"Without a thorough examination, it can be pretty difficult to tell the difference between the male and female skeleton. One of the things we go by is the size and density of the bones. Males have a tendency to be thicker and larger, of course. Sometimes the actual height of the victim can help-males are usually taller. But those things often aren't definitive."

"Are you saying you don't know?"

O'Neill smiled. "I'm not saying that at all. Let me show you."

Tara O'Neill got down on her haunches. So did Muse. O'Neill had a thin flashlight in her hand, the kind that casts a narrow but potent beam.

"I said, pretty difficult. Not impossible. Take a look."

She pointed her light toward the skull.

"Do you know what you're looking at?"

"No," Muse said.

"First off, the bones appear to be on the lighter side. Second, check out the spot below where the eyebrows would have been."

"Okay."

"That's technically known as the supraorbital ridge. It's more pronounced in males. Females have very vertical foreheads. Now, this skull has been worn down, but you can see the ridge is not pronounced. But the real key -what I want to show you down here – is in the pelvis area, more specifically, the pelvic cavity."

She shifted the flashlight. "Do you see it there?"

"Yeah, I see it, I guess. So?"

"It's pretty wide."

"Which means?"

Tara O'Neill snapped off the flashlight.

"Which means," O'Neill said, getting back to her feet, "that your victim is Caucasian, about five-foot-seven-the same height as Camille Copeland, by the way – and yes, female."

Dillon said, "You're not going to believe this."

York looked up. "What?"

"I got a computer hit on that Volkswagen. There are only fourteen in the tri-state area that fit the bill. But here's the kicker. One is registered to a guy named Ira Silverstein. That name ring a bell?" "Isn't he the guy who owned that camp?" That’s it. "Are you telling me that Copeland might have been right all along?" "I got the address where this Ira Silverstein is staying," Dillon said. "Some kind of rehab place." "So what are we waiting for?" York said. "Lets haul ass."

Chapter 3 5

When Lucy got into the car, I pressed the button for the CD player. Bruce's "Back In Your Arms" came on. She smiled. "You burned it already?"

"I did."

"You like it?"

"Very much. I added a few others. A bootleg from one of Springsteen's solo shows. 'Drive All Night.'"

"That song always makes me cry."

"All songs make you cry," I said.

"Not 'Super Freak' by Rick James."

"I stand corrected."

"And 'Promiscuous.' That one doesn't make me cry."

"Even when Nelly sings, Is your game MVP like Steve Nash?'"

"God, you know me so well."

I smiled.

"You seem calm for a man who just learned that his dead sister might be alive."

"Partitioning."

"Is that a word?"

"It's what I do. I put things in different boxes. It's how I get through the craziness. I just put it somewhere else for a while."

"Partitioning," Lucy said.

"Exactly."

"We psychological types have another term for partitioning," Lucy said. "We call it 'Big-Time Denial.'" "Call it what you will. There's a flow here now, Luce. We're going to find Camille. She's going to be okay." "We psychological types have another term for that too. We call it 'Wishful or even Delusional Thinking.'"

We drove some more.

"What could your father possibly remember now?" I asked.

"I don't know. But we know that Gil Perez visited him. My guess is, that visit stirred something in Ira's head. I don't know what. It might be nothing. He's not well. It might be something he imagined or even made up."

We parked in a spot near Ira's Volkswagen Beetle. Funny seeing that old car. It should have brought me back. He used to drive it around the camp all the time. He would stick his head out and smile and make little deliveries. He would let cabins decorate it and pretend it was leading a parade. But right now the old Volkswagen did nothing for me.

My partitioning was breaking down.

Because I had hope.

I had hope that I would find my sister. I had hope that I was truly connecting with a woman for the first time since Jane died, that I could feel my heart beating next to someone else's. I tried to warn myself. I tried to remember that hope was the cruelest of all mistresses, that it could crush your soul like a Styrofoam cup. But right now I didn't want to go there. I wanted the hope. I wanted to hold on to it and just let it make me feel light for a little while.

I looked at Lucy. She smiled and I felt it rip open my chest. It had been so long since I felt like this, felt that heady rush. Then I surprised myself. I reached out with both my hands and took her face in mine. Her smile disappeared. Her eyes searched for mine. I tilted her head up and kissed her so softly that it almost hurt. I felt a jolt. I heard her gasp. She kissed me back.

I felt happily shattered by her.

Lucy lowered her head onto my chest. I heard her sob softly. I let her. I stroked her hair and fought back the swirl. I don't know how long we sat like that. Could have been five minutes, could have been fifteen. I just don't know.

"You better go in," she said.

"You're going to stay here?"

"Ira made it clear. You, alone. I'll probably start up his car, make sure the battery is still charged."

I didn't kiss her again. I got out and floated up the path. The setting for the house was peaceful and green. The mansion was Georgian brick, I guessed, almost perfectly rectangular with white columns in the front. It reminded me of an upscale fraternity house.

There was a woman at the desk. I gave her my name. She asked me to sign in. I did. She placed a call and spoke in a whisper. I waited, listening to the Muzak version of something by Neil Sedaka, which was a little bit like listening to a Muzak version of Muzak.

A redheaded woman dressed in civilian clothes came down to see me. She wore a skirt and had glasses dangling on her chest. She looked like a nurse trying not to look like a nurse.

"I'm Rebecca," she said.

"Paul Copeland."

"I'll bring you to Mr. Silverstein."

"Thank you."

I expected her to lead me down the corridor, but we walked through the back and straight outside. The gardens were well tended. It was a little early for landscape lights, but they were on. A thick row of hedges surrounded the premises like guard dogs.

I spotted Ira Silverstein right away.

He had changed and yet he hadn't changed at all. You know people like that. They get older, they gray, they widen, they slump, and yet they are exactly the same. That was how it was with Ira.

Ira? No one ever used last names at camp. The adults were Aunt and Uncle, but I just couldn't see calling him Uncle Ira anymore.

He wore a poncho I'd last seen in a Woodstock documentary. He had sandals on his feet. Ira stood slowly and put his arms out toward me. Camp had been that way too. Everyone hugged. Everyone loved each other. It was all very "Kumbaya." I stepped into his embrace. He held me tight, with all his strength. I could feel his beard against my cheek.

He let go of me and said to Rebecca, "Leave us alone."

Rebecca turned away. He led me to a park bench of cement and green wood. We sat. "You look the same, Cope," he said. He'd remembered my nickname. "So do you." "You'd think the hard years would show on our faces more, wouldn't you?"

"I guess so, Ira."

"So what do you do now?"

"I'm the county prosecutor."

"Really?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "That's kind of establishment."

Still Ira.

"I'm not prosecuting antiwar protestors," I assured him. "I go after murderers and rapists. People like that."