But Savannah hadn't danced off with Ariel or Puck, and I couldn't shake the image of the spider-legged girl in the baggy swimsuit. I kept wondering about the poisonous web into which she'd been drawn.

I was also haunted by the horror we'd just left. Though the dynamic duo in the front seat were convinced Cherokee's kil ing was a biker hit, something about the scene seemed out of sync. It was not my cal , but my uneasiness remained, prickling my brain.

Savannah and Cherokee. Cherokee and Savannah. And Ronald and Donald Vail ancourt, Robert Cately and Felix Martineau. And Emily Anne Toussaint, the little girl who danced, and skated, and loved waffles. These lives seemed unconnected, the only tie a posthumous one, created by homicide files.

No one spoke. Now and then the radio sputtered as it scanned channels, diligent in its attention to police matters.

In the Vil e-Marie Tunnel we were snared briefly by the clog of traffic exiting onto Bern. I looked at the flow of cars heading toward the old city and experienced a return to melancholy. Why was I trapped with Señor Surly and his partner, the bones of a dead girl at my feet and visions of mutilated bikers in my head? Why wasn't I heading for Place Jacques Cartier, thinking about dinner, dancing, or drinks with a lover?

But I couldn't handle the pleasure of drink,

And I had no loves.

Ryan.

Put it away, Brennan. That line of thought wil take you from melancholy to depression. The simple fact is you chose this life. You could be limiting your bone analysis to archaeological digs and your professional commentaries to textbooks or classrooms in which you talk and they listen. You asked for this and you got it, so stop brooding and do your work.

When Charbonneau pul ed up at the SQ building I said a terse thank you, slammed the door, and headed up the block toward the main entrance.

Before I got to the end of the wrought-iron fence my cel phone rang, so I set the athletic bag on the sidewalk and dug the phone out of my purse.

"Aunt Tempe?"

"Hey, Kit."

I was relieved and annoyed to hear his voice. Though I'd cal ed several times since leaving for Raleigh, Kit hadn't once picked up.

"Did you get my messages?"

"Yeah. Bad timing. I was out, then when I got in I hit the sack. Figured you wouldn't want me to cal that late."

I waited.

"I was with Lyle."

"For two days?"

"The guy's O.K."

O.K.?

"We went to that cycle shop. Man, he wasn't exaggerating. They've got more shit than the Harley factory. Oops, sorry."