"We should be taking them seriously."

Again, Ryan ignored my churlishness.

"On what do you base your gut feeling?"

I'd been asking myself that question for three days.

"Experience."

I didn't mention my recent mysterious informant. Or the brainless indifference with which I'd treated her.

"Wel , sunshine--"

"Yes, cupcake." I cut him off.

Pause.

"You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he's wrong."

Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kindergartner.

Long pause, fil ed with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.

"I'm guessing tonight is not good for you."

"What does that mean?"

"I understand how tired and frustrated you are. Go home and take one of your famous bubble baths. Things'l serve up better in the morning."

When we'd disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.

There was no denying it. I'd been in Montreal three ful days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.

And almost total y unavailable.

I didn't need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.

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And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.

I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.

I'd lived without Ryan. I would do so again.

I'd coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.

But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him )ust now?

Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.

The glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gal ant/Bal ant/Talent wasn't hitting her redial button.

"Screw bubbles," I said, rocketing from my chair.

"And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are."

By nine I'd finished with LSJML-38427, the skeleton from the first depression.

Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Sixty-four to sixty-seven inches tal . No odor, no hair, not a shred of soft tissue. Bones wel preserved, but dry and discolored, with some soil infiltration. Postmortem cranial damage, including fragmentation of the right temporal area, right facial bones, and right mandibular ramus. No penmortem skeletal trauma. No dental work. No associated clothing or possessions.

38427 was a carbon copy of 38426.

With one difference. I'd seen this young lady in situ and knew something about burial context. LSJML-38427 had been placed naked in a pit in a fetal curl.

We of the Judeo-Christian persuasion send our dead packing in their Sunday best. We literal y lay them out, legs extended, hands on the bel y or straight down at the sides. The tucked sleeping posture is more typical of our precontact native brethren.

So. Did the curled posture support ClaudePs assumption of antiquity?

Not that simple.

A flexed body requires a smal er hole. Less digging. Less time and energy. Pit burial is also popular with those m a hurry.

Like murderers.

Exhausted, I wheeled the bones to their bay, changed, returned to my office, and rechecked the phone.

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