’m concerned that’s Miles Kendig’s corpse.”
Cutter nodded slowly.
Ross threw his shoulders back and squinted into the sky, wondering.
