'I wasn't trespassing,' I said hotly.

'How strongly do you feel about this foot?'

'I don't think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That's why I was snooping around.'

'Because of the age.'

'Largely. It also looked more decomposed.'

'Can you prove the age?'

'What do you mean?'

'Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?'

'No.'

'Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age estimate?' Pete, the lawyer.

'I'l check the histology once the samples are processed.'

'When is that?'

'Slide preparation is taking forev—'

'Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don't quit until you know the guy's colar size and the name of his bookie.'

'I could try.'

'Do it.'

Pete was right. I was being a pansy.

'Then ID Foot Man and shove it up 'Tyrel's ass.'

'How do I do that?'

'If your foot didn't come from the plane, it must be local.'

I waited.

'Start by finding out who owns that property.'

'How do I do that?'

'Has the FBI checked the place out?'

'They're involved in the crash investigation, but until there's proof of sabotage, the Bureau isn't officialy in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt they're going to share their thoughts with me.'

'Then find out on your own.'

'How?'

'Check the title to the property and the tax rols at the county courthouse.'

'Can you walk me through that?'

I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was back. No more whining and self-pity. I'd probe that foot until I knew every detail of its owner's life. Then I'd find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrel's forehead.

'Thank you so much, Pete.'

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew me in. Before I could pul back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smeled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a milion images burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I'd known for two decades, that had once held only me.

I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Ilinois, to the later years, when it became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as wel as the curves of my own body. Making love with Pete was al-encompassing. It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed the familiar and comforting, the shattering of my consciousness, the stopping of time.