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semiwoodland and scattered farms, and just as he was thinking that he had indeed missed it—there it was: lawns and flowers and a forest of tiny memorial plaques, neat and cheery in the spring sunshine. Beyond, a looming presence, masked by a funeral chapel and with, happily, no smoke rising from its stubby stack, was the crematorium.
    Off to one side of the complex was the general office. The sun was hot on Greg’s back as he trudged across the parking lot, adding physical discomfort to his gloom. It would have been a relief to remove his suit jacket but, considering his errand, that might have seemed frivolous. So it was with relief that he entered the office, though the hardest part of this dismal exercise was yet to come.
    â€œGood afternoon,” he said to the attendant, trying to make his voice as natural as possible. “My name is Gregory Lothian. I’ve come to pick up my parents’ remains.”
    The attendant was a pale young man whose sombre suit seemed a size too big. “Yes, of course, Mr. Lothian,” he replied, in surprisingly well-modulated tones. “Mother or father?”
    This was it, the question he had been dreading. He took a deep breath. “Er—both, actually.”
    It was spoken, the clue that would probably alert the attendant to the uncomfortable situation. How many double cremations could they have, after all? And they’d hardly be unaware of the unfortunate publicity these particular deaths had engendered: the naked body of the wife of a well-known artist dragged from the Cowichan River three days after his own unexpected demise. Mortifying, to say the least.
    In the news reports, the word suicide had never been mentioned, but what sixty-five-year-old woman went innocently skinny-dipping in April, right after her husband’s death? So the facts were pretty obvious. As if this weren’t bad enough, the body had been discovered by some native fishermen on a snag below the Native Heritage Centre, hung up for all the world to gawk at. Since it lacked ID and was battered about by the current, foul play had been suspected. Though the truth had swiftly emerged, this added a falsely sensational under-tone to a sad tale which, due to the Lothian reputation, had already received too much press coverage. It had had a few days to die down, but Greg still felt cold embarrassment as he identified the subjects of his sad errand.
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Lothian, yes,” the attendant said, with neutral solemnity. Was that a knowing flicker in his eyes as he produced the file? Greg wasn’t sure, but at least nothing was said, which was a relief. Forms were provided for signature and discreet information offered about the availability of a variety of services. Greg declined everything but the ashes.
    Grim task over, nervousness replaced by relief, Greg retraced his steps across the parking lot, now the possessor of two plain carrier bags, each with a plastic cylinder containing what was left of one of his parents.
    He got into his car, depositing the bags on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Then, feeling this to be somehow inappropriate, he shifted the bags to the seat itself. He’d done little more than glance inside, since the contents gave him a sick feeling, but his overwhelming reaction was still mostly amazement. A week ago, the individuals represented by these anonymous containers had been vibrantly alive. Then, apparently, something appalling had happened. Causing a rage in Walter, it had precipitated the events that had run their brief but fatal course. What this dread “something” was, Greg still had no idea. He just knew that his mother had considered herself somehow responsible. And his father had evidently passionately agreed. The old man’s words at their last fateful meeting still rang in his mind: “She’s just lucky I did break my hip. Otherwise I might have wrung her neck.” Sickeningly extreme, even for