"Jackson's going to make a statement tomorrow."

I turned in the direction of the porch swing. Ryan had one heel on the banister and was pushing himself slowly back and forth. When he drew on his cigarette, a tiny red glow lighted his face.

"It's certain?"

"As Madonna's lost virginity."

I hesitated, wanting news of the investigation, but wary of the bearer.

"It's been a sincerely fucked-up day, Brennan. I apologize for any misbehavior."

Though I'd had little time to dwell on it, the noontime confrontation had led me to a decision. I was ending the circle of disaster that had been my relationship with Ryan. From now on our interactions would be strictly professional.

"Tell me."

Ryan patted the swing.

I crossed to him but remained standing.

"Why an explosion?"

"Sit."

"If this is a come-on, you can-"

"There's cratering and fiber penetration."

In the half-light of the overhead bulb Ryan's face looked drained of life. He inhaled deeply, then flicked his butt into Ruby's ferns. I watched sparks comet through the dark, imagining the plunge of Air TransSouth 228.

"Do you want to hear this?"

Placing my pack between us, I dropped onto the swing.

"What's cratering?"

"Cratering is caused when a solid or liquid is suddenly converted to a gas."

"As in a detonation."

"Yes. An explosion rockets the temperature thousands of degrees and sends out shock waves that create a gas wash effect on metal surfaces. That's how the explosives group experts described it. They showed slides at today's briefing. It looks kind of like an orange peel."

"They're finding cratering?"

"They've spotted it on fragments. Rolled edges, too, which is another indicator."

He gave the swing a gentle push.

"What's fiber penetration?"

"They're seeing the fibers of some materials driven through other, undamaged materials. All under high-powered microscopes, of course. They're also finding heat fractures and flash melting at the ends of some fibers."

Another oscillation, and I tasted the Greek salad I'd wolfed down after leaving the morgue.

"Don't rock the swing."

"Some of the blow-up photos are amazing."

I zipped my jacket and tucked my hands into the pockets. Though the days were still warm, the nights were growing crisp.

"So cratering and rolled edges on metal, and flash melting and penetration of fibers mean an explosion. Our lower leg injuries fit with that."

"So does the fact that a large part of the fuselage landed intact."

I planted a foot to stop our forward motion.

"It all adds up to an explosion."

"Caused by?"

"Bomb. Missile. Mechanical failure. The FAA's Aviation Explosives Security Unit will conduct chromatographic analysis to determine what chemicals might be present, and radiophotography and X-ray diffraction to identify molecular species. And one other. Oh, yeah. Infrared spectrophotometry. Not sure what that one's for, but it has a nice ring. That is, if they can arm-wrestle the job away from the FBI crime lab."

"Missile?" It was the first I'd heard of that possibility.

"Not likely, but it's been suggested. Remember all the hoopla about a missile bringing down TWA 800? Pierre Salinger bet his nuts the navy was to blame."

I nodded.

"And these hills are home to a number of militia groups. Maybe Eric Rudolph's white-trash buds got into the arms market and bought a new toy."

Rudolph was wanted in connection with a number of abortion clinic attacks and as a suspect in the bombing at the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. Rumors persisted that he'd fled to these hills.

"Any idea where this explosion was centered?"

"It's too early to tell. The cabin-interior documentation group is compiling a seat damage chart that'll help pinpoint the blast."

Ryan pushed with his toes, but I held the swing firm.

"Our group is doing the same for wounds and fractures. Right now it looks like the worst injuries occurred in the back of the plane." The anthropologists and pathologists were diagramming the distribution of trauma by seat location. "What about the radar group?"

"Nothing unexpected. Following takeoff, the flight routed north-east from the airport toward Athens. The Atlanta air traffic control center is in charge up to Winston-Salem, where Washington takes over, so the plane never left Atlanta ATC. The radar shows an emergency call by the pilot twenty minutes and thirty seconds into the flight. Approximately ninety seconds later the target broke into two, possibly three pieces, and disappeared from the screen."

Headlights appeared far down the mountain. Ryan and I watched them climb through the dark, swing onto the drive, then cut out in the lot to the left of the house. Moments later a figure materialized on the path. When it crossed in front of us, Ryan spoke.

"Long day?"

"Who's that?" The man was barely an imprint against the black of the sky.

"Andy Ryan."

"Well, bonsoir, bonsoir, sir. I'd forgotten you were billeted here." The voice sounded like years of whiskey. All I could make of its owner was a burly man in a dozer cap. sir. I'd forgotten you were billeted here." The voice sounded like years of whiskey. All I could make of its owner was a burly man in a dozer cap.

"The lilac shower gel is mine."

"I've been respecting that, Detective Ryan."

"I'd buy you a beer but the bar just closed."

The man climbed to the porch, dragged a chair opposite the swing, placed an athletic bag beside it, and sat. The dim light revealed a fleshy nose and cheeks mottled with broken veins.

When introduced, FBI Special Agent Byron McMahon removed the hat and bowed in my direction. I saw thick white hair, centered and splayed like a cockscomb.

"This one's on me." Unzipping the bag, McMahon produced a sixpack of Coors.

"Devil liquor," said Ryan, pulling a beer from the plastic web.

"Yes," agreed McMahon. "Bless him." He waggled a can at me.

I wanted that beer as much as I'd wanted anything in a long time. I remembered the feel of booze filtering through my veins, the warmth rising inside me as the molecules of alcohol blended with my own. The sense of relief, well-being.

But I'd learned some things about myself. It had taken years, but I now understood that every double helix in me carries a pledge to Bacchus. Though craving the release, I knew the euphoria would be temporary, the anger and self-loathing would last a long time. I could not drink.

"No, thanks."

"There's plenty where this came from."

"That's the problem."

McMahon smiled, freed a can, and dropped the others into his bag.

"So what's the thinking at the FBI?" Ryan asked.

"Some son of a bitch blew a plane out of the sky."

"Who does the Bureau like?"

"Your biker buddies score high on a lot of dance cards. This Petricelli was a lowlife sleaze with soup for brains, but he was well connected."

"And?"

"Could be a professional hit."

A breeze swayed Ruby's baskets, and black shadows danced on the banisters and floorboards.

"Here's another script. Mrs. Martha Simington was seated in 1A. Three months ago Haskell Simington insured his wife for two million big ones."

"That's a chunk of change."

"Goes a long way toward easing hubby through his pain. Oh, and I forgot to mention. The couple have been living apart for four years."

"Is Simington enough of a mutant to cap eighty-eight people?" Ryan drained his Coors and tossed the empty into McMahon's athletic bag.

"We're getting to know Simington real well."

McMahon mimicked Ryan's performance with his empty can.

"Here's another scenario: 12F was occupied by a nineteen-year-old named Anurudha Mahendran. The kid was a foreign student from Sri Lanka and played goalie on the soccer team."

McMahon released two more beers and handed one to Ryan.

"Back home, Anurudha's uncle works for Voice of Tigers Radio."

"As in Tamil Tigers?"

"Yes, ma'am. The guy's a loudmouth, undoubtedly slots high on the government's wish list for terminal illness."

"You suspect the Sri Lankan government?" I was astounded.

"No. But there are extremists on both sides."

"If you can't persuade unc, go for the kid. Send a message."

Ryan popped the new beer.

"It may be a long shot, but we have to consider it. Not forgetting our local resources, of course."

"Local resources?" I asked.

"Two country preachers who live near here. The Reverend Isaiah Claiborne swears the Reverend Luke Bowman shot the plane down." Another pop. "They're rival snake handlers."

"Snake handlers?"

I ignored Ryan's question. "Claiborne witnessed something?"

"He insists he saw a white streak shoot from behind Bowman's house, followed by an explosion."

"Is the FBI taking him seriously?"

McMahon shrugged. "The time tallies. The location would be right with regard to the flight path."

"What snakes?" Ryan persisted.

"Any word on the voice tapes?" I segued to another subject, not wanting further commentary on the spiritual fervor of our mountain neighbors.

"The calls were made by a white American male with no distinguishable accent."

"That narrows the field to how many million?"

I caught movement in McMahon's eyes, as though he were seriously considering the question.