?Two Hydro-Quebec workers found some bones today.? He studied my face, which was not happy. His eyes returned to the pink paper.

?They are close to the site where the historic burials were found last summer,? he said in his proper, formal French. I?d never heard him use a contraction. No slang or police jargon. ?You were there. It is probably more of the same. I need someone to go out there to confirm that this is not a coroner case.?

When he glanced up from the paper, the change in angle caused the furrows and creases to deepen, sucking in the afternoon light, as a black hole draws in matter. He made an attempt at a gaunt smile and four crevices veered north.

?You think it?s archaeological?? I was stalling. A scene search had not been in my pre-weekend plans. To leave the next day I still had to pick up the dry cleaning, do the laundry, stop at the pharmacy, pack, put oil in the car, and explain cat care to Winston, the caretaker at my building.

He nodded.

?Okay.? It was not okay.

He handed me the slip. ?Do you want a squad car to take you there??

I looked at him, trying hard for baleful. ?No, I drove in today.? I read the address. It was close to home. ?I?ll find it.?

He left as silently as he?d come. Pierre LaManche favored crepe-soled shoes, kept his pockets empty so nothing jangled or swished. Like a croc in a river he arrived and departed unannounced by auditory cues. Some of the staff found it unnerving.

I packed a set of coveralls in a backpack with my rubber boots, hoping I wouldn?t need either, and grabbed my laptop, briefcase, and the embroidered canteen cover that was serving as that season?s purse. I was still promising myself that I wouldn?t be back until Monday, but another voice in my head was intruding, insisting otherwise.