"Whoa, there. Slow down, madam. I'm sorry but there is a funeral expected shortly, and this entrance is closed. You'l have to move on.

He held out both arms, as if physical restraint might be necessary

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," I identified myself. "Carcajou."

His face crimped with suspicion. He was about to speak when a sharp whistle split the air, like someone cal ing a dog. We both turned.

Claudel stood on a knol a short distance back from the Dorsey grave site. When he had our attention he gave a crisp come-on signal with one hand.

The guard pointed to me, and Claudel nodded. With a disapproving look, he passed me through the gate.

The Mont-Royal cemeteries are strange and beautiful places, acres of elegant landscaping and ornate funerary architecture rising and fal ing across the curves of the mountain. Mont-Royal. The Jewish. Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.

The latter is for the Catholic dead. Some are buried with elaborate tombs and monuments, others with simple plaques and ten-year leases. Since the mid-nineteenth century over a mil ion souls have been laid to rest within the cemetery's wrought-iron fence. The complex contains mausoleums, crematoria, columbaria, and interment sites for the more traditional.

There are sections for the Polish. The Vietnamese. The Greek. The French. The English. Visitors can obtain maps pinpointing the graves of Montreal's famous. The Dorsey family lay in the Irish section, not far from Marie Travers, the thirties singer known as La Bolduc.

More relevant was the fact that today's burial would take place less than ten yards from Chemin Remembrance. Roy's advisers felt that if a hit was planned the cemetery was the most likely location. And the most difficult to secure.

I sprinted up the gravel path and scrambled uphil to join Claudel. His greeting was not warm.

"What the hel do you think you're doing?"

"Kit is with Crease and they're coming here," I panted.

"You just don't listen, do you, Ms. Brennan?" His eyes swept the crowd as he spoke. "There's already been one homicide today."

My mind flashed to the metro. Jocelyn, searching. Jocelyn, in agonal spasm.

"I was with her."

"What?" Claudel's eyes flew to my face, then dropped to the blood and brain matter on my jacket.

I told him.

"And you left the scene?"

"There was nothing I could do."

"I'm not going to point out the obvious."

"She was dead!" I snapped. Fear, anger, and guilt churned in my head, and his unfeeling attitude did nothing to calm me. A sob wel ed in my chest.

No. No tears!

At that moment his Carcajou partner appeared over the edge of the hil ock. Quickwater approached Claudel, spoke in a low voice, and left without acknowledging my presence. In seconds he reappeared below, wove through a grouping of ornamental headstones, and positioned himself behind a pink granite obelisk.

"If I say dive, you take cover. No questions. No heroics. Do you understand?"

"Fine."

He did not resume our conversation.