Kathy Reichs - Deadly Descisions

Seething, I pulled my hand free from his and leaned back in my chain I cannot tolerate people pressing liquor on those who don't want It.

My nephew's voice brought me back to the conversation. Isabelle had turned her spotlight on Kit.

"Yeah, I went with my daddy He's in the oil business. We drove up from Texas in a big old Winnebago. Pop's idea. He wanted to do this bonding thing.

"We swung by here to drop off Auntie's cat, then east and into Vermont at Derby Line. Pop had this trip planned better than the invasion of Normandy That's why I remember all the names.

"Anyway we camped near this town called Westmore and fished the Willoughby River for salmon. The salmon are landlocked, and when they run in the spring it's a big deal. I guess real fishermen view it like some kind of holy place.

"Then we gunned south to Manchester and fished the Battenkill, and my daddy bought all kinds of crap at the Orvis factory Casting rods, fly rods, and other stuff. Then he motored on to Texas in the 'Bago, and I dropped in on my aunt the biker buster." He raised his glass to me, and everyone followed suit.

"It's kind of weird," Kit continued. "Because my daddy bought me a motorcycle about a year ago.

I was dismayed but not surprised. Howard was my sister's second husband, a West Texas oilman with more money than sense, and a defect on the double helix that made him incapable of monogamy They'd divorced when Kit was six. Howard's approach to fatherhood was to lavish toys and money on his son. At three it was ponies and motorized toy cars. By eighteen it had changed to sailboats and then a Porsche.

"What kind of motorcycle?" asked Isabelle.

"It's a Harley-Davidson. Pop's really into Harleys. My bike is a Road King Ciassic and he's got an Ultra Classic Electra Glide. Those are both Evos. But Pop's real love is his old knucklehead. They only made those from 1936 to 1947."

"What do those terms mean?" asked Isabelle.

"They're nicknames that refer to the design of the engine head. The Evolution V2 motor was first produced in the early eighties. Originally it was called a blockhead, but that tag never really stuck. Most folks refer to it as the Evo. A lot of the bikes you see today are shovelheads, made from 1966 to 1984. From 1948 to 1965 it was panheads, before that flatheads, which came out in '29. It's easy to identify the era of production by the design of the engine head."

Kit's interest in bikers was nothing compared with his ardor for bikes.

"Did you know that all modern Harleys descend from the Silent Gray Fellow, the first bike to roll off the line in Milwaukee back at the turn of the century? The Silent Gray Fellow had a one-cylinder twenty-five-cubic-inch motor capable of three horsepower No hydraulic tappets, no electric starters, no V-twin engine." Kit shook his head in disbelief.

"A modern Twin Cam engine displaces upwards of eighty-eight cubic inches. Even an old '71 FLH, at seventy-four cubic inches, has an engine compression ratio of eighty point five to one. And today they're pushing nine to one. Yeah, we've come a long way, but every hog on the road today can trace its bloodline back to that old Silent Gray Fellow"

"Aren't there other motorcycle manufacturers?" asked the actor

"Yessir," Kit agreed, his face and voice showing disdain. "There are Yamahas, Suzukis, Kawasakis, and Hondas out there. But they're just transportation. The British made some good bikes, Norton, Triumph, BSA, but they've all gone out of business. The German BMWs were impressive machines, but for my pesos Harley is the only show in town."

"Are they expensive?" Claude-Henri.

Kit shrugged. "Harley doesn't make low-end cycles. It's not cheap equipment."

I listened as my nephew talked. He had the same reverence for and knowledge of motorcycles that Marie-Claire had fbr furniture. Perhaps the timing of his visit was fortunate. He could help me understand this strange world I was entering. It was almost midnight when we said good-bye and pressed for the elevator. I felt ready for bed, but Kit was still wired, yammering on about engines and critiquing the evening's guests and events. Maybe it was wine, maybe youth. I envied him his stamina.

The rain had stopped, but a strong wind blew off the river, bouncing branches and shrubs, and swirling wet leaves across the ground. When Kit offered to get the car I carefully appraised his condition, then turned over the keys and waited inside the lobby

In less than a minute he pulled up, then got out and circled to the passenger side. When I'd settled behind the wheel he tossed a brown envelope into my lap.

"What's this?"

"Envelope."

"I can see that. Where did it come from?"

"It was on the windshield, stuck under a wiper You must have an admirer."

I looked at the envelope. It was a padded mailer, stapled at one end, with a pull-tab on the back for easy opening. My name appeared in red Magic Marker

I stared at the letters, an alarm sounding deep in my brain. Who~ knew I would be on the island tonight? Who could have recognized my car? Had we been followed? Watched?

Gingerly I prodded the contents. I could feel the bulge of something hard.

"Well!"

I jumped at the sound of Kit's voice. When I turned his face looked eerily pale, his features dark and distorted in the faint yellow light seeping from the lobby doors.

"Goddammit, Kit, this could be I stopped, unsure where the thought was going.

"Could be what?" Kit leaned sideways and draped his arm over the back of the seat. "Go on. Open it," he needled. "I'll bet it's a prank. One of your cop friends probably spotted the car and left something 'stupid to creep you out."

That was possible. Anyone on the job could have run the plate. And I had been the butt of jokes in the past.

"Go on." Kit reached up and turned on the interior hght. "Maybe it's tickets to the Expos."

I pulled the tab and reached into the mailer My fingers closed around a small, glass jar

When I withdrew the container and held it up to the light I felt bile rise in my throat. The rhythmic contractions under my tongue told mel was about to be sick. I barely heard Kit as I lunged for the door handle.

"Holy shit, Aunt Tempe. Who did you piss off?"

The eyeball rested on the bottom of the jar, pupil up, tendrils of flesh floating in the cloudy liquid. The organ was blanched and partially collapsed, and one side appeared to have a jagged tear. Though lightly sealed, the container gave off a familiar scent. A folded paper was stuck to its bottom.

Kit reached over and pulled off the note.

"On te surveil1e." The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. "What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?"

"We're watching you.

With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.

"Think it's a joke?" Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard hedes-Sceurs.

"I don't know" My voice sounded high-pitched.

Sensing my mood, he didn't press the point.

Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator

Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'll take it to the lab on Monday," I explained. "It's a real eye, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Think it's a joke?" He repeated his earlier question.

"Probably." I didn't believe that, but had no desire to alarm him. "I get the feeling I shouldn't ask, but, if it's a joke, why take it to the lab?"

"Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare," I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. "Now, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow we'll find something fun to do."