"Your mother is going to kill me."

"Harry has a tattoo on her left buttock." He pronounced the last with a British inflection.

Jam the lord of the dance, said he…

For a while neither of us spoke. I ate my sandwich while Kit picked at his, nibbling off a gram at a time then washing each down with Diet Coke.

"Do you want another?" he asked, pushing back his chair and wiggling his empty can.

"No thanks."

When he returned I plunged in again.

"How much did you drink last night?"

"Too much." He scratched his head roughly with both hands and the hair went from Carrey to Alfalfa. "But it was just beer, Aunt T. Nothin' hard. And I'm legal here."

"Just beer?"

He lowered his hands and looked at me, making sure he understood my meaning.

"If there's one thing you can count on with this boy, it's a negatory on pharmaceuticals. This body ain't much, but I'm keeping it a drug-free zone."

"I'm very glad to hear that." I was. "What about the Preacher and his flock?"

"Hey Live and let."

"It doesn't always work that way. Kit." Go ahead. Ask.

"Are these guys bikers?"

"Sure. That's why it's Disneyland for me. They all ride Harleys."

Try again.

"Are they affiliated with a club?"

"Aunt T, I don't ask them a lot of questions. If you mean do they wear colors, the answer is no. Do the)' hang with guy's that do? Yeah, probably But I'm not going to sell my boat and strike for the Hells Angels, if that's what worries you.

"Kit. Outlaw bikers don't draw lines between gawkers and those wanting charter memberships. If they perceive you as even the most minor of threats, or even a slight inconvenience, they'll chew you up and spit you into tomorrow. I don't want that to happen to you.

"Do I look like an idiot?"

"You look like a nineteen-year-old kid from Houston with a fascination for Harleys and a romanticized image of the Wild Ones."

"What?"

"The Stanley Kramer movie?" A blank look.

"Marion Brando?" "I've heard of Brando." "Never mind."

"I'm just feeling free. Having some fun."

"So is a dog with its head out the car window Until it leaves its brains on a utility pole."

"They're not that bad."

"Bikers are moral cretins, and they not only are that bad, they're worse.

"Some of what they say makes sense. Anyway, I know what I'm doing."

"No, you don't. I've learned more about these guys in the past two weeks than I ever wanted to know, and none of it is good. Sure, they give toys to tots once a year, but bikers are hoodlums with a contempt for the law and a predisposition for violence."

"What do they do that's so bad?"

"They're reckless and treacherous and they prey on the weak."

"What do they do? Abort babies with coat hangers? Rape nuns? Machine-gun seniors in fast-food joints?"

"For one thing, they sell drugs."

"So does Eli Lilly."

"They set bombs that butcher women and children. They lock men into trunks, drive them to remote areas, and blow their brains out. They chainsaw rivals, pack what's left into garbage bags, and toss them off ferry docks."

"Jesus. We had a few beers."

"You don't belong in that world."

"I went to a bloody boxing match!"

The deep, green eyes bore into mine. Then a lower lid twitched and he squeezed them shut, dropped his chin, and rotated two fingers on each temple. I figured the blood was doing double-time behind his sockets.

"I love you as much as my own child, Kit. You know that."

Though he refused to meet my gaze I could sense discomfort in the curve of his spine.

"I trust you. You know that, too," I went on. "But I want you to be aware of who these people are. They will feed your interest in Harleys, get you to trust them, then ask for some small favor that will be part of some illegal transaction, only you won t even know it."

For a very long time neither of us spoke. Outside, sparrows battled over a seed bell I'd hung in the courtyard. Finally, without looking up, "And what are you walking into, Aunt Tempe?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're on some kind of ride these days."

I had no idea where he was going.

"Hello from the cesspool. Welcome on in.

"What are you talking about?"

"You play me like the old shell game. Allow me to see this. Hide that."

"What am I hiding?"

He was staring straight at me now, the whites of his eyes like bloody water.

"I followed that conversation at dinner last week. I saw the eyeball. I saw your mysterious little package, watched you slip off on your secret trip. You said it yourself. You've seen more of this shit in the past few weeks than most people see in a lifetime."

He turned away, went back to twirling the Diet Coke can.

"You want to know all about me, but when I ask what you're doing you shut me down."

"Kit, I-"

"And it's more than that. Something's going on with this guy Ryan that's got you jumpier than an evangelist at tax time."

I felt my lips part, but nothing came out.

"You put me in the crosshairs 'cause you think I'm shooting chemicals into my veins, but you don't let me askyou jack shit."

I was too stunned to speak. Kit dropped his eyes and clamped his upper teeth on his lower lip, embarrassed by the emotion he'd allowed to surface. The sun shone through the muslin behind him, silhouetting his head against the brightness.

"I'm not complaining, but when I was growing up, you were the only one who listened. Harry was"-he turned his palms up and curled his fingers, as if groping for the proper words-"well, Harry was Harry. But you listened. And you talked to me. You were the only one who did. Now you're treating me like some kind of dimwit."

He had a point. When Kit had shown interest, I'd been evasive and distant, avoiding disclosure of any meaningful information. I live alone and don't discuss casework with anyone not part of the lab. I automatically deflect questions that may arise in a social setting. Then this morning, out of the blue, I'd asked for an accounting of his activities.

"What you say is both fair and unfair I have put off answers I could have given, but I also am obligated not to discuss open cases or ongoing investigations. That is a requirement of my job and not a matter of personal discretion. Do you really want to know what I've been doing?"

Shrug. "Whatever."

I looked at my watch.

"Why don't you shower while I clean up here. Then we'll take a walk on the mountain and I'll lay some things out. All right?"

"All right." Barely audible.

But my decision was far from all right.

Chapter 25

Locals call it "The Mountain", but the small elevation is a far cry from the craggy spires of the Rockies, or the lush peaks of my Carolina Smokies. Mont-Royal is the vestige of an ancient volcano, smoothed by aeons to gentle curves. It lies at the heart of the city like the body of a giant slumbering bean

Though lacking in height and geologic drama, the mountain gives more than its name to Montreal. It is the spinal cord on which the city is strung. McGill University lies on its eastern slope, with the predominantly English-speaking suburb of Westmount directly opposite. L'Université de Montréal and the largely French neighborhood of Outremont claim the northern flanks. Directly below lies Centre-vilte, a polyglot fusion of the industrial, financial, residential, and frivolous.

The mountain is promontories, parks, and cemeteries. It is wooded trails and old mossy rocks. It is tourists, lovers, joggers, and picnickers during the precious summer months; snowshoers, skaters, and tobogganers in winter. For me, as for every Montrealer, the mountain is sanctuary from the urban tumult at its feet.

By early afternoon the temperature was windbreaker warm, the sky immaculate. Kit and I walked across de Maisonneuve, and turned uphill on Drummond. To the right of a tall round building with a sweeping curvilinear base that looks like the prow on a cement frigate, we ascended a wooden staircase to avenue des Pins. Pine Avenue.