“Not as much as I love you.” He gave me his “Goofy Pete” grin.
“Hmm.”
“Any progress on your DMORT problems?”
“Maybe.”
Pete looked at his watch.
“I want to hear all about it, but right now I'm bushed.”
He drained the bottle and stood. Boyd shot to his feet.
“I think I will mosey with my dog.”
I watched them leave, Boyd dancing around Pete's legs. When I turned, Birdie was peering in from the hall doorway, feet positioned for a quick retreat.
“Good riddance” is what I said. Miffed is what I felt. The damn dog hadn't looked back once.
Birdie and I were watching
Ryan stood on the doorstep, face ashen in the porch light. I avoided repeating my usual opener. He'd tell me soon enough why he was in Charlotte.
“How did you know I'd be here?”
He ignored my question.
“Spending the evening by yourself?”
I tipped my head. “Bacall and Bogart are in the study.”
I opened the door, as I had for Pete, and he brushed past me into the kitchen. I smelled cigarette smoke and perspiration, and assumed he'd driven straight from Swain County.
“Will they mind if I make it a foursome?” Though his words were light, his face told me his heart was not.
“They're flexible.”
He followed me to the den, and we settled at opposite ends of the couch. I clicked off the TV.
“Bertrand's been ID'ed.”
I waited.
“Mostly dental. And some other”—his Adam's apple rose and fell—“fragments.”
“Petricelli?”
He shook his head, a short, tight gesture.
“They were seated at ground zero, so Petricelli may be vapor. What they found of Bertrand was two valleys over from the main site.” His voice was tight and shaky. “Embedded in a tree.”
“Has Tyrell released the body?”
“This morning. I'm escorting it to Montreal on Sunday.”
I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, to press my cheek to his chest and stroke his hair. I didn't move.
“The family wants a civil ceremony, so the SQ's organizing a funeral for Wednesday.”
I didn't hesitate.
“I'm going with you.”
“That's not necessary.” He kept opening and closing one hand around the other. His knuckles looked hard and white as a row of pebbles.
“Jean was my friend, too.”
“It's a long trip.”
His eyes glistened. He blinked, leaned back, and ran both hands up and down his face.
“Would you like me to go?”
“What about this pissing match with Tyrell?”
I told him about the tooth fragment, held back the rest.
“How long will the profiling take?”
“Four or five days. So there's no reason I have to stay here. Would you like me to go?”
He looked at me, and a wrinkle formed at the corner of his mouth.
“I have a feeling you will, anyway.”
Knowing he would spend the next two days arranging transport for Bertrand's casket and meeting with McMahon at FBI headquarters, Ryan had booked a room at the Adams Mark Hotel near uptown. Or perhaps he had other reasons. I didn't ask.
The next day I researched names on the H&F list, and learned only one thing. Once outside my own lab
