That was fine, too. I recoiled from voicing my fear for Kit, afraid that shaping the threat into words might cause it to be realized. I would tel him later about Lecomte.

Five minutes passed. Ten. I scanned the bereaved. Business suits mixed with chains, swastikas, studs, and bandannas.

I heard the noise before I saw the procession. It started as a low rumble and grew to a roar as two police cruisers rounded the curve, then a hearse, limo, and a half-dozen cars. A phalanx of cycles fol owed, four abreast behind the cars, in twos and threes farther back. Soon the road was dense with bikes, and I could not see the end of the line.

Sun flashed off chrome as the cortege slowed and turned into the cemetery. The air fil ed with the sound of engines and shifting gears as bikers broke formation and massed around the entrance. Men in greasy Levi's, beards, and shades began to dismount and move toward the gate.

Claudel's eyes narrowed as he watched the graveyard below become a human zoo.

"Sacré bleu. We should keep this outside the fence."

"Roy says that's not possible."

"Civil rights be damned. Bar the vermin, and let their lawyers sue."

The cortege turned left and crept along the tree-lined road skirting the Troie section. When it pul ed to a stop a suited man moved to the limo and opened the rear door People emerged wearing the bewildered expressions of those unfamiliar with personal service.

I watched the funeral director lead the family to folding chairs beneath a bright green canopy An old man in an old suit. Two matrons in black dresses, faux pearls around their necks. A young woman in a floral print. A boy in a jacket with sleeves that did not reach his wrists. An elderly priest.

As friends and relatives climbed from cars, Dorsey's other family drew together. Joking and cal ing, they formed a ragged horseshoe outside the canopy Under it, the new grave lay draped like a patient awaiting surgery.

A detachment of eight slowly gathered at the hearse, al in denim and shades. At a sign from the director, an assistant offered gloves, which a behemoth in a do-rag batted aside. Barehanded, the pal bearers slid the casket free and carried it toward the canopy struggling under the weight of the deceased and his packaging.

The branches above me lifted and fel , and I caught the scent of flowers and freshly turned earth. The bikes had gone stil . A sob drifted from under the canopy slipping free on the breeze to ride over the graves of the surrounding dead.

"Sacré bleu!"

When I turned, Claudel was staring at the gate. I fol owed his gaze, and fear shot through me.