Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

"More than I make to him."

"Hearing from a dead grandmother?" Sarcasm was creeping into Fraker's tone. He wanted to get back what he felt he'd lost, and I was a safer target than Madbird.

"He was talking about people messing around where they don't belong," I said. "Not knowing jack shit, but thinking they do."

His face, from the little I could see of it, took on a haughty look. It warned me that guys like him had all the juice, but that kind of shit also angered me almost as much as it did Madbird.

"I don't care for the way you put that," he said.

"Must be close to eight. Time to lose that bunny suit and head to your office."

The corners of his mouth turned down in a way that suggested he could be really unpleasant.

"You've got quite an attitude," he said. "That why you got your face smashed?"

In fact, the purple crescent scar under my left eye had come from a light-heavyweight boxing match years ago. Attitude hadn't figured in at all.

"It's a private story, Congressman-only for friends," I said, and walked on out of the apartment.

Madbird and I had already agreed to blow off going out to our job at Split Rock today. My time was going to be chewed up by the funeral, and we both had chores that we hadn't been able to get to yesterday.

There was also the chance of fallout from the photo cache we'd found-especially if Renee took me up on my offer to talk to Gary Varna. I was anxious to see her, find out how she was feeling and what she was thinking. But this would be a particularly hectic morning for her, so I held off calling and spent the next couple of hours running errands.

The funeral was held at St. Thomas Presbyterian Church, a grand old red brick structure built in traditional style, with ten-foot wooden doors and a high arched nave. I got there at a quarter to ten, wearing the one sport coat I still owned-a Harris tweed that looked tolerable because it had spent most of the last ten years hanging in a clothes bag. The other dressy vestiges of my former life, suits and slacks and the like, had long since gone to the Goodwill store. I'd kept one necktie, but decided not to wear it; while it was fine hand-painted silk, its image of an eagle plunging with outstretched talons didn't seem appropriate for this occasion.

As I walked up the building's stone steps, I caught sight of Lon and Evvie Jessup approaching-the Realtor-rancher couple who'd dropped by Renee's yesterday. I hesitated, thinking it might be impolite not to wait and say hello to them, but not really wanting to. I raised a hand in greeting. Lon waved back, but Evvie looked right through me. That jibed with what I'd sensed yesterday-that she'd judged within the first few seconds whether Madbird and I were worth knowing, the answer was no, and, essentially, we no longer existed. I went on inside.

St. Thomas, one of the town's biggest churches, was nearly full. I made a quick estimate of more than three hundred people. I decided I'd be more comfortable standing than shoehorned into a pew, and I'd also be able to duck out if there were too many long-winded speakers. I found an unobtrusive spot in a rear corner, settled back against the wall, and scanned the crowd.

The most prominent guest was Professor Callister himself, reduced to the contents of a brass urn on a table in front of the altar.

I picked out Renee by her dark brown hair and slender shoulders, sitting near the front. I didn't recognize most of the people flanking her. At a guess, they were Callister relatives from far eastern Montana. I recalled that the Professor had grown up on the family ranch there, but those ties hadn't stayed strong. Besides the long physical distance from Helena, that area tended to be very conservative, and his politics had separated him further. Still, they were the kind of salt-of-the-earth people who wouldn't have dreamed of disrespecting him by not attending.

The Seibert family, Astrid's side-who believed that he was guilty of the murders-was conspicuously absent.

The rumors of other prestigious guests hadn't been overblown. Along with the mayor and a slew of dignitaries and prominent citizens sat Montana's brash young governor, Riley Winthrop. He was currently riding a wave of popularity and using that to implement an agenda of progressive reforms, although it remained to be seen whether his ass could cash the checks his mouth was writing.

More surprising was the sight of U.S. Senator Bart Ulrich, in a pew at the very front and center. He certainly hadn't been any friend to John Callister-he had opposed environmental protection measures as determinedly as Callister had backed them. I guessed that he was here today to counter that image, and no doubt he'd be stumping at the reception afterward; he was up for reelection and it wasn't looking good for him in spite of a lot of big-money backing, most of it from out of state.

Ulrich was popular among some factions in Montana because he took care of wealthy constituents, loudly proclaimed what people wanted to hear, and brought home a lot of pork. But he hadn't done much for the nation as a whole, and it was substantiated by now that his heels were among the roundest in the Congress. Without doubt, a certain amount of influence peddling went with the turf, and even was necessary for political survival. But he'd gone way over the line, with his ballot on the block for just about anything-which explained why lobbyists and special interest groups that had nothing to do with Montana were anxious to keep him in D.C.

While that was injury enough to citizens and government, he piled an infuriating insult on top of it-he was also an appallingly cheap date, at a price of a few thousand bucks per vote. With pols from other regions pulling down five and six figures, it made our great state look like a two-dollar whore.

Then I realized that I was slipping into a familiar old cynicism, a holdover from my newspaper days that surfaced without fail when I started looking at politics. I tried to clamp down on it; at a funeral, it had to be bad karma.

My spirits lifted a minute later when a familiar figure stepped into the church-Tom Dierdorff, a good friend since we'd gone to grade school together. He spotted me and walked over to join me in leaning against the wall.

Tom was powerfully built, with a strong Teutonic face-he'd been a formidable wrestler-and a dry, sharp sense of humor. He came from one of the area's big ranching clans, but he never played that up-or the fact that he'd gotten a degree in electrical engineering from Northwestern. That could have taken him just about anyplace he wanted to go, but he'd realized that he was unwilling or unable to leave the land he'd grown up on. He'd come back to Montana, gone to law school, and now divided his time between his legal practice and ranching.

I'd made a similar decision some years back and, while Tom had handled his far more gracefully, that still enhanced our common ground. He'd helped me out in a couple of minor legal situations; no way could I afford him, but the way it worked was that he'd forget to send me a bill, then I'd drop by his place and find something that could use a repair, and I'd spend a few days evening the score. In terms of dollars per hour, the arrangement favored me by a factor of ten to one, but this was on a different kind of clock, and he'd made it clear that that was how he wanted it.

We exchanged a quiet greeting. Then it occurred to me that he might be a good source of information about the Callister case. He'd been living here at that time, and he was well connected on the levels that counted.

"Tom, I know this is out of place, but I have a good reason for asking now, not just morbid curiosity," I said. "Do you have any take on the murder story, behind the scenes?"

Tom was also a guy who considered his words before he spoke, the more so if they pertained to something weighty. His face didn't change for half a minute.