The Japanese were moving our way.

"And I was too distracted to fol ow what you were doing. Anyway, ready to hike?"

"I live to ramble."

We circled the chalet and set off on one of the many dirt trails that honeycomb the mountain. We walked in silence for awhile, watching squirrels scuttle among last year's leaves, excited by the arrival of spring. The trees overhead were loud with chirps and tril s and warbles and shrieks. At one point we stopped to listen to an old man perform a recorder adaptation of "Ode to Joy." Wearing a long overcoat and ear-flapped beret, he played with al the concentration of a symphonic virtuoso.

As we strol ed west, the dome of l'Oratoire St-Joseph appeared on the horizon. I told Kit the story of Frère André's heart. Stolen from its altar crypt, the organ became the focus of a massive manhunt. Eventual y it showed up at our lab, and was now ensconced in safer quarters deep within the church.

To the south rose the pale yel ow tower of l'Ecole Polytechnique at l'Université de Montréal, site of the 1990 slaughter of thirteen women. The day was too lovely to share that story.

We were heading downhil when Kit broached an equal y unpleasant topic.

"So who's this guy Ryan?"

"Just a friend," I hedged.

"Harry talked about him. He's a detective, right?"

"Yes. With the provincial police."

I'd introduced my sister to Ryan during her stay in Montreal. Sparks had flown, but I'd left town almost immediately and didn't learn if there was liftoff. I'd avoided Ryan for a long time after that, but I'd never asked.

"So what's the deal?"

"He's gotten into some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

A calèche passed on the road above, moving in the direction from which we'd come. I heard the driver cluck, then the slap of reins on the horse's neck.

"He may have gotten involved in drugs."

"Using?"

"Sel ing." Though I was trying hard, my voice sounded wavery.

"Oh."

The clop of hooves receded, grew quiet. "You care about this guy, don't you?"

"Yes."

"More than Uncle Pete?"

"That's not a fair question, Kit."

"That's not a fair question, Kit."

"Sorry."

"Whatever happened to that fish?" I said, changing the subject.

"It's in the freezes"

"Here's a plan. We zap Mr Trout, then peruse les motards while he finishes defrosting. Tonight we throw him on the gril , then slide over to Hurley's for a few beers."

"It's a salmon. Otherwise the plan is sound."

We descended the rest of the way, cut through the Montreal General, and continued downhil on Côte-des-Neiges. At the bottom I turned and looked back up at the peak.

"Did you ever notice the cross at night?"

"Sure. It's pretty."