At that instant Quickwater flung himself under the angel and dragged and shoved Kit and me toward the base. Crouching in front of the supine bodies of Crease and his assassin, he swept his gun in wide arcs, using the monument for cover I tried to swal ow, but my mouth was a desert. Bul ets strafed the earth beside me, and again I was conscious of the smel of dirt and flowers. Outside our tiny cave I could see figures running in al directions.

Quickwater's eyes scanned, his body coiled and ready to spring. In the distance I heard sirens and engines, then the sound of an explosion.

Adrenaline pumping, I pressed a hand to the hole in my nephew's back, and tried to stuff a hankie into the one in his chest. Time lost al meaning.

Then it was silent. Nothing appeared to move.

Beyond Quickwater I saw people crawl from under the canopy disheveled and sobbing. Bikers emerged from hiding and coalesced into groups, faces furious, fists pistoning as if they were angry hiphop artists. Others lay motionless on the ground. Ryan was nowhere to be seen.

Far down the mountain sirens wailed. I glanced at Quickwater, and our eyes locked. My lips trembled, but no words came.

Quickwater reached down and wiped blood from my cheek, then gently brushed the hair from my face. His eyes went deep into mine, acknowledging what we had just seen, the secret we shared. My chest heaved and tears burned my lids. I turned away not wanting a witness to my frailty My gaze fel on a tiny portrait, encased in plastic and secured to the angel's pedestal. A solemn face stared out, separated by death and faded by years of rain and sun.

No, God. Please, no. Not Kit,

I looked down at the blood oozing through my fingers. Openly weeping, I applied more pressure, then closed my eyes and prayed.

Chapter 39

"What the hel did you plan to do?" Charbonneau asked.

"I didn't plan. I acted on instinct."

"You were unarmed."

"I was armed with righteous fury."

"Rarely wins against a semiautomatic."

A week had passed since the shoot-out at Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, and we'd been over it a dozen times. Charbonneau was in my lab, watching me prepare Savannah Osprey's bones for shipment.

DNA sequencing had come back positive, linking the Myrtle Beach skeleton to the remains from St-Basile-le-Grand. Kate Brophy had established that Savannah's mother was dead, but had located a maternal aunt. Burial would take place in North Carolina.

I felt melancholy each time I pictured that lonely, little ceremony. My satisfaction at finding and identifying Savannah was tempered by sadness over her life. She was so young and frail, hampered by physical disability, lonely, loathed by her father, abandoned in death by her mother I wondered if there was anyone left who would care for her grave.

"Do you think Savannah chose to go to Myrtle Beach that day?" I asked, changing the subject.