Boyd raised his head, twirled the eyebrow hairs, then laid his chin back onto his paws.

"Hootch says no problemo."

"I'll finish this last box." I didn't mention the reason a few items had remained unexamined. Why stir memories of my Wednesday night meltdown and cuddle with Pete?

As I was opening the flaps, the subject of the Wednesday night driveway incident appeared in the flesh.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?" Pete called from the foyer.

Ryan's jaw muscles bunched.

Boyd shot from the room. I heard a thunk, then the rattle of golf clubs. Seconds later Pete appeared, the chow cavorting around him.

"Counselor." Ryan nodded a greeting to Pete.

"Detective." Pete nodded to Ryan.

"Tempe." Pete nodded to me. Adults, being polite. Then a smile curled Pete's lips.

"Sugar britches."

Don't start, I squinted.

"What's the latest?" Pete asked, all innocence.

I brought him up to date.

"I'm going through these last few things. Ryan is taking a shot at the notes."

"The detective may succeed where the lowly attorney has failed." Pete's voice had taken on an edge. He turned to Ryan. "Hoping to find the key to the killer, Andy?"

"No, info on troop movements in Iraq, Pete."

"Forgot." Pete pointed a finger at Ryan. "Andy's one mirthful fellow."

"You probably garner a few laughs on the links."

Pete fired a shot from his finger pistol. "Detect your asses off, people. I'm going to shower."

Boyd followed Pete to the doorway.

"Pete?"

He turned. "Yes, sugar britches?"

"Have you picked up any vibes at GMC as to why Cruikshank might have been killed?"

"None whatsoever." To Ryan. "By the way, good choice. Black goes with everything. Never needs laundering."

I watched Pete leave, feeling what? Annoyance? Pity? No. Mostly the sadness of loss.

Setting aside the trophy, the baseball, the police paraphernalia, and the photos, I dug out the book and the two envelopes I'd yet to open.

The book was titled The Chronicle of Crime, and promised details on "the most infamous criminals of modern times and their heinous crimes." Tall order.

I flipped to the table of contents. All the usual suspects were there. Lizzie Borden. Ted Bundy. Dr. Crippen. Jeffrey Dahmer. Albert Fish. Charlie Manson. Jack the Ripper. Peter Sutcliffe.

Something tingled below my sternum. Why was Cruikshank researching serial killers? Personal interest? Or was he looking for insight into Charleston's MPs?

I put the book on the coffee table and opened Cruikshank's first envelope. The contents consisted of a single photocopy and pages printed from the Net. The latter looked familiar. Very familiar.

"Cruikshank was looking at Lester Marshall," I said. "Visited the same physician credential checking sites that I did."

"Makes sense. He was observing the place where Marshall practices medicine. Cruikshank get anything beyond what you found?"

"Not really. But some of his searches had to do with another doctor. Dominic Rodriguez graduated St. George's the same year as Marshall, 1981, did a surgical residency at the University of California-San Diego, then practiced medicine there until 1990. The site lists nothing beyond that."

I picked up the photocopy.

"Looks like Cruikshank obtained a list of residency appointments for St. George's grads spanning the years eighty to eighty-five. Doesn't appear to have come from the Net."

I was talking as I read.

"Lot of foreign names. Some impressive appointments. Neurology – University of Chicago; internal medicine – Georgetown; emergency medicine – Duke. No Lester Marshall, but the name Dominic Rodriguez is circled. Do you suppose Cruikshank was looking at this guy because he and Marshall were classmates? But why Rodriguez? He's a cutter, Marshall's family medicine."

Ryan thought about that.

"Marshall dropped out of sight in Tulsa in eighty-nine, reappeared in Charleston in ninety-five. You're saying Rodriguez slipped under the radar in San Diego in ninety. That's curious."

I was replacing the first envelope when I noticed a flyer lying flat up against the side of the box. I took it out. The thing was a one-page travel brochure touting the benefits of a health spa in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

"Maybe Rodriguez was Mexican," I said, holding the ad up. "Started pining for the homeland."

"Right." Meaning, not a chance.

"It happens. Surgeons burn out. Maybe Rodriguez went to Puerto Vallarta in ninety to practice medicine in a less stressful environment."

"A spa?"

"The text promises medically trained personnel offering options found in few clinics worldwide."

"Such as?"

"There's a number you have to call."

"Maybe Cruikshank had the ad because he was looking for a detox program south of the border."

"Why?"

"The guy was a drunk."

"Why Mexico?"

"Good burritos."

Orbital roll. "Making progress with the code?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Patience, fair maiden."

Tossing the flyer into the box, I opened the second envelope.

Again, the contents were photocopies and printouts. There were six, maybe seven in all, some single sheets, others composed of multiple pages.

I started reading. At first, I was confused. As comprehension grew, the room receded around me, and a dark feeling took root inside me.

When I'd finished the articles, I checked the table of contents in the crime book. There it was. Fingers cold with dread, I turned to the chapter. A yellow Post-it marked the page, suggesting that particular case had been the focus of Cruikshank's interest.

Every neuron in my mind screamed no! The explanation was just too macabre. But it all fit. The clinic. The disappearances. The cut marks on Helms and Montague.

Had Helene Flynn been murdered because she'd learned about this? Had she stumbled on the truth while searching for evidence of financial wrongdoing? Had Cruikshank also found out?

I opened my lips to share the horrific idea with Ryan. I never spoke.

The next few moments exploded so quickly that in my memory there was no sequence. My later attempts to reconstruct the chronology yielded only jumbled images.

Pete moving toward the kitchen. Boyd rocketing from the den. Boyd barking. The kitchen light shooting arrows onto the corridor wall. A gunshot ringing out. Me on the floor, Ryan pressing my head to the carpet. Ryan's weight leaving my back. Me scrambling toward the kitchen, crouching, terrified. The barking more frenzied.

My blood freezing in my veins. Pete facedown on the floor, red mushrooming from some unseeable wound.

30

AN AMBULANCE ARRIVED. RYAN HELD ME IN HIS ARMS AS TWO paramedics worked on Pete. Boyd whined and scratched on the far side of the pantry door. I shared his fear. The kitchen seemed awash in blood. Could anyone survive the loss of so much?

Though I asked question after question, I was repeatedly ignored. After furious manipulation involving tubes and wound packing, Pete was strapped to a backboard, placed on a stretcher, and whisked away.

Two Isle of Palms uniforms arrived and asked a lot of questions. Their name tags read CAPER and JOHNSON. At one point Caper asked about the bruise on my arm. I described the previous Thursday's bottle-throwing incident. Caper put it in his notes.

Ryan told the cops he was on the job, showed his badge, and tried to deflect the interrogation. Caper and Johnson said they understood, but needed to file an incident report.

Tersely, I outlined what Pete was doing in Charleston. Caper wanted my thoughts on who might have shot him. I suggested he interrogate Herron and the GMC clinic staff. Caper's expression suggested that was unlikely to happen.