"Any luck finding your article?" Ryan asked, kissing the top of my head.

"No. But I did a little research on Lester Marshall." I handed Ryan my report.

"Grenada? That a real med school?"

"I think so. Though it's not exactly Johns Hopkins."

"Patchy employment history," Ryan said.

"Exactly. Where was Marshall from eighty-nine to ninety-five?"

"Wonder why he left Oklahoma."

"If Marshall got into trouble in eighty-nine the site wouldn't provide that information. They don't collect data on malpractice or lawsuits, and they don't report disciplinary actions older than five years."

"Did you try the pit bull and Daniels?"

I shook my head.

While Ryan took his purchases to the bedroom, I Googled Corey Daniels and Adele Berry. Nothing relevant came up. When I tried the Charleston white pages, I found a Corey R. Daniels on Seabrook Island.

A nurse living on Seabrook? That was odd. Seabrook and Kiawah islands were some of the priciest real estate in the Charleston area. Nothing low end.

I was thinking about that when Ryan reappeared. He was wearing a black cap with the brim turned backward, black Teva sandals, black shorts, and a black T depicting a devil clobbering an angel with a flashlight. The message read: Electricity comes from electrons, morality comes from morons.

"Nice," I said. Black, I thought.

"I found the message inspirational."

I found it unintelligible, but didn't say so.

"Didn't want to go too preppy," Ryan said.

"Black works with the pink skin," I said. "Hope the babes can resist."

"That can be a problem."

"Want to take a shot at hacking into Cruikshank's computer?"

"Not my strength. But I'll lend moral support."

"Morality's for morons." Pointing at Ryan's shirt, I heard a "psst" in my mind.

What? Electricity? Flashlight? Angel?

Wham-o. It was the Pete's-Hornets-cap-Teal synapse all over again. My mind catapulted the name from somewhere deep in storage.

"Larry Angel!"

"How I love him, how I tingle when he passes by." Ryan mimicked the Carpenters into an imaginary hand mike.

"Not Johnny Angel, Larry Angel. He was a physical anthropologist at the Smithsonian for years. It wasn't a journal article, it was a book chapter."

Ryan followed me to the den and watched as I dug a volume from the stack I'd used as a mini-lending library for my field school students.

And there it was. A black-and-white photo of a sixth cervical vertebra showing a hinge fracture through the anterior lamina and a hairline crack through the posterior lamina of the left transverse process.

"Whoa," Ryan said.

"Yowza," I said.

Together, Ryan and I skimmed the text.

I went cold all over.

I knew how Montague, Helms, and Cruikshank had died.

29

"I BUSTED A HIT MAN WHO POPPED HIS VICS WITH A SPANISH windlass." Ryan was using the slang term for the weapon described in Angel's chapter. "Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu boy, old school. Hated guns.

"He'd slip a wire noose over the vic's head, loop one side around a solid object, piece of pipe, maybe a screwdriver. Twist the side loop, the noose tightened. Simple but effective means of strangulation."

Exactly as Angel described.

I was almost too repulsed to speak. "That explains why only a single vertebra was fractured, and on only one side. The wire concentrated the force. The side loop was on the left."

I pictured the groove circling Unique Montague's neck, the claw marks left by her desperate struggles for breath.

"It also explains cause of death," I said. "C-6 and C-7 are angled five to ten degrees, so pressure applied to the carotid tubercle from the front would have been directed downward and backward." I swallowed. "Circulation to the brain would have been compromised and air would have been cut off from the lungs."

"You're sure it's the same injury on all three?"

I nodded.

Ryan pierced me with the ice blues. "So your drunken PI didn't kill himself after all."

"Cruikshank, Helms, and Montague were all garroted."

"Why?"

"Don't know."

"Helms and Montague were stabbed, or jabbed, or pierced in some way. Cruikshank wasn't. Why?"

"Don't know."

"Helms was buried in a shallow grave. Montague was dumped at sea in a barrel. Cruikshank was strung up."

"Don't say it."

Ryan did not query a third "why."

Firing to my feet, I grabbed my cell phone. "It's that clinic. It all goes back to that clinic." Ryan watched me punch numbers. "Gullet wanted three? I got him three. But where is he? Off snuffing bass with his buddies."

Gullet's receptionist replayed her earlier message. The sheriff was unreachable. I repeated that my need for contact was urgent. Unreachable. When I asked for the sheriff's home or cell phone number, the woman disconnected. "Sonova-"

"Calm down." Ryan, reason itself. "Call Emma."

I did. She was impressed with my findings, but suggested that nothing would change overnight.

"Terrific. You're as concerned as that bonehead sheriff. People are vanishing, turning up dead, but what the hell. Bad timing! It's Memorial Day!"

Ryan folded his arms and dropped his chin.

"Tempe-" Emma tried to break into my tirade.

"Throw some steaks on the barbie and crack out the beer! Jimmie Ray Teal may be rotting somewhere with a noose around his neck, maybe Helene Flynn, too. Who knows? Maybe a couple of hookers, a schizophrenic? But damn, it's a holiday!"

"Tempe-"

"Cruikshank, Montague, and Helms were garroted, Emma. Some cold-blooded maniac put a wire around their necks and squeezed the life out of them. And God knows what else was done to Helms and Montague."

"Tempe."

"Am I the only one who cares about these people?" Even to me I was sounding shrill, and somewhat irrational. If Teal and Flynn were dead somewhere, no urgent action would restore their lives.

"I want you to call my sister."

"What?" That caught me completely off guard.

"Will you do that for me?"

"Yes. Of course." Dear God, what had happened? "Why?"

"The discord between us has continued too long."

I swallowed hard. "Did you see Dr. Russell today?"

"I'll see her tomorrow."

"Why the change of heart?"

"Find Sarah. Say that I'd like her to visit."

"Shall I-"

"Yes. Tell her I'm sick."

"Give me the number."

Embarrassed hesitation. "I don't know it."

With my newly acquired skills in doctor-digging it took little Internet time to locate Mark Purvis, a cardiologist on staff at two Nashville hospitals. Unlike Marshall, Purvis was boarded up the wazoo.

Another few sites and I'd learned that Mark Purvis was married to Sarah Rousseau, an '81 graduate of South Florence High School in Florence, South Carolina. A number of Sarah's classmates really wanted to get in touch with her. Imagine.

I'd also acquired the Purvis's home number, address, and a map to their house. God bless the electronic age.

The Purvis's housekeeper informed me that the doctor and his wife were in Italy until the first week of June.

I practically slammed down the phone. Was the whole world suddenly unreachable?

Seeing my agitation, Ryan suggested a beach stroll. Boyd backed the plan. While walking, we all agreed that the only forward motion to be made that day would have to involve Cruikshank's boxes and laptop.

Back at "Sea for Miles" we all had a drink, then went straight to the den. Ryan and I took the couch. Boyd settled at our feet. Birdie joined us, but chose to observe from the hearth.

"Want to take a crack at Cruikshank's code?" I asked.

"What do you think, Hootch?" Ryan addressed Boyd with the nickname he'd given him upon their first meeting.