My apologies for the length of time between the previous chapter and this one. Real life rearing its ugly head again, lol. Nothing too serious, just busy, you know how it is. I'm glad to be back at it though and hope to be able to keep going with some regularity. Thanks for hanging in! Cathy.

Chapter 22

I wonder who would come to my funeral? Brass thought, as he sat stiffly on the chair in the third row, feeling hot inside the dark suit, despite the air conditioning, the tie feeling unusually constricting at his throat. It was a scorcher today. Even though it had been early in the morning when he'd stopped to pick up Catherine, the still, heavy air had heralded the fact that in this part of Nevada it was going to be the kind of day better spent at the pool. He shifted in his seat, taking in the sombre faces of the others who had made the journey to the funeral home to pay their respects. Both of Elliott's former wives were there. Charlene and Lynne. His grown sons, Elliott Jr. and Tyrone, and their wives.

Would Nancy go? Jim wondered. Ellie? Would news of his passing phase them at all? Would it be sufficient reason to disrupt their lives and bring them all the way from New Jersey to say a final farewell? His brother, Peter, would be there, certainly, and Peter's family. And their mother. Catherine, he knew, seated next to him now, managing somehow to look fresh and unwilted. Gil...unless he had a conference? Would it be reason enough to cancel? Perhaps if Catherine insisted. There would be some of the cops from the force, some of the criminalists from CSI. Any of the guys from Atlantic City? Not likely. Annie, he hoped. There should be enough residual good feeling there even though he couldn't remember the last time they'd talked. And though he wasn't a social butterfly, Jim had made a few friends in Vegas.

Stop! he ordered himself. Enough of the ego-centric, maudlin musings. Today wasn't about him, it was about Elliott Keeth. Elliott, that big bear of a man, large, loud, with his booming, infectious laugh. Reduced to a pile of ashes, contained in a blue-gazed urn flanked by floral displays, on a lace-covered table at the front of the room. Elliott, who'd been thoughtful enough to make it easier on the mortician by beginning the cremation process himself, at home on his couch. Brass felt the anger at the senselessness of the man's death surge through him again.

That was the difference, he realized, between this memorial service and Denny Martens' funeral. Aside from the fact that Denny's church had been overflowing with the friends and family who mourned him, outnumbering the grieving here by at least five to one. Not that these things were a popularity contest, or that the quantity of mourners meant anything about the depth of people's feelings for you, or the kind of person you had been, necessarily. Some people were just a little more involved in life though, coming into contact with a wider group of others. And Denny had been a devout church-goer, while Elliott had gotten away from his Baptist upbringing. The real difference between the two events, Brass thought, was the mood.

Denny's funeral had been a joyful celebration of his life. There was sorrow, and grief, and everyone had felt a personal sense of loss, but there had been an acceptance of the situation. A coming to terms with his death. It had been a horrible, unanticipated accident, that had taken Denny's body, but not his spirit. It had almost been as though his essence had been there to comfort them, invoked by the masterful words of his brother-in-law, embodied in the eulogy. There had been no sense of Denny's death as being a senseless one, even though it had been accidental. Denny Martens had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Through no fault of his own. Just one of those things.

But Elliott Keeth...Elliott had been responsible for his own demise. And though no one was coming right out and saying that, it was the elephant in the room. The thing that no one would acknowledge. And it pushed its wrinkled hindquarters against the mourners as they sat, and it lifted its enormous head and curled its grey trunk and trumpeted silently...an unheard cry that nonetheless blasted through the room. Bad choices, foolish decisions and deliberate actions had precipitated this tragedy. Elliott had died by his own hand, as surely as if he had put the business end of his service revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger with a beefy finger. Not that anyone thought of this as a suicide...no one believed that it had been his intention to turn himself into a human ball of fire.

But it was impossible to deny that Keeth was still responsible for this tragedyAnd that realization hung over the assemblage, more stifling even than the hottest August day in Laughlin. They had all been cheated, and they knew it. And with that, came the anger that danced around the edges of their grief.

It was the funeral director that gave the main eulogy, drawing from the words and remembrances that those closest to Elliott had shared with him. He did a fine job, managing to impart a sense of who the deceased man had been. He was just a young man, or at least he appeared youthful, with a round, babyish face, and dark-rimmed glasses, and prematurely thinning brown hair. He reminded Brass, physically at least, of David, the assistant coroner. The man seemed to comprehend the delicate circumstances of this loss, and to project a genuine sympathy.

When he had finished, Keeth's youngest son, Tyrone, stood up, and took his place at the front of the room. It was one of life's ironies that the oldest boy, from Keeth's first marriage, had been named Elliott Jr., when it was the second son who bore such an uncanny resemblance to the father. He looked so much like Elliott, in fact, that for a surreal moment Brass could almost imagine him gesturing to the urn, winking at him, and saying in a deep, bass voice, 'He's dead, Jim'.

Catherine was glad that she had come to the service, out of respect and an old acquaintanceship with Elliott, but she found it difficult emotionally. Not that she had been so close to Keeth that his loss had affected her deep in her core, but because of the underlying sense of anger and frustration that swirled beneath the grief.

She had glanced surrepitiously at Elliott's ex-wives, wondering if they felt disconcertingly out of place, as she had at Eddie's funeral. They were both physically beautiful women, Charlene tall and slender, her skin a rich, dark, ebony, her long hair in braids, looking younger than Catherine knew she had to be. The other ex, Lynne, was small, petite, with high cheekbones and enormous brown velvet eyes that gazed out of ageless mocha features. They seemed to have a good relationship with one another, hugging at the door, clinging to one another for a moment, murmuring something between them.

Catherine had wondered how the girlfriend, Dana Asmundsen, felt about having the other women who had been important to Elliott here. She was a beautiful woman as well, a striking silvery blonde with shoulder length hair, and serene eyes the blue of gentian flowers. The figure beneath her black suit was trim. She was at least a decade younger than Keeth. Obviously Elliott had an eye for beauty, and all three of the women were stunning in their own way. Dana appeared to welcome the other women warmly, without jealousy or reservation. They had all loved Elliott Keeth at one time, and been loved by him, and were united in their loss.

Elliott's son Tyrone, not only looked, but sounded so much like his late father that Catherine found it almost eerie to observe him while he made a small speech. As his words drew to a close, he remarked that as per his father's wishes, his ashes would be spread later around the cabin he owned outside of Las Vegas.

After Brass and Catherine had expressed their condolences to the sons and Dana once more, they retreated to the air-conditioned sanctuary of Brass's sedan. "Did you feel it?" Catherine asked, as she clicked her seatbelt into place.

"Yeah," Jim responded, intuiting that Catherine was referring to the unacknowledged pachyderm again. He started the car, then sat for a few minutes, with the engine idling. Catherine waited, thinking that he was going to say something more. "Listen, I know we still have a long drive ahead of us, and that you're probably eager to get back home, but I was thinking...I'd like to swing by Keeth's apartment. Would you mind a little detour?"

Catherine's brow knitted as she looked at him curiously. "What's up, Jim?" She couldn't fathom why he would make such a seemingly macabre request.

He shrugged his shoulders beneath the suit jacket, turning up the air conditioning to maximum cooling. At some point during the memorial service he had been overcome with a need to see the scene where Keeth had taken his last breaths. He couldn't explain why, even to himself. Everyone had assured him that Elliott's death was a tragic accident, nothing more, confirmed by the evidence. And as a former head of CSI Brass knew the mantra. The evidence never lies. And yet... If he'd been a more spiritual or superstitious man he almost might have convinced himself that Elliott's ghost was guiding him to delve a little bit further. Push a little bit harder.

"I guess...I just need to see it for myself."

Catherine considered that for a moment before nodding her understanding. "Sure. Linds will be in school for a few hours yet." She didn't know why this was important to Jim, or what he wanted to see or what he hoped to accomplish, but if it would give him some kind of closure, that was enough for her.

Brass gave her a crooked grin of gratitude, though his dark eyes were veiled. He recalled Keeth's address from the report...one of the things that helped make him a top detective was his formidable memory...and a quick stop at a service station to check a map of Laughlin, gave him the route. Shortly afterwards, he pulled into an empty spot in front of the apartment, shut off the motor, and stared up at the towering, white stucco facade of the building where Elliott Keeth had spent his last moments of life.

Catherine sat quietly in her seat. She was surprised when Brass removed his seatbelt and turned apolgetic eyes on her. "I'll just be a minute," he said, his voice strained.

"Well, I might as well come along too," Catherine stated. "Unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"Sure," he said automatically.

They approached the front of the building and passed through the sparkling glass doors into the lobby. A young woman with a baby in a stroller was just exiting, and Jim held the inner door open for her, while Catherine held the outer door. If the woman was concerned about security in the building, or the fact that the pair now had access, it didn't show in her demeanour, as she thanked them brightly for their help and went about her way.

The round buttons on the panel in the elevator indicated that there were eleven floors in the building. Keeth's apartment was on the third floor. Brass pushed the button and the elevator began to move with a rumble and a slight lurch, stopping moments later. The doors slid open onto a carpeted hall. Jim and Catherine stepped out, and the detective looked first one way then the other, before determining that apartment 305 was to their left. They hadn't spoken a word since departing the sedan. There was a tension, a heightened sense of expectation, that precluded conversation.

It was obvious which apartment had been Keeth's even before they were close enough to read the numbers on the door. Strips of yellow caution tape, cheerily bright, almost mockingly so under the circumstances, proclaimed that this was the site of the tragedy. The door had been battered in by the firefighters, and though it was pulled closed, there was no working lock and nothing to bar anyone who desired entrance. An acrid, scorched smell was still strong in the air. Brass reached forward, his hand seeming to move of its own volition, and his palm pushed against the steel.

"You can't go in there," a halting voice said.

Brass turned his head in the direction of the sound. The door to the unit at the end, the apartment facing the length of the hallway, was cracked open a few inches, just enough for him to make out the halo of white hair, one dark orb, and a gnarled, age-spotted hand that gripped around from the inside. He smiled his most charming smile, and said softly, gently, "I'm a police officer, Ma'am." He stood with his hands crossed at the wrists, trying to look his most unthreatening, stepping back a bit so that the woman could see Catherine as well. He hoped she wouldn't ask for ID, his badge was still on his bureau at home, though he did have his LVPD identification card in his wallet.

The door cracked open a bit further, and Brass could see more of the wrinkled visage of the unit's occupant. "A man died there," she said perfunctorily.

"I know," he said simply.

"He was a friend of ours," Catherine found herself saying, though this was Jim's gig.

"Burned up," the old woman said, shaking her head, her voice softening with sorrow. "He was a police officer too." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "The police already came after it happened. The super says the apartment isn't safe. The tenants below that one, and on the floor above, they've had to leave. Til things get cleaned up and fixed up again."

Brass nodded, still smiling.

"You don't look like burglars," the woman said at length.

"No Ma'am," Jim agreed genially. "We're not burglars."

"Gladys," she told him. "We had a burglar here," she continued. She pushed the door the remainder of the way open, the guarded look slipping from her worn features, seeming to decide that the pair were harmless. Jim guessed her to be in her eighties, stooped from osteoporosis. She wore a thin, cotton housecoat that she pulled tighter around a shapeless dress.

"We're not going to be long," Jim reassured her. "You have a good day, Ma'am." He turned his attention away from her, readying to duck under the caution tape and to enter Keeth's apartment.

"Mr. Keeth, he was the one got robbed," she informed them.

Brass felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck. He stopped before he could step into the apartment. "When was this?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, though all of his senses were instantly alert, his thoughts racing as fast as his pulse.

"Few weeks. Month maybe. Robbing a police officer! I swear I don't know what this world is coming to."

"I agree, Ma'am. Gladys," he amended. Brass wondered if anything had been taken. Wondered if Keeth had filed a police report or an insurance claim. "Did anyone see the burglar? Were any other apartments broken into?"

"Not that I know of," she replied.

"Thanks. You take care." This time he pushed open the door and entered Elliott Keeth's apartment.

Brass reached for the light switch, but the power to the unit had been turned off, not suprisingly. There was enough midday light streaming through the front window which stretched the length of the livingroom, that interior lights would be superfluous anyhow. The first thing he saw was the charred remains of the sofa. The water and foam that had been used to extinguish the blaze had soaked into the carcass, and the heat of the desert summer had begun the proliferation of mold. Brass reached into his vest pocket, removed a grey, silk handkerchief and passed it back to Catherine. She was accustomed to the myriad of odours that accompanied scenes of death and destruction, but she wasn't working right now, and he hoped the faint scent of aftershave on the fabric square would give her a bit of a respite.

In his mind's eye, Brass imagined he was witnessing the conflagration, flames lapping at the comatose body of Keeth, shooting up to the ceiling where they'd eaten a hole through the drywall. This was a newer building, and Brass supposed that a firewall between floors might have helped protect the unsuspecting apartment dwellers above. For a moment, he imagined he could smell roasting human flesh...unfortunately he had enough real life experiences to draw from to lend a ghastly realism to his thoughts. His stomache spasmed and Brass swallowed back hot bile.

"This burned hot and fast," Catherine commented, her hand pressed to her nose and mouth, her words partially muffled by the handkerchief. She was dismayed at Brass's morbid insistence on not only coming to the apartment, but actually entering it. It was no longer a crime scene, but they still shouldn't be here. She knew that a clean up crew would be in before long, to remove the detritus and then a contractor to rewall and refloor and make the unit livable again. She was mildly suprised that it hadn't been done already, though she wasn't sure how long it had taken for the fire department to prepare its report and release the scene.

The damage was contained to that one area in the livingroom. Neighbours had been alerted early enough, the 911call made without hesitation, and the fire department had responded so swiftly and professionally that there was only this one surreal area of hell juxtaposed to the normalacy around it. Water-logged normalacy, perhaps, but the rest of the apartment was pretty much as it would have looked when Elliott stepped through the door at the end of the day.

Brass surveyed the apartment, or at least the portions of it that he could see from where he stood. The kitchen was on the left, and a hallway on the right would lead to the bedroom and bathroom. He tried to envision things as they would have looked before the fire, as an intruder come to steal would have seen them. As a cop, Jim knew that B&Es were the more frequently committed crimes. They happened all of the time, there was nothing unusual in the fact that shortly before his death, Keeth had been the victim of a burglary. It was just a coincidence. Just like the fact of his fiery immolation one scant month after Denny Martens had been mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.

Catherine battled feelings of guilt, telling herself that she was nothing like those voyeurs who gathered at the scenes of tragedy. She was here to support Jim, and he was here because...

Brass was stepping closer to the sofa. The floor below was scarred where red hot tongues of flame had lapped in eager anticipation, tasting, testing, ready to devour. The toe of his black, leather dress shoe pushed against an empty bottle of Crown Royal, rocking it, while a minute quantity of amber liquid sploshed inside the soot-covered glass. Hitching up the fabric of his pants, Brass squatted down, resting his arms across his knees. He regarded the bottle thoughtfully for a minute, the removed a ball point pen from an interior pocket of his jacket, stuck it through the neck of the bottle, and lifted it from the ground.

"Jim, what are you doin'?" Catherine finally had to ask. She was beginning to feel uneasy about being here. She didn't think Brass's preoccupation with Keeth's death this way, was healthy.

"Just thinking," he replied mildly. Brass knew that though it seemed unlikely that the elderly neighbour would have called the local police, there was a chance that she might have. Technically, they were trespassing, but Brass was confident enough that once identified, professional courtesy would allow them to circumvent that detail. Still, he was in no mood to hang around and explain why he was there. And what if they got some overzealous rookie who thought he'd be a hero and drag Brass and Catherine down to the station? Catherine had to get home to Lindsey. Not to mention, even the most understanding of cops might not think it was a good idea for Jim to remove anything from the apartment. "Catherine, mind if I get that handkerchief back?"

Catherine saw Brass reach a hand back expectantly. She knew that he wasn't merely being unchivalrous and wanting the fabric back for his own use, to help block the stench. It was clear that he had some interest in the empty bottle of whiskey. Wordlessly, she bent to press it against his palm.

Brass held the handkerchief over his right hand, took the bottle by the neck, slid the pen out and back into his pocket, and then rose to his feet again. "Okay, we're done here."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

As the lights came up, Gil Grissom gathered his notes, and stepped away from the lectern, barely aware of the applause his presentation had elicited. Ducking his head to avoid eye contact with anyone, he slipped behind the stage, paused only long enough to grab his briefcase, and then hurried through a back exit. He crossed the empty rotunda in his peculiar rolling gait, ahead of the crowd that had not yet streamed from the lecture hall. Pushing open the main doors, he escaped into the anonymity of the busy street, shouldered his way into the throng, and continued to put as much distance as he could between himself and any of his colleagues who might want to chat, or invite him for lunch, or otherwise engage him in socialization.

Eventually, he slowed, as he came upon a small city park. The emerald green splash of grass ended at a small, stone fountain, where cool waters bubbled in an eternal cycle. Spying an empty bench, he crossed the cement walk, then settled himself on the wooden slats. Only then did he pause long enough to open the briefcase and slide the notes from his lecture into one of the pockets, finally setting the case on the ground between his feet, and leaning back into his seat. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment, removed his wire-rimmed glassed and slipped them into the pocket of his shirt, then with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he massaged the bridge of his nose.

The migraine that had threatened to claim Gil since yesterday morning was still at bay...just barely. He'd popped the Imitrex tablets regularly since then, in an effort to thwart the onset of one of the episodes that had first begun to plague him in college. It was a bandaid measure, he knew. It was only a matter of time before the migraine won its battle and sought to ravage the inside of his skull. There had been a contest one time, by a pharmaceutical company, for creative migraine sufferers to submit artwork that depicted the pain of one of those episodes that the unitiated referred to uncomprehendingly as a 'headache'. One of the finalists had done a black and white drawing of a man, his features cinched in excruitiating pain, with a gun to his temple, while his brains splattered out the other side of his head. That, Gil had observed clinically, just about summed it up.

It was no coincidence that the onset of the warning signs of an impending migraine had started shortly after Sara Sidle had marched into his office and blindsided Gil with the presentation of her resignation. He had handled the whole situation badly, he knew. He'd been caught off guard, unprepared for the onslaught of thoughts and emotions that had descended on him with such suffocating swiftness. When Sara had trooped out of the office again, her eyes blazing with her fury and her disdain, her slender shoulders squared with animosity, he had been unable to do more than shove the letter in his desk, and head home.

Several times, since then and now, Gil had reached for his cell phone to call Sara. Once, he had even gone so far as to punch in her number on the speed dial, but after a single ring, he had snapped the phone shut. What could he possibly say to her? What did he even want to say to her? Her mind was evidently made up, she was unhappy at the lab and she wanted to leave. Not only was it not his place to try to talk her out of resigning, Gil was certain that he wouldn't be able to even if he tried. Sara was leaving.

He opened his eyes again, watching the pigeons that strutted around the perimeter of the fountain, occasionally darting their heads towards the water, then tilting them back again, so the liquid could trickle down their throats. All birds drank in just such a manner, lacking the swallow reflex, letting gravity do its thing. The sun bounced off their grey plummage, reflecting the other colours hidden within. Rats with wings, Warrick Brown always referred to them derisively, and they could be a nuisance, Gil acknowledged. But there was also a simple beauty about them.

Sara was leaving. Gil recalled a conversation he'd had with Catherine one time. He had told her that his ultimate job as supervisor was to ensure that one day, one or more of his team would be qualified to take his place. She had asked him if he was going anywhere, and he had replied that you never knew. But that when he did leave the crime lab one day, there would be no cake in the breakroom. He'd just be gone.

She hadn't commented on that then, but two weeks later, in the middle of an experiment, she had rounded on him, her blue eyes accusing, and proclaimed. "You are so selfish, Grissom!"

Startled, he'd looked across the microscope at her, befuddled by what had brought this pronouncement on, wondering what horrible social misstep he'd taken now. He had just looked at her expectantly, knowing Catherine would clue him in, in good time.

"How many years have we worked together? How much have we been through? Yet one day, you could just walk out of here without so much as a nice-to-know-you or a good-bye-have-a-nice-life!" The indignant jut of her delicate jawline indicated her annoyance. She hadn't waited for him to respond. "No cake in the breakroom indeed! We would just walk in one day, and find that you were gone." Some of the tension had slipped from her then, and he had watched the hurt shadow her lovely eyes. "I thought we were friends."

He had spoken then, quietly, yet earnestly. "We are."

"Yet you could just turn your back on that, on all of those years. On Rick and Nicky and Sara. On me. Because it's too much to expect that after always having your back, and even saving your life, you could take the time to have a goddamned piece of cake with me." It was the first and only time she had referenced the incident where she had killed a man to preserve Grissom's life. They had not spoken of it before or since that reference. Her eyes had sparkled with unshed tears then, and her voice had trembled with the depth of her emotion. And as much as he had wanted to salve her unhappiness, Gil hadn't known how.

Catherine had continued. "People need good byes, Gil...normal people...even if you don't. Even when they don't want to say good bye. Even when it's bittersweet. And even when it's down right painful."

A muscle had begun to twitch involuntarily in his left jaw then. His ever observant CSI had noticed it right away. "That's it, isn't it?" Catherine had asked incredulously, her eyes widening. "It's too painful. It's not that you're being selfish...it's that you're a coward." This unflattering assumption of his character only caused the tempo of the twitch to increase. Her voice had softened. "You can't run away from life, all of the time," she had told him gently. And that had concluded the conversation.

Is that what Sara was doing? Running away from life? Why would he think that? Because...because...a thought hovered in his mind, and Gil pushed it back, refusing to consider it. Sara had her own life to live. She was an adult, capable of making her own decisions, and more than able to take care of herself. Her leaving the lab had nothing to do with him surely. He wasn't the reason she was leaving, and...and even if he was...he could never be the reason for her to stay.

The emptiness of that observation knocked back the dam that had been containing his migraine, and as Gil felt the blood vessels in his temples constrict and throb, the nausea washed over him.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"I can't process that bottle at the lab, in any way," Catherine said regretfully, as Brass brought the car to a stop in front of the neat bungalow. He hadn't asked, in fact neither of them had spoken about it during the drive back to Las Vegas. They had left Keeth's apartment, stopped at a drive-thru for a quick burger, and then hopped onto the interstate. All conversation, what little of it there had been, had been about topics other than the memorial service, Elliott Keeth, the sidetrip to his apartment, or the whiskey bottle that Brass had retrieved. But it had been in the back of Catherine's mind the entire time.

"Yeah, I know," Brass told her, turning slightly in his seat, the right corner of his lips turning up in a brief smile.

Catherine had used the lab for personal reasons once already in her career, testing her blood against that of a figure of interest in one of her cases. An old family friend, and casino mogul, Sam Braun. Beginning to suspect that Braun was more than just an old flame of her mother's, Catherine's suspicions had been confirmed through a DNA test. But her impulsive move had come at a price. The case they had built against Braun for an old murder, had been thrown out, compromised by her actions. She had been lucky, she realized, not to have suffered some kind of disciplinary action, or even to have lost her job. Grissom had looked the other way, had protected her. But there was no way she could ever utilize the crime lab again for anything other than an active case. Not even for Jim Brass.

"Listen," she changed the subject, "why don't you join Lindsey and I for dinner? I took out a lasagna this morning. It was frozen, but homemade. I'm not a bad cook if I do say so myself, and I've got a couple of bottles of pinot noir, if you need something to help wash it down. You can start a salad while I go get Linds from school."

"Oh...well, thanks but uh, no not tonight thanks," Brass replied awkwardly. "I, uh, I've got plans already. Dinner plans. Thanks though."

For a moment, Catherine misinterpreted his unease, and wondered if the detective thought she was asking with anything more than friendship in mind. Then her eyes danced and she bit down on the inside of her lip to hold back a grin. "Okay then. Well, maybe I'll give Cecilia a call. See what she's up to tonight. I bet she'd love to get out of the apartment, maybe have a little girl time. What do you think?" Catherine turned to Brass brightly.

"Well, I, uh..." he stumbled over the words, drawing them out uncertainly.

"Unless of course she already has plans," Catherine teased. She watched with amusement as the gruff detective's cheeks reddened. "My, my," she continued, shaking her head and chuckling. "I do believe you have a date tonight with Cecilia. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Get out of my car," Brass scolded, then smiled at the blonde sheepishly.

Catherine laughed aloud then. As she reached to unbuckle, Jim was out of the car and around to get her door. She stepped out, grinning widely, the unhappiness and uneasiness of the day melting away. "Thanks for the ride to Laughlin, I do feel good about going."

"Thank you for the company." Brass closed the door and Catherine started up the walk to the cheery, red front door, flanked by cast iron urns that spilled over with a profusion of colourful blooms. He crossed back behind the car to the driver's side and was opening his door again, when her voice halted him.

"Hey!"

He looked over the top of the vehicle at her.

"You go, Jim!" Catherine winked and gave him a thumbs up.