I felt like a midget talking to them. Both Ryan and Crowe topped six feet, though she had him beat in shoulder breadth. He looked like a point guard; she was a power forward.

Not in a mood to chat, I asked Crowe for directions and excused myself.

'Hold it, Brennan.'

I alowed Ryan to catch up, then gave him a 'don't bring it up' look. I did not want to discuss wolves.

As we walked, I thought of Jean Bertrand, with his designer jackets, matching ties, and earnest face. Bertrand always gave the impression he was trying too hard, listening too closely, afraid to miss an important clue or nuance. I could hear him, flipping from French to English in his own personal brand of Franglais, laughing at his own jokes, unaware that others weren't.

I remembered the first time I'd met Bertrand. Shortly after arriving in Montreal, I'd gone to a Christmas party hosted by the SQ homicide unit. Bertrand was there, mildly drunk, and newly partnered with Andrew Ryan. The hotshot detective was already something of a legend, and Bertrand's veneration flowed undisguised. By evening's end the hero worship had grown embarrassing for everyone. Especialy Ryan.

'How old was he?' I voiced the question without thinking.

'Thirty-seven.' Ryan was right there in the middle of my thoughts.

'Jesus.'

We reached the county road and headed uphil.

'Whom was he escorting?'

'A guy named Rémi Petriceli, known to his friends as Pepper.'

I knew the name. Petriceli was a bigwig in the Quebec Hels Angels, reputed to have ties to organized crime. The Canadian and American governments had been investigating him for years.

'What was Pepper doing in Georgia?'

'About two months ago a smal-time trafficker named Jacques Fontana ended up charcoal in a Subaru Outback. When every road led to his door, Pepper decided to sample the hospitality of his brothers in Dixie. Long story short, Pepper was spotted in a bar in Atlanta, the locals nailed him, and last week Georgia agreed to extradite.

Bertrand was hauling his ass back to Quebec.'

We'd arrived at my car. Across at the overlook, a spotlighted man held a mike while an assistant powdered his face.

'Which brings more players to the table,' Ryan went on, his voice leaden.

'Meaning?'

'Pepper had juice. If he'd decided to deal, a lot of his friends would be in deep-dish shit.'

'I'm not folowing.'

'Some powerful people probably wanted Pepper dead.'

'Enough to kil eighty-seven other people?'

'Without a hitch in their breathing.'

'But that plane was ful of kids.'

'These guys aren't the Jesuits.'

I was too shocked to respond.

Seeing my face, Ryan switched tacks. 'Hungry?'

'I need to sleep.'

'You need to eat.'

'I'l stop for a burger,' I lied.