"Have they busted these sons of bitches yet?"

I turned to my sister. She sat in a corner chair, her long legs braided like a Chinese contortionists.

"The getaway cycle got away. The guy who survived the Jeep crash has been charged with attempted murder, among other things. He's cooperating with the police."

"Tempe, if I get my -- Harry, do you think you could ask the nurse for another vase?"

"I get it. Time for an auntie-nephie chat. I'l scoot for a nicotine hit." She gathered her purse, kissed her son on the top of the head, and stepped into the corridor, leaving behind a trail of Cristal e.

Perching on the side of the bed, I squeezed Kit's hand. It felt cool and pliant.

"Acey, peachy?"

"It's a drag, Aunt Tempe. Every five minutes some nurse sticks me with a needle or shoves a thermometer up my butt. And we're not talking 'Hot Lips'

Houlihan here. These women feed on smal furry things."

"Uh-huh."

"And they're saying I have to stay another two or three days."

"The doctors want to be sure that lung won't col apse again."

He hesitated, then, "What was the count?"

"In addition to you and Crease, two family members were wounded, and three Heathens and Rock Machine bikers were kil ed. Of the attackers, one got away, one was kil ed, two died in a crash, and one was captured. It was a bloodbath the likes of which has seldom been seen in Canada."

He dropped his eyes and picked at the blanket with his free hand.

"How's he doing."

"He'l make it. But he's about to be charged with the Cherokee Desjardins murder"

"I know Lyle didn't kil that guy. He couldn't."

"He tried to sacrifice you to protect himself." Kit said nothing.

"And he was using you to get information."

"He may have done that, but he would never murder anyone."

I pictured the skul and crossbones, but said nothing to contradict him.

"Why did he bring you to that funeral?"

"He didn't want to, but I was crazy to see the bikes. I told him I'd go on my own if he didn't take me. Hel , except for going to that cycle shop, Lyle didn't even hang around with those guys. When we went there he tried to look cool, but I could tel nobody real y knew him."

I remembered my conversation with Charbonneau, and our initial suspicion that Crease had been a double agent. In retrospect the idea seemed ludicrous. It was ironic, however, that my worry for Kit had been based on fear of his involvement with bikers. I should have worried about Lyle Crease.

Kit worked a thread loose with his finger

"Look, Aunt Tempe, I'm sorry for al the grief I've caused you."

He swal owed, doubled back on his finger with the thread.

"The Preacher and those other guys are losers who can't even get it together to buy their own wheels."