“Father was French. Mother was Tunisian. Anyway, Purviance tel s the same story. Business doing wel . Not an enemy in the world. Though she did feel Ferris had been more moody than usual in the days leading up to his death. I’l give her a day to finish with the warehouse, then we’l have another little chat.”

“Did you find Kessler?”

Ryan crossed to the couch and dug a paper from his jacket. Returning to the table, he handed it to me.

“These were the people cleared for autopsy patrol.”

I read the names.

Mordecai Ferris

Theodore Moskowitz

Myron Neulander

David Rosenbaum

“No Kessler.” I stated the obvious. “Did you locate anyone who knows the guy?”

“Talking to the family’s like talking to cement. They’re doinganinut. ”

“Aninut?”

“First stage of mourning.”

“How long doesaninut last?”

“Until interment.”

I pictured the cranial segments taking shape in my sand bowls.

“Could be a long one.”

“Ferris’s wife told me to come back when the family’s finished sitting shiva. That lasts a week. I suggested I’d be dropping by sooner.”

“This must be a nightmare for her.”

“Interesting sidebar. Ferris was insured for two mil ion big ones, with a double-up clause for accidental death.”

“Miriam?”

Ryan nodded. “They had no kids.”

I told Ryan about my conversation with Jake Drum. “I can’t imagine why he’s coming here.”

“Think he’l real y show?”

I’d wondered that myself.

“The hesitation tel s me you’ve got your doubts,” Ryan said. “This guy a flake?”

“Jake’s not flaky. Just different.”

“Different?”

“Jake’s a bril iant archaeologist. Worked at Qumran.”

Ryan gave me quizzical look.

“Dead Sea scrol s. He can translate a zil ion languages.”

“Any that are spoken today?”

I threw a napkin at Ryan.

After clearing the table, Ryan and I stretched out on the sofa. Birdie flopped by the fire.

We talked of personal things.

Ryan’s daughter in Halifax. Lily was dating a guitarist and considering a move to Vancouver. Ryan feared the items were not unrelated.

Katy. For her twelfth and final semester at the University of Virginia, my daughter was taking pottery, fencing, and a class on the feminine mystique in modern film. Her independent study involved interviewing patrons of pubs.

Birdie purred. Or snored.

Charlie squawked and resquawked a line from “Hard-Hearted Hannah.”

The fire crackled and popped. Ice ticked the windows.

After a while everyone drifted into silence.

Ryan reached back and pul ed the lamp chain. Amber light danced the familiar shapes in my home.

Ryan and I lay molded like tango dancers, my head nestled below his col arbone. He smel ed of soap and the logs he’d carried in for the fire. His fingers caressed my hair. My cheek. My neck.

I felt content. Calm. A mil ion miles from skeletons and shattered skul s.

Ryan is built on sinewy, ropelike lines. Long ones. Eventual y I felt one line grow longer.

We left Birdie in charge of the hearth.

5