attempts to pinpoint the foot’s origin, about the anonymous
complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet
were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me
intently.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked
loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.
Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?” I said irritably, pulling free. I was already
embarrassed by my outpouring and dreaded what I knew was coming. Pete always gave the same advice
when aggravated by others. “Fuck ‘.”
He surprised me.
“Your DMORT commander will clear up the issue of entering the site. The
foot is central to the rest. Was anyone around when you picked the thing up?”
“There was a cop nearby.” I focused on the pillow.
“Local?”
I shook my head.
“Did he see the coyotes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Oh yes.
I nodded.
“That should settle that. Have this cop contact Tyrell and describe the
situation.” He leaned back. “The trespass is going to be tougher.”
“I wasn’t trespassing,” I said hotly.
“How strongly do you feel about this foot?”
“I don’t think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That’s why I
was snooping around.”
“Because of the age.”
“Largely. It also looked more decomposed.”
“Can you prove the age?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?”
“No.”
“Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age
estimate?” Pete, the lawyer.
“I’ll check the histology once the samples are processed.” ‘
“When is that?”
“Slide preparation is taking forever.”
“Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don’t quit until you know
the guy’s collar size and the name of his bookie.”
“I could try.”
“Do it.”
Pete was right. I was being a pansy.
“Then ID Foot Man and shove it up Tyrell’s ass.”
“How do I do that?”
“If your foot didn’t come from the plane, it must be local.”
I waited.
“Start by finding out who owns that property.”
“How do I do that}”
“Has the FBI checked the place out?”
“They’re involved in the crash investigation, but until there’s proof
of sabotage, the Bureau isn’t officially in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt
they’re going to share their thoughts with me.”
“Then find out on your own.”
“How?”
“Check the title to the property and the tax rolls at the county
courthouse.”
“Can you walk me through that?”
I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was
back. No more whining and self-pity. I’d probe that foot until I knew every detail of its
owner’s life. Then I’d find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrell’s
forehead.
“Thank you so much, Pete.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew
me in. Before I could pull back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to
my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smelled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a million images
burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I’d known for two decades, that had once held only
me.
I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake
magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it
became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with
Pete was all-encompassing.
It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed
the familiar and comforting,
complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet
were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me
intently.
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked
loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.
Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?” I said irritably, pulling free. I was already
embarrassed by my outpouring and dreaded what I knew was coming. Pete always gave the same advice
when aggravated by others. “Fuck ‘.”
He surprised me.
“Your DMORT commander will clear up the issue of entering the site. The
foot is central to the rest. Was anyone around when you picked the thing up?”
“There was a cop nearby.” I focused on the pillow.
“Local?”
I shook my head.
“Did he see the coyotes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Oh yes.
I nodded.
“That should settle that. Have this cop contact Tyrell and describe the
situation.” He leaned back. “The trespass is going to be tougher.”
“I wasn’t trespassing,” I said hotly.
“How strongly do you feel about this foot?”
“I don’t think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That’s why I
was snooping around.”
“Because of the age.”
“Largely. It also looked more decomposed.”
“Can you prove the age?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?”
“No.”
“Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age
estimate?” Pete, the lawyer.
“I’ll check the histology once the samples are processed.” ‘
“When is that?”
“Slide preparation is taking forever.”
“Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don’t quit until you know
the guy’s collar size and the name of his bookie.”
“I could try.”
“Do it.”
Pete was right. I was being a pansy.
“Then ID Foot Man and shove it up Tyrell’s ass.”
“How do I do that?”
“If your foot didn’t come from the plane, it must be local.”
I waited.
“Start by finding out who owns that property.”
“How do I do that}”
“Has the FBI checked the place out?”
“They’re involved in the crash investigation, but until there’s proof
of sabotage, the Bureau isn’t officially in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt
they’re going to share their thoughts with me.”
“Then find out on your own.”
“How?”
“Check the title to the property and the tax rolls at the county
courthouse.”
“Can you walk me through that?”
I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was
back. No more whining and self-pity. I’d probe that foot until I knew every detail of its
owner’s life. Then I’d find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrell’s
forehead.
“Thank you so much, Pete.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew
me in. Before I could pull back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to
my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smelled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a million images
burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I’d known for two decades, that had once held only
me.
I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake
magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it
became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with
Pete was all-encompassing.
It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed
the familiar and comforting,
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