Desiree. Desiree was behind the silence. I was sure of it. And as soon as I saw her, I was going to put a bullet in her kneecap and ask my questions.

But Desiree, a voice whispered, is smart. Remember what Angie said—Desiree always has an angle. If she was behind Angle’s disappearance, if she had her tied up somewhere, she’d use her as a bargaining chip. She wouldn’t have just killed her. There’s no profit there. No gain.

I came down the expressway off-ramp for Storrow Drive and then swung right so I could loop around Leverett Circle and pull into Whittier Place. But before I reached the circle, I pulled over, engine idling, and put my hazards on for a minute, forced myself to take some breaths, to cool the broiling blood in my veins, to think.

The Celts, the voice whispered, remember the Celts, Patrick. They were crazy. They were hot-blooded. Your people, and they terrorized Europe in the century before Christ. No one would mess with them. Because they were insane and bloodthirsty and ran into battle painted blue with hard-ons. Everyone feared the Celts.

Until Caesar. Julius Caesar asked his men what was all this nonsense about these fearsome savages in Gaul and in Germany, in Spain and Ireland? Rome feared no one.

Neither do the Celts, his men answered.

Blind courage, Caesar said, is no match for intelligence.

And he sent fifty-five thousand men to meet over a quarter million Celts at Alesia.

And they came with blood in their eyes. They came naked and screaming with fury and hard-ons and complete and utter disregard for their own well-being.

And Caesar’s battalions wiped them out.

By implementing precise tactical maneuvers, without any emotion whatsoever, Caesar’s garrisons conquered the passionate, determined, fearless Celts.

As Caesar rode in his victory parade through the streets of Rome, he commented that he’d never met a braver leader than Vercingetorix, the commander of the Gallic Celts. And, maybe to show what he truly thought of simple bravery, Caesar underscored his point by brandishing the severed head of Vercingetorix throughout the course of the parade.

Brain, once again, conquered brawn. Minds subdued hearts.

To rush in like a Celt, shoot Desiree in the knee, and expect to get results, was stupid. Desiree was a tactician. Desiree was a Roman.

My raging blood chilled to ice as I sat in my idling car, the dark waters of the Charles rolling along on my right. My heartbeat slowed. The tremors in my hands disappeared.

This wasn’t a fistfight, I told myself. Win a fistfight, all you are is bloody, your opponent slightly more so, but he’s usually ready for another fight if the mood hits him.

This was war. Win at war, chop your opponent’s head off. End of story.

“How are you?” Desiree said as she came out of Whittier Place, ten minutes late.

“Fine.” I smiled.