Crease and Kit were making their way through those lingering at the entrance, moving past the semicircle of mourners, and stepping into the shadow of a life-sized bronze angel, its arms perpendicularly outstretched, as if treading water.

I started to speak but Claudel silenced me with a hand. Lifting his radio, he looked down at his partner. Quickwater made a subtle gesture, first to his right, then straight ahead.

I looked where Quickwater had indicated. Beyond the mourners, partial y hidden among the tombstones and trees, were men whose attention was not on the service. Like Claudel and Quickwater their eyes never rested, and they carried handsets. Unlike the Carcajou investigators, these men were tattooed and booted.

I looked a question at Claudel.

"Rock Machine security."

Under the canopy the priest stood and opened his prayer book. Hands rose and fel , crossing chests. Missal pages fluttered as the old priest began the rites for the dead, and he extended a gnarled finger to hold them stil . The breeze played with his words, stealing some, sharing others.

" -- who art in heaven, hal ow -- "

Beside me, Claudel tensed.

A man had appeared among a cluster of cement crypts sixty feet to the west. Head down, he walked toward the canopy

"Thy kingdom -- thy wil -- "

I looked down at Quickwater. His eyes were fixed on the Rock Machine sentries. One spoke into his walkie-talkie. Across the grounds, another listened. Quickwater stared at them, then raised his radio.

Claudel keyed his partner, eyes glued to the man closing in on the grave site.

" -- forgive -- who trespass against us -- "

"Trouble?" I asked when the transmission ended.

"He's not Rock Machine. He could be Bandidos, but the lookouts aren't sure."

"How -- ?"

"He reads lips."

"Do you recognize the guy?"

"He's not a cop."

My nerves prickled. As with many in the crowd, a bandanna covered the lower face of the approaching figure, and a cap shadowed his eyes. But this man looked wrong. His jacket was too heavy for the day his arms held too tightly to his sides, Suddenly a Jeep roared up Remembrance and veered toward the fence. At the same moment a motor flared and a Harley shot through the gate.

The next events seemed to continue forever, each unfolding in slow motion. They told me later that the entire episode lasted two minutes.

In the horseshoe of bikers a man spun sideways and flew into a canopy support pole. Screams. Gunfire. The tent col apsed. The crowd froze momentarily, then scattered.

"Down!"

Claudel pushed hard on my back, slamming me to the ground.

A bearded man crawled from the heap of canvas and ran toward a stone Jesus with outstretched arms. Halfway there his back arched, and he fel forward. He was dragging himself across the ground, when his body jerked again and col apsed.

I spit dirt from my mouth and tried to see. A bul et whacked into the chestnut behind me.