"Do you know why she left?"

"Marshall said she quit, hired Berry." Daniels was still fingertipping the table. "Don't ask, don't tell. That's my motto."

"Did Marshall ever work late?"

"Sometimes he let Berry and me leave early."

A second passed. Daniels's finger froze.

"Fuckin' A, man. I see what you're saying." Daniels overnodded as he spoke. "Something's wrong there. The guy's a doctor. Locking up was Berry's job."

From the sheriff's department, we went to the hospital. Pete was in a private room on the med-surge floor. Ryan waited in the lobby while I went up.

The Latvian Savant was awake and cranky. His Jell-O was green. His nurse was deaf. His gown was too small and his cheeks were catching cold. Though Pete's carping was annoying, annoyance was a relief. My heart felt light. He was healing. Katy had called finally and I'd been able to assure her of her father's imminent recovery.

Lily phoned Ryan late that afternoon. She was with friends in Montreal and wanted to see him. Ryan promised to be there by Friday. His vacation was over, he had to return to work on Monday. Leaving two days early meant he could spend the weekend with his daughter. He was grinning when he delivered the news. I hugged him. We held each other a very long time, each lost in thoughts of another. A nonsevered spouse. A newly realized child.

Ryan and I decided to splurge that night. My work in Charleston was done. Emma's unknowns were ID'd, and Marshall was looking at a lot of hard time. Maybe worse. Pete was improving rapidly. Lily was reaching out. We dined on steak and lobster at 82 Queen.

Throughout dinner Ryan and I circled cautiously, stuck to neutral topics, restricted ourselves to present and past tense. He didn't ask about the future. I didn't offer reassurance. I couldn't. I was still puzzled and confused by the strength of my reaction to Pete's proximity. To his near brush with death.

There was a lot of self-congratulation, much laughter, frequent clinking of glasses. At times I wanted to reach out and take Ryan's hand. I didn't. In the time since, I've often wondered why.

Ryan left after breakfast on Thursday. We kissed good-bye. I waved until his Jeep disappeared, then went back into Anne's house, empty again save for a dog and a cat. I was staying in Charleston until Pete could return to Charlotte. Beyond that, I had no plans.

Boyd and I spent Thursday afternoon with Emma. When she opened her front door, Boyd jumped up and nearly knocked her down. I felt like I'd taken a blow to the chest. All the sparkle was gone from Emma's face. Her skin was pallid, and though the day was warm and moist, she wore a sweat suit and socks. I had to struggle to keep my smile pasted in place.

Gullet had already told Emma of Marshall's arrest. Sitting in porch rockers, we reviewed my conversations with the doctor and his nurse. Her reaction was immediate and uncompromising.

"Daniels running an international organ ring and framing his boss? Give me a break. You've seen the evidence. Marshall is a turd and he's guilty as hell."

"Yeah."

"What? You're not convinced?" Emma's skepticism ran planetary rings around Gullet's.

"Of course I am. But there are a couple things that bother me."

"For instance?"

"There wasn't a single personal item in Marshall's office. So why that one shell?"

"A million reasons. He meant to take it home but forgot about it. One escaped from a container, rolled out of sight in his desk drawer, and he never knew it was there."

"Helms was killed in 2001. That shell was in Marshall's drawer all that time?"

"We're not talking conch shells, Tempe. The things are tiny."

"True."

Seeing a squirrel, Boyd shot to his feet. I put my hand on his head. He twirled the eyebrow hairs at me, but held.

I pressed my point. "But Marshall is smart. Why would he carry shells when burying a corpse?"

"Maybe the shell got wrapped up with Helms's body and Marshall didn't notice."

Boyd's head movement told me he was tracking the squirrel.

"Gullet said it himself," I said. "Marshall is fastidious. It just doesn't fit the guy's personality."

"Everyone slips up eventually."

"Maybe."

I tapped Boyd's head and pointed to the floor. Reluctantly, he settled back down at my feet.

Emma got iced tea, then the two of us rocked in silence.

A man passed outside the fence, a woman with a stroller, two kids on bikes. Occasional chow whines suggested ongoing interest in Rocky.

"What do you think the final body count will be?" I asked.

"Who knows?"

I remembered some of the names in my spreadsheet. Parker Ethridge. Harmon Poe. Daniel Snype. Jimmie Ray Teal. Matthew Summerfield. Lonnie Aikman.

"Can I ask you something, Emma?"

"Sure."

"Why didn't you tell me about Susie Ruth Aikman?"

"Who?" Emma sounded genuinely baffled.

"Lonnie Aikman's mother was discovered dead in her car last week. Wouldn't that be considered a suspicious death?"

"Where was she?"

"Highway 176, just northwest of Goose Creek."

"Berkeley County. That's not my jurisdiction. But I can find out about her."

Of course it wasn't. I felt like an idiot to have doubted my friend. Ask about the cruise ship incident Winborne had referenced in his article on Aikman? Forget it. None of my business.

By four thirty Emma was fading. We went inside, and I made spaghetti with sauce from her freezer. Boyd prowled the kitchen, getting in my way.

Watching Emma rearrange rather than eat her dinner, I remembered my call to her sister. I told her that Sarah would be returning from Italy in the next few days, and promised to try her again. Emma insisted I let it go.

At six Boyd and I headed home. While I drove, the chow worked a loop in the rear, moving from window to window, periodically stopping to lick my right ear and cheek.

Boyd was in midcircuit when I turned into the drive at "Sea for Miles." Suddenly, he stopped, and a low growl rose from his throat.

My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror. An SUV was riding my bumper.

Fear rippled through me.

"Easy, boy." Reaching back, I finger-wrapped Boyd's collar.

Boyd tensed and gave a full-out bark.

Eyes on the rearview, I hit a button on the armrest. The automatic locks clicked shut.

The SUV driver's door opened. I saw a logo.

Boyd barked again.

I let out my breath. "It's OK, tough guy."

It was. I recognized the figure barreling toward me.

For once, I could read the expression on Gullet's face.

The sheriff wasn't happy.

36

WORDLESSLY, GULLET HANDED ME A COPY OF TODAY'S POST and Courier. I scanned the front page.

Winborne had struck again. Only this time the story wasn't buried with the local news. Cruikshank, Helms, the clinic raid, Marshall's arrest. The piece was accompanied by a photo of the Reverend Aubrey Herron, fist raised heavenward in his trademark gesture of petition. The story wrapped up with the usual titillating teases about possible leads, final body count, and danger to the public.

I felt momentary confusion, then my emotions distilled into a searing white anger.

"That slimy little worm!"

The sheriff watched me, face stony as one of the Battery statues. Sudden realization.

"You don't seriously believe I tipped Winborne?"

"You told me you know him." Gullet's face deepened into a glower.

"You told me he's harmless." I glowered back.

"I don't like my investigation hung out like some cheap episode of reality TV. Herron's livid, the media are sharpening their knives and forks, and our phones are clamoring like church bells on Sunday."