As the agents filed past me one of the members of NCAVC made an exaggerated show of squaring his fingers and peering through, as though focusing on me through a viewfinder. We'd been friends a decade and I knew what was coming.

  "Nice do, Brennan. Do you get a deal from your lawn man? Hedges and hair trims, one price?"

  "Some of us do real work, Agent Stoneham."

  He moved on, laughing.

  When only Quickwater and I were left, I smiled and began a fuller introduction.

  "I know who you are," said Quickwater, in softly accented English.

  His abruptness surprised me, and I fought back an equally impolite rejoinder. Perhaps being sweaty and uncombed had made me touchy.

  When I explained that LaManche had been trying to reach him, Quickwater slipped his pager from his belt, checked the screen, then tapped it hard against his hand. Shaking his head and sighing, he reattached the device to his waistband.

  "Batteries," he said.

  The constable watched me intently as I repeated what LaManche had said. His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. When I'd finished, he nodded, then turned and left the room.

  I stood a moment, wondering at the man's odd demeanor. Terrific. I not only had two vaporized bikers to piece together, I now had Constable Congenial as an associate.

  I picked up my pack, and headed back to the woods.

  No problem, Mr. Quickwater. I've cracked tougher nuts than you.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  One

 

 

  Kathy Reichs, Death Du Jour # Needs Replacing

 

 

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