"It took some convincing, but Gullet's gone to pick Daniels up." I went back to picking. The cuticle was now a bright angry red. "But the case against Daniels is also circumstantial. I'm hoping some searches and some phone records will turn up gold."

"What about the eyelash?"

"DNA takes time."

"Capitaine Comical gone back to the tundra?"

"Yes."

"Miss him?"

"Yes." I'd caught a trace of Ryan's scent on my pillow that morning and felt a loneliness more intense than I'd anticipated. An emptiness. A sense of impending closure?

"How's Emma?" Pete pulled my hands apart and held on to one.

I shook my head.

Ten minutes later my mobile sounded. Gullet's number glowed on the screen. Heart thumping, I clicked on.

"Daniels wasn't at Bohicket or at his condo. Boat's in the slip. Sent out an APB on his vehicle."

"Any progress on Shorter?"

"No sign of him, but the plane's kept at a private airstrip out Clement's Ferry Road. Small operation. No tower, but they sell fuel. Watchman says Shorter flies a group of businessmen up to Charlotte every Saturday morning, comes Friday evenings to do routine maintenance. Tybee will be waiting when Shorter shows up."

"What's Marshall doing?"

There was a pause. In the background I could hear Gullet's radio sputter.

"Zamzow lost him."

"Lost him?" I couldn't believe it. "How could he lose him?"

"Eighteen-wheeler jackknifed not far in front of his position. Involved two cars. I diverted him to that."

"Jesus Christ!"

"It's temporary. Tuckerman's called a press conference for ten tomorrow morning. Marshall will be putting on a puppy face for his public, and we'll resume our tail then."

When we'd disconnected, I looked at the patient. Mercifully, Pete was dozing.

Glancing back at my phone, I noticed the little icon indicating voice mail waiting. I listened to the message.

Emma, 4:27 P.M. "Call me. I have news."

While talking to Tybee, I'd left my purse in Gullet's office. Emma must have phoned then.

I hit E on my speed dial. Emma's machine answered after four rings.

"Damn!"

I was about to disconnect when Emma's live voice cut in over her recorded voice.

"Hang on."

The message ended, and a long beep sounded. I heard a click, then a change in sound quality.

"Where are you?" Emma asked.

"At the hospital."

"Staff catches you on a cell phone they'll break out the rubber hoses. How's Pete?"

"Sleeping," I said, just above a whisper.

"You and Gullet have been busy."

"Emma, I think we've made a mistake."

"Oh?"

I got up, closed the door, and gave Emma a condensed version of everything I'd told Pete. She listened without interrupting.

"Don't know if my news will resolve anything. Got DNA results today. It's Marshall's eyelash."

"You're right. That could go either way. But it narrows the possibilities. Either Marshall disposed of the body, or participated in the disposal, or was being set up even at the time the body was buried. But why a setup back then? That kind of contingency planning seems something of a stretch. And an eyelash, for God's sake? Sounds like a TV plot where the cops find one skin cell in an acre of shag carpet. What are the chances an eyelash will be found?"

"Who's your pick?"

"Daniels. He's dim enough to think something like that would work."

"Mine, too. Keep me in the loop."

"I will."

I set the phone on vibrate mode. Minutes crept by. I was gnawing a cuticle when it signaled.

Gullet.

"IOP PD just spotted Daniels's vehicle at the Dewees marina."

"He's gone to see his aunt? If so, why? And why not take his own boat?"

Gullet ignored the questions. Rightly so. They were irrelevant.

"I'm checking with Dewees to see if Daniels is out there. Posted deputies on his condo and at Bohicket. We'll get him."

"Please call when you do. The guy gives me the creeps."

Pete was snoring. Time to go.

I was clearing the newspaper from Pete's bed, trying not to rustle, when my eyes fell on the grainy black-and-white of Aubrey Herron. Herron was caught in a posture of supplication, face tipped, eyes closed, arm stretched above his head.

Left arm.

The thought struck like a tsunami. Unbidden. Unforeseen. Shocking.

"Damn," I whispered, fingers clenching in distress. "Damn, damn, damn."

The paper trembled as visions screamed through my mind.

A trio of sixth cervical vertebrae, all fractured on the left.

A wire noose with a side loop for applying deadly force.

Corey Daniels beyond one-way glass. A hand shooting through hair. A finger working a desktop. An arm draping a chair back. A scar circling a wrist.

Lester Marshall leafing through pages in a patient chart. Jotting words on a legal pad.

Kaleidoscope images fused into realization.

Daniels spoke of permanent damage from a motorcycle accident. He had strength only in his right hand.

Marshall rummaged Montague's file with his left hand. He wrote with his left hand.

Daniels was right-handed. Marshall was left-handed.

A Spanish windlass is slipped over a victim's head from behind.

On Montague, Helms, and Cruikshank, the force had been applied to the left side of the neck. They had been strangled by a lefty.

I'd sent Gullet after Daniels.

The killer couldn't be Daniels.

Where was Marshall now?

39

DROPPING THE PAPER, I GRABBED MY PHONE AND DIALED GULLET.

No answer.

Damn!

I dialed the sheriff's department switchboard. The operator told me Gullet was unavailable.

"I need to contact him. Now."

"Are you calling to report a crime?"

"Gullet's on his way to arrest a man named Corey Daniels. Get through to him. Tell him to call Brennan before proceeding."

"Is this a reporter?" Wary.

"No. This is Temperance Brennan. I'm working with the coroner's office. I have information the sheriff will want. It's very important to get through to him."

A beat of hesitation.

"Your number?"

I provided it. "How can I contact Deputy Tybee?"

"I can't give that out."

"Please contact Tybee." I had to restrain myself from screaming at the woman. "Tell him to call me. Same number. Same message."

Totally frustrated, I disconnected.

I looked at Pete. He was well past dozing and into REM. I thought about leaving, decided to hold. What if Gullet or Tybee called while I was in the elevator with no signal?

I began pacing, working the cuticle with my teeth.

Call, damn it!

Not a ripple from the phone.

Call!

How could I have been so stupid? So gullible? Marshall had played me like a fish at a time when I should have been adding the missing pieces to the puzzle.

Calm, Brennan. Nothings lost. Marshall has been charged. He'll have to stand trial. Daniels can be released.

As usual, I ignored my own advice. I was pumped with anxiety, angry at my own stupidity. The cuticle looked like raw flank steak.

My higher centers tried reason.

Gullet has grounds to pick Daniels up. He can also release him as new facts emerge. That happens. No one will die.

Die?

I froze as another kaleidoscoping chain winged toward another terrible realization.

Marshall was the killer, yet the case against him was circumstantial. Who could nail it down?

The pilot, that's who.

If Shorter was indeed Marshall's mule, Marshall had a major loose end. If the DA got to talk to Shorter, he might deal. If Shorter flipped, his testimony could bury Marshall and Rodriguez.

Marshall was ruthless. Marshall had eluded Zamzow and was running free. Marshall would understand the risk represented by Shorter. He would try to eliminate that risk. If he succeeded, it could prevent a conviction.