By the time I clocked out, it was wel past ten. Wind whipped around the corner of Wilfrid-Derome, slicing through my clothes like a blade. My breath bil owed as I scurried to my car.

Throughout the drive, I could think of nothing but the girls in the x m morgue. ~

Had they died of il ness? Had they been kil ed in a manner leaving no mark on their bones? Poisoning? Smothering?

Hypothermia?

At the Viger traffic light, two teenagers emerged from the shadow of the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Tattooed, pierced, and spiked, they raised squeegees with tense nonchalance. Nodding a go-ahead, I dug a dol ar from my purse and watched as they scraped dirty water down my windshield.

Had the pizza basement girls been young rebels like these, marching toward nonconformity down prescribed paths? Had they been loners, abused by family tyrants? Runaways struggling to survive on the streets?

I'd found not a single indicator of clothing. Granted, natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool deteriorate quickly. But why no zipper tooth? Eyelet? Bodice fastener? Bra hook? These girls had been stripped before being hidden in anonymous graves.

Had they died together? Over a span of months? Years?

And always, the central question: When? A decade ago? A century?

By the time I reached home, a headache was cranking into high gear, and I was hungry enough to eat Lithuania. Except for granola bars and diet sodas, I'd consumed nothing al day.

After showering, I nuked a frozen Mexican dinner. As I dined with Letterman, I thought about Anne. Anne would understand. Let me vent. Say comforting things. I'd just col ected the handset, when it rang in my hand.

"How's Birdie?" Anne.

"You're cal ing about my cat?"

"I don't think the little guy gets enough attention."

The little guy was beside me on the couch, staring at the sour cream oozing from my burrito remains.

"I'm sure Bird would agree."

« 44 >>

Setting my dinner on the coffee table, I scooped a dol op of cream and offered a finger. Birdie licked it clean and refocused on the plate.

"How about you?"

I was lost. "How about me what?"

"Are you getting enough attention?"

Though Anne has the instincts of a NAVSAT, she couldn't have known of my anxiety over Ryan.

"I was just about to cal you," I said.

"I'm not," she continued, not real y listening to my answer.

"What are you talking about?"

"Tom-Ted."

Anne is married to an attorney named Tom Turnip. When Tom was a second-year associate with his firm, a senior partner had addressed him as Ted for an entire month. He'd been Tom-Ted ever since.

"What about TT?"

"Guess?"

Though I wanted to be sympathetic, I was far too exhausted for puzzles.

"Please just tel me."

"Good idea. I'l be there tomorrow."

« 45 »

E,

<1GHT HOURS LATER MY STATE OE MIND \X'AS MUCH IMPROVED.

The headache was gone. The sun was shining. My best friend was coming.