"The same rat bastard that snuck onto my site on Dewees."

"He's graduated to the crime beat?"

"Do I look like the little twerp's employment counselor?" I was still so angry it came out shrill. "But he's got far more information than he ought to."

"Must have an informant."

"Gee. You think?"

"Okeydokey." Pete took a swig of beer and leaned back in a posture suggesting conversation was terminated until I'd composed myself.

Through the screen, I watched gulls circle trawlers at the dock. Their buoyant, hopeful looping was somehow calming.

"Sorry," I said when our food was delivered. "I'm not annoyed with you."

"No problemo." Pete pointed a shrimp at me. "A lot of reporters monitor emergency frequencies."

"I thought of that. Winborne might have picked up police transmissions concerning the discovery of the body, but he couldn't have learned about the ID that way."

"An insider at the coroner's or sheriff's office?"

"Maybe."

"Morgue staff?"

"It's possible."

"Unless…" Pete let the word hang.

A hushpuppy stopped halfway to my mouth. "Unless what?"

"What about your friend Emma? She have an agenda you don't know about?"

I'd thought of that. I'd remembered how Emma spoke up for Win-borne, argued that his presence on Dewees would do no harm.

I said nothing. But Pete had raised a very good point.

What about Emma?

We ate and chatted about other things. Katy. Pete's mother's hip replacement surgery. My family. A trip we'd made to Kiawah twenty years earlier. Before I knew it, my watch said 5:45.

Ooooookay.

Pete insisted on picking up the check. He paid in cash. No plastic at the ole Wreck.

"Want to help me go through Cruikshank's files?" Pete asked, pulling in at "Sea for Miles."

"Wish I could, but it's crunch time for my field school exams."

"They can't wait one more day?"

"Tomorrow is the deadline for grade submission, I have to write at least a preliminary report on the Dewees dig for the state archaeologist in Columbia, and who knows what else could pop up."

"Looks like I'm on my own." Sad Pete face.

I smiled and punched Pete's shoulder. "Use a lifeline. Call your buddy Rejewski."

Climbing to my room, I dialed Emma's number. Her machine answered. I left a message.

By eight I'd finished the last exam, calculated grades, and e-mailed the list to the department secretary at UNCC. She'd agreed to walk the form over to the registrar for me.

Again, I tried Emma. Hearing the same recording, I hung up.

By ten I'd composed a brief statement concerning the Sewee burial site on Dewees, including my opinion as to its value as a cultural resource. I e-mailed the document to the Office of the State Archaeologist, and sent copies to the South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and Anthropology, to the South Carolina Department of Archives and History, and to Dan Jaffer at USC-Columbia.

Then I sat back, debating. Dickie Dupree? The man was a weasel. No. That probably wasn't being fair to weasels. But the site was on Dupree's land, and my evaluation could affect decisions he might have to make. And, God forbid, Dickie's bottom line.

Birdie was curled on the desk to my left.

"What do you think, Bird?"

The cat rolled onto his back and stretched all four legs as far as they would go.

"You're right."

Using the Internet, I found an e-mail address and fired a copy off to Dupree.

Pete and Boyd were again in the den. The tube was on, though neither appeared to be watching. This time it was an old Bob Hope film.

Pete was on the couch, bare feet crossed on the coffee table, the Helene Flynn file open in his lap. He was making notes on a large yellow legal pad.

Boyd lay flopped on his side, back paws resting on his master's knee.

The file carton and eighth box sat side by side on the window seat.

On-screen, a man was describing zombies as having dead eyes, following orders, not knowing what they do, not caring.

"You mean like Democrats?" Hope inquired.

Pete threw back his lead and laughed.

"Not offended?"

"Humor is humor," replied Pete the Democrat.

The chow opened a sleepy eye. Seeing me in the doorway, he slunk to the floor.

Pete jabbed his pen at the TV "This movie has some of Hope's best one-liners."

"Title?" When Pete and I first met, and during the early years of our marriage, old films had been one of our passions.

"Ghost Breakers."

"Wasn't that the Bowery Boys?"

Pete made a buzzer sound. "Nnnnt! Wrong. That was Ghost Chasers."

I couldn't help but laugh. It felt so natural.

Seeing Pete at that moment, lamplight softening the lines of his face, it suddenly hit me. Though we'd been apart for some time, led largely separate lives, there wasn't a day I didn't think, at least fleetingly, about my husband.

The laughter died on my lips.

"What's the plot?" I asked, detached, forcing blasé.

"Paulette Goddard has inherited a haunted castle. Hope's lines are classic."

"Any progress with the code?"

Pete shook his head.

Crossing to the window seat, I collected Cruikshank's belongings and settled on the couch. With the box between my feet, I disengaged the flaps and began rifling.

The first thing I removed was a trophy featuring a tiny capped figure holding a bat. A plaque on the wood base read: LEAGUE CHAMPIONS, JUNE 24, 1983. I put the trophy on the coffee table.

Next, I pulled out a baseball, its outer surface covered with signatures.

I set the ball beside the trophy, wondering if the two items were related. My mind began drifting.

Cruikshank had played in a league. Where? What position? Had his team been consistently good, I wondered, or did the ball and trophy represent their one championship season? What had it been like on that June day? Hot? Rainy? Had the score been lopsided? Had Cruikshank's team won with one heart-stopping hit?

Did Cruikshank have the game ball because he drove in the winning run? Had his teammates pounded his back? Had they all gone for beer and rehashed the game?

Had Cruikshank relived that moment in the years that followed? Alone with his bourbon, had he seen the pitch, felt the bat's grip in his palms, heard the crack as the ball ricocheted from the sweet spot?

Had the man marveled at how life had gone so terribly wrong?

On-screen Hope was quipping, "The girls call me Pilgrim, because every time I dance with one I make a little progress."

Pete was chuckling as I pulled a pair of framed photos from among Cruikshank's belongings. The first showed five uniformed soldiers, smiling, arm-draping one another's shoulders. The photo's owner was last on the left.

I studied the small figure. Cruikshank's hair was short, and he was squinting, probably facing into the sun. The crags in his face were softer, but already foretold the older man he'd become.

More drifting.

Had Cruikshank done a hitch in the army? The National Guard? He'd been too young for Vietnam. Where had he served?

The second framed photo showed darkly uniformed men stacked in formal, straight rows. I guessed it was Cruikshank's police academy graduating class.

A round metal tin held other police memorabilia. Collar brass from the different units in which Cruikshank had served. Colored bars that I assumed were departmental recognition awards. A duplicate shield.

A corrugated brown folder held a police academy diploma, several certificates from specialty training courses, and more photos. Cruikshank shaking hands with some high police official. Cruikshank with three men in suits. Cruikshank and another cop standing in front of a church with Billy Graham.

I fished some more.

A Zippo lighter with a CMPD logo. A key chain, pocketknife, and tie tack with the same logo. A CMPD badge. Handcuffs. Keys. A frilly garter. An old Sam Browne belt buckle. A scuffed holster. A speed loader for a revolver.