Old Bones

'What I did find out. That Alain du Rocher's buried in the cellar. That no matter what that plaque says, and the prefect of police says, and anybody else says, Alain's body was buried—hidden—under the floor of the old family home.'

'Let me get this straight. You think he wasn't executed by the Nazis? You think somebody's trying to cover up a murder in the family? How could that be? How could everybody have the facts wrong?'

Gideon rocked his head slowly back and forth against the bolster, gazing absently at the ceiling. “It beats me, but everybody is wrong. Alain's in that cellar, not in some mass grave.'

'Maybe they got the body back form the Nazis—to bury it decently, you know?'

'And chopped it into pieces and wrapped it up in butcher paper like so many veal cutlets?'

'No, I guess not.” John was silent for a few moments. His chair, tilted onto its rear legs, tap-tapped softly against the wall. “But look: Realistically, why should anybody expect you to find out it's Alain? I mean, who'd even know he had a sternal foramen?'

Gideon laughed. “Don't you remember? I spent half an hour in the salon the other night—while you were gobbling up hors d'oeuvres—explaining what I was doing to anybody who'd listen; how I was sure the body wasn't Kassel's, how it was built like a du Rocher, how I could find out all kinds of things about it, and on and on.'

'Oh, Christ, that's right. Smart, Doc.'

'Brilliant.'

'Is Joly giving you police protection?'

'No, I'm just supposed to exercise reasonable prudence, was the way he put it. He said the kind of guy who'd send me a letter-bomb probably isn't the kind of guy who'd take a shot at me in the street, or try to run me down with a car, or anything like that—'

'That's true, he probably isn't. But you know, he's sure as hell the kind of guy who'd put cyanide in somebody's wine, isn't he?'

'I suppose he is. Or she.” Gideon stretched and raised himself from the bed. There was a tightness at his temples and a throbbing at the base of his skull. He got headaches so infrequently that it took him a moment to realize what it was. Maybe he was shaken. Or maybe he was hungry.

'I think I'll go get something to eat. I missed dinner. How about you?'

'Me?” John said, his surprised laugh indicating how ridiculous the idea was. “No, I had a steak a couple of hours ago.” He tipped his chair forward and stood up. “I'll keep you company though.'

'That's all right. I wouldn't mind a walk in the fresh air to think things through.'

John looked directly into his eyes. “Doc, let's get something straight right now. The conference is over in just a couple more days, and we go home. Until then I'd be a lot more comfortable if you didn't go anywhere without me. Nowhere. Okay?'

'John,” Gideon said, bridling, “Joly said reasonable prudence, not—'

'Yeah, but I know you; you're not reasonably prudent. You start poking around—'

'Goddammit, I don't—'

'Look, will you just give me a break?” He chopped at the air, his voice rising. “Just humor me for once?'

For no reason he could think of, Gideon burst out laughing. “All right,” he said tiredly, “I'll give you a break.” He clasped John's arm briefly. “Thanks.'

He pulled his windbreaker from the open coat rack near the door and tossed John his. “So I guess you'll be coming to Mont St. Michel with me tomorrow after the session.'

'What's at Mont St. Michel?'

'The Romanesque-Gothic abbey. One of the wonders of the Western world. I wouldn't want to leave without seeing it.'

'Yeah, it also happens to be where Guillaume drowned, right?'

'Well, yes. I might like to have a look at the tidal plain too, out of curiosity.'

'I'm coming, all right,” John said. “Don't look so glum. There's a famous restaurant there.

Mere Poularde. One of the shrines of French gastronomy.” John made a face. “Pancakes again?'

'Omelets.'

'You know the first thing I'm going to do when we get back to the States?” John asked, slipping into his jacket.

'Buy a hamburger.'

'Damn right.'

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SIXTEEN

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THIS time when Julie called him at 7 a.m., he'd been up almost two hours, ostensibly getting his notes ready for class, but mostly brooding about letter-bombs, murders, dismemberments, and the all-around nastiness of