The small town of Rockville lies at Wadmalaw's southern tip. It was in the general direction of this metropolis that Emma and I pointed ourselves after leaving the clinic.

On the walk to my car I tried broaching the subject of NHL. Emma made it clear that the topic was off-limits. Initially, her attitude annoyed me. Why ask for my company then close me out? But then, wasn't that exactly how I'd behave? Nullify weakness by refusing to grant it the validation of the spoken word? I wasn't sure, but I yielded to Emma's wishes. Her illness, her call.

I drove, Emma rode shotgun. Her directions took us southwest across James and Johns islands, onto the Maybank Highway, then onto Bears Bluff Road. Except for navigational commands, and a few exchanges concerning road signs, we rode in silence, listening to the air conditioner and to bugs slapping the windshield.

Eventually, Emma directed me to turn onto a small road lined with live oaks dripping Spanish moss. Shortly, she ordered another right, then, a quarter mile later, a left onto a rutted dirt lane.

Ancient trees leaned inward from both sides, drawn through decades to the ribbon of sunlight created by the lane's passage. Beyond the trees were trenches, black-green with moss and brackish water.

Here and there, a battered mailbox marked the opening to a driveway snaking off from one shoulder or the other. Otherwise, the narrow track was so overhung with vegetation, I felt like I was piloting through a leafy green wormhole in space.

"There."

Emma pointed to a mailbox. I pulled up beside it.

Metallic letters formed an uneven row, the kind you buy at Home Depot and paste on. PINCKNEY.

On the ground, a homemade sign leaned against the box's upright. Rabbits for Sale. Good bait.

"What do you catch with rabbits?" I asked.

"Tularemia," Emma answered. "Turn here."

Thirty yards in, the trees yielded to tangled scrub. Ten more and the scrub dissolved into a small dirt clearing.

No developer's dream had reworked this place. No condos. No tennis courts. No Dickie Dupree.

A small clapboard house occupied the center of the clearing, surrounded by the usual piled tires, auto parts, broken lawn furniture, and rusted appliances. The house was single story, raised above the ground on crumbling brick pilings. The front door was open, but I could see nothing through the outer screening.

A steel cable ran between two uprights on the clearing's right side. A leash hung from the cable, a choke-chain collar clipped to its lower end.

An unpainted wooden shed stood at the clearing's left. Barely. I assumed this was home to the unfortunate rabbits.

I watched Emma draw a long, deep breath. I knew she hated what she was about to do. She got out. I followed. The air was hot and heavy with moisture and the smell of rotting vegetation.

I waited at the foot of the steps while Emma climbed to the porch. I kept my eyes roving, alert for a pit bull or rottweiler. I'm a dog lover, but a realist. Rural canines and strangers spell stitches and shots.

Emma knocked.

A large black bird cawed and darted low over the shed. I watched it spiral upward, then disappear into the loblolly pines behind the clearing.

Emma called out and knocked again.

I heard a male voice, then the thrup of rusty hinges.

I glanced back toward the house.

And saw the very last person I expected to see.

11

EMMA'S KNOCK HAD BEEN ANSWERED BY A MAN IN BAGGY YELLOW pants, homemade tire-tread sandals, and an apricot T that said: Go home. Earth is full. The man had black-rimmed glasses and hair greased into the worst comb-over I'd ever seen.

"Who's banging on my damn door?"

I froze, mouth open, staring at Chester Pinckney.

Emma had not seen Pinckney's license, and had no idea she was addressing the man pictured on it. She proceeded, unaware of my reaction.

"How do you do, sir. May I ask if you're a member of the Pinckney family?"

"Last I looked, this was my damn house."

"Yes, sir. And you would be?"

"You ladies needing crawlers?"

"No, sir. I'd like to talk to you about Chester Tyrus Pinckney."

Pinckney's eyes slithered to me.

"This some kinda joke?"

"No, sir," Emma said.

"Emma," I whispered.

Emma shushed me with a low backward wave of one hand.

A smile crawled Pinckney's lips, revealing teeth browned by smoking and years of neglect.

"Harlan send you?" Pinckney asked.

"No, sir. I'm the Charleston County coroner."

"We got a girl coroner?"

Emma badged him.

Pinckney ignored it.

"Emma," I tried again.

"That's dead bodies, right, like I seen on TV?"

"Yes, sir. Do you know Chester Pinckney?"

Maybe Emma's question confused him. Or maybe Pinckney was working on his idea of clever riposte. He gave her a blank stare.

"Mr. Pinckney," I jumped in.

Emma and Pinckney both looked at me.

"Any chance you've lost your wallet?"

Emma's brows dipped, rose, then her eyes rolled skyward. Giving a small head shake, she turned back to Pinckney.

"That what this is about?" Pinckney asked.

"You are Chester Tyrus Pinckney?" Emma's tone was somewhat more relaxed.

"I look like Hillary damn Clinton?"

"You don't, sir."

"You finally nail the little pissant what fingered my wallet? Am I getting my money back?"

"When did you lose your billfold, sir?"

"Didn't lose the damn thing. It was stole."

"When was that?"

"Been so long I hardly remember."

"Please try."

Pinckney gave the question some thought.

"Afore the truck got drove into the ditch. Didn't sweat the license none after that."

We waited for Pinckney to continue. He didn't.

"The date?" Emma prompted.

"February. March. It was cold. Nearly froze my ass walking home."

"Did you file a police report?"

"Weren't worth spit. Sold it for scrap."

"I'm referring to your wallet."

"Damn right I filed a report." It came out "ree-port." "Sixty-four bucks is sixty-four bucks."

"Where did the loss take place?" Emma was now scribbling notes.

"It weren't no loss. I was robbed."

"You're certain?"

"I look like some kinda damn bonehead can't retain his own belongings?" Ree-tain.

"No, sir. Please describe the incident."

"We was out looking to meet some ladies."

"We?"

"Me and my buddy Alf"

"Tell me what happened."

"Not much to tell. Alf and me had us some barbecue, knocked back some beers and shots. I woke up the next morning, I got no wallet."

"Did you inquire at each of the establishments you'd visited?"

"Ones as we could remember."

"Where were you?"

"Think for a while we was at the Double L." Pinckney shrugged. "Alf and me was drinking pretty heavy."

Emma slid her notepad into a shirt pocket.

"Your property has been located, Mr. Pinckney."

Pinckney hooted. "Already kissed that sixty-four smackers goodbye. Don't need the license. Got no truck."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Pinckney's eyes narrowed. "Why's a coroner come calling to tell me this?"

Emma regarded Pinckney, considering, I suspected, how much to disclose about the recovery of his billfold.

"Just lending the sheriff a hand," Emma said.

Thanking Pinckney for his time, Emma descended the steps. When she joined me, we both turned to cross the yard.

Blocking our path was a mangy gray poodle in a studded pink collar. Between its forepaws lay a dead squirrel.

The poodle regarded us with curiosity. We reciprocated.

" Douglas." Pinckney gave a short, sharp whistle. "Get in here."

Douglas rose, clamped the squirrel in his teeth, and circled us.

I heard a thrup, then a bang as Emma and I continued toward the car.