"And they're saying I have to stay another two or three days." "The doctors want to be sure that lung won't collapse again." He hesitated, then, "What was the count?"

"In addition to you and Crease, two family members were wounded, and three Heathens and Rock Machine bikers were killed. Of the attackers, one got away, one was killed, two died in a crash, and one was captured. It was a bloodbath the likes of which has seldom been seen in Canada."

He dropped his eyes and picked at the blanket with his free hand.

"How's he doing.

"He'll make it. But he's about to be charged with the Cherokee Desiardins murder"

"I know Lyle didn't kill that guy. He couldn't." "He tried to sacrifice you to protect himself." Kit said nothing.

"And he was using you to get information.~~

"He may have done that, but he would never murder anyone.

I pictured the skull and crossbones, but said nothing to contradict him.

"Why did he bring you to that funeral?"

"He didn't want to, but I was crazy to see the bikes. I told him I'd go on my own if he didn't take me. Hell, except for going to that cycle shop, Lyle didn't even hang around with those guys. When we went there he tried to look cool, but I could tell nobody really knew him."

I remembered my conversation with Charbonneau, and our initial suspicion that Crease had been a double agent. In retrospect the idea seemed ludicrous. It was ironic, however, that my worry for Kit had been based on fear of his involvement with bikers. I should have worried about Lyle Crease.

Kit worked a thread loose with his finger

"Look, Aunt Tempe, I'm sorry for all the grief I've caused you."

He swallowed, doubled back on his finger with the thread.

"The Preacher and those other guys are losers who can't even get it together to buy their own wheels."

I'd already learned this from Claudel, but let him go on.

"I let you think they were big-ass bikers to make myself look cool. Instead I almost got you killed."

"Kit, who was the man outside my condo?"

"I really, honestly don't know He was probably some goof just passing by." A grin teased the corners of his mouth. "Maybe he was applying for a job at the place that cut your hair."

I gently punched his good shoulder. This time I believed him.

"Hey, careful with the rough stuff. I'm an invalid."

He took a sip of juice and handed me the glass.

"What about that eyeball?"

"The police think the Vipers put it on my car to discourage further interest in their history."

A pause. On-screen, a man mouthed the news while stock prices ticked by below

"I think I'm going to look into school when I get back home. Try a few courses. See how it goes."

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Kit."

"You must think I'm about as dumb as a largemouth bass."

"Maybe a perch."

"I hope you don't give up on me.

"Never"

Embarrassed, he changed the subject.

"How's your boss?"

"Much better. He's starting to give the nurses a hard time.

"I'm with him there. And Ryan?"

"Don't push it, fish brain."

"How long do you think he'll be moonin' around here, expecting flowers and caramel clusters?" Harry stood in the doorway, a smile on her lips, a vase in her hand. Both were the same geranium red.

Leaving the hospital, I drove home, had dinner with Birdie, and began a series of household tasks. A return to normalcy by immersion in the mundane. That was the plan and it was working.

Until the doorbell chirped.

Dumping an armload of dirty sweaters, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Too early for Harry.

Curious, I went to check the security screen.

What the hell?

Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel stood in my vestibule, hands clasped behind his back, weight shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet.

"So much for normalcy," I muttered as I buzzed him in.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel."

"Bonsoir. I apologize for disturbing you at your home, but there has been a development." His jaw tensed, as though what he had to say was pushing him to the limits of civility. "I thought that you should know"

Courtesy from Claudel? In English? What now?

Birdie did a figure eight around my ankles, but offered no conjecture.

I stepped back and gestured the detective inside. He entered and waited stiffly as I closed the door, then followed me to the living room sofa. Settling into the armchair opposite, I remembered my conversation with Ryan's partner, Jean Bertrand, and the thought of Ryan brought the usual stomach clutch.

God, please let him be safe!

I pushed the thought aside and waited for Claudel to speak.

He cleared his throat and looked away from me.

"You were right about George Dorsey. He did not kill Cherokee Desjardins."

There was a revelation.

"Nor did Lyle Crease."

I stared at him, too surprised to respond.

"Shortly before her death Jocelyn Dion mailed a letter to her mother giving information about a number of illegal biker activities. Among the subjects discussed were the shooting of Emily Anne Toussaint and Richard 'Spider' Marcotte, and the murder of Cherokee Desjardins."

"Why did she do that?"

"Her motives were complex. First and foremost, she feared for her own life and felt the letter might confer protection. In addition, she was angry over Dorsey's murder, which, by the way, was ordered by his own gang. Jocelyn Dion was living with George Dorsey at the time of his death."

I felt heat climb the sides of my neck, but did not let on what Jocelyn had said about Dorsey's death.

"Was Dorsey killed because he spoke with me?" Claudel ignored the question.

"Dion also felt remorse for certain of her own actions, including the killing of Cherokee Desjardins."

"What?" I blurted in astonishment.

"That is correct. Jocelyn Dion killed Desjardins."

"But Jocelyn told me she heard Crease bludgeon and shoot him." "It seems your clerk was somewhat economical with the truth." He tented his fingers under his chin.

"According to the young lady's letter, she'd gone to Deslardins for drugs when Crease showed up, wanting the infamous barroom photo. The men argued, Crease knocked Cherokee unconscious with a pipe, then began ransacking the apartment. Hearing noises in the bedroom, he panicked and fled.

"It seems your Jocelyn had a big habit and a short budget. She went over there high on drugs, and saw the situation as an opportunity to stock her medicine chest. When Crease left, she battered Desjardins' unconscious body, dragged it to a chair, and used a shotgun to remove his face."

"Why bother to shoot him?"

"She didn't want Desjardins coming after her. Also, she was stoned, but sober enough to realize that she had to cover her tracks, so she made it look like a biker hit." Claudel dropped his hands. "On that point you were correct.

More throat clearing, then he went on.

"Thinking it contained more pharmaceuticals, Dion retrieved a package Crease had dropped. It contained an old photograph of Crease and Desjardins. Later, she cooked up a blackmail scheme, figuring that if Crease wanted the picture badly enough to fight for it, he might be willing to pay."

"In the meantime, the Heathens heard about my meeting with Dorsey and ordered his death." Again the tension in my neck.

"Yes. Fearing for her own safety, Dion cooked up and floated the story that Crease had murdered Desjardins. The Vipers got wind and decided payback was due. Desjardins had been an Angel, his killer was an Angel dropout, despised by the brothers, and his killer had to die. Also, they had not settled the Spider Marcotte account, as far as they were concerned. They phoned New York for outside help, persuaded Dion to lure Crease to Dorsey's funeral, and decided they would settle several Heathen scores at the same time.