I didn't argue with Pete's plan. The Latvian Savant was healing well. I knew he was anxious to get back to his clients.

I'd spoken with Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County medical examiner, and with Pierre LaManche, the chief of medico-legal in Montreal. A skull and a pair of mummified infants had come into the Charlotte facility. Two partial skeletons had arrived at the LSJML. Both pathologists had assured me the cases could wait, allowing me to remain in Charleston for Emma.

And for one final task.

I was opening the Atlanta Journal-Constitution when I felt more than heard footsteps rumble the boardwalk. Turning, I saw Gullet striding our way. He wore Ray-Bans, khakis, and a denim shirt without an embroidered name. I assumed the ensemble was the sheriff's idea of civvies.

"Mornin'." Gullet nodded at Pete, then me.

Pete and I said, "Mornin'."

Gullet settled onto the gazebo bench. "Glad to see you're improving, sir."

"I am. Coffee?" Pete tapped the thermos.

"Thank you, no." Planting his feet, Gullet leaned forward and rested one beefy forearm on each beefy thigh. "Had a nice little chat with Dickie Dupree. Seems Dickie has an employee who's long on ambition and short on brainpower. George Lanyard." Gullet tipped his head at me. "Dickie read his copy of the report you'd sent to the state archaeologist and went ballistic. Lanyard misread his boss's remarks about wanting your hide. I'm paraphrasing there."

"Lanyard thought Dupree was suggesting that someone should shoot me?" I couldn't keep the disgust from my voice.

"Not shoot you. Harass you. Lanyard's admitted to pegging the beer bottle at the Dumpster and firing at the house. Says he never intended to hurt anyone." Gullet turned the Ray-Bans on Pete. "You stepped into the kitchen at the wrong time."

"Dickie wasn't personally involved?" I asked.

"Dupree got madder than hoppin' hell when Lanyard came clean about what he'd done. Thought I was going to have another homicide right there on the site." Gullet took in a long breath and let it out. "I believe him. Dupree may step outside the bounds of decorum now and again, but the man's no criminal."

"What's happening with Marshall?" Pete asked, showing no interest in Lanyard.

"DA cut a deal. Marshall provides the name and location of every one of his victims, the state agrees not to stick a needle in his arm."

I snorted derisively. "The state should at least insist on taking one lung and one kidney."

"I'll pass that along." Did Gullet almost smile? "I expect the suggestion will be well received, but doubt it will be acted upon."

"He's talking?" Pete asked.

"Like a teen with a cell phone."

I already knew. Gullet had called following Marshall's disclosure to the DA Saturday morning. I felt the familiar blend of sadness and anger when I thought of the carnage.

Marshall's first victim was a prostitute named Cookie Godine, murdered in the summer of 2001. Willie Helms was killed that September. Both bodies were buried on Dewees Island. Missing their kidneys and livers.

Marshall knew Corey Daniels's history, and hired him in part for that reason, shortly before the first murder. From the beginning, Marshall planned to plant some trail signs to divert suspicion toward Daniels, just in case the clinic was ever implicated. But digging graves was strenuous physical labor and not to the doctor's liking. When the Godine and Helms disappearances passed unnoticed, Marshall became bolder and switched his MO from burial in a shallow grave to burial at sea.

Rosemarie Moon and Ethridge Parker were killed in 2002, Ruby Anne Watley in 2003, Daniel Snype and Lonnie Aikman in 2004. The final victims were Unique Montague and Jimmie Ray Teal. Barring a fluke such as the storm that brought Montague's barrel up the Moultrie brothers' creek, recovery of additional remains was highly unlikely.

Though it gave me no satisfaction, I'd been right about Helene Flynn and Noble Cruikshank. Flynn started working at the GMC clinic in 2003. What triggered her distrust of Marshall was suspicion over finances. Not understanding how minimally GMC funded the clinic, Helene became irate over what she perceived as a major disconnect between conditions on Nassau and Marshall's lifestyle. In order to confirm her misgivings, she began snooping into the doctor's private life. Though unable to secure proof of financial wrongdoing, she complained to her father and to Herron.

Marshall found out Helene was observing him. Fearing she'd eventually stumble onto the truth, Marshall strangled her, dumped the body in the ocean, sent the key and rent money to her landlady, and fabricated the California story. Ironically, Helene never learned of the murders or of Marshall's organ theft activities.

Cruikshank also had to go, but he was a PI, a former cop, and his client was Buck Flynn. He might be missed, so a more elaborate plan was needed. After researching Cruikshank's past, Marshall settled on suicide, but the mechanics of it had the potential to be difficult.

"I'm curious," I said. "Cruikshank wasn't big, but he was tough. How did Marshall manage to take him out?"

"Marshall tracked Cruikshank to Magnolia Manor and began trailing him when Cruikshank went out in the evenings. He discovered that Cruikshank liked to drink, and that Little Luna's was one of his haunts.

"One night Marshall was in Little Luna's and noted that Cruikshank was particularly sloshed. Marshall went to a pay phone near the door and dialed the bar. When the bartender answered, Marshall described Cruikshank's appearance and asked if he was there.

"The bartender got Cruikshank to the phone. Marshall identified himself as Daniels, and said he had important information on Helene Flynn and the clinic. He agreed to meet Cruikshank at Magnolia Manor."

"And Cruikshank was in such a hurry to get to the meeting place that he grabbed the wrong jacket on his way out."

"Exactly. He had his car keys in his pants pocket so he didn't notice the switch. Cruikshank was driving so erratically Marshall feared he'd be pulled over before he got home. No such luck for Cruikshank.

"Cruikshank had difficulty parking, which gave Marshall time to scope out the scene as he walked toward his victim. Marshall had taken to carrying his garrote on his surveillance outings, just in case an opportunity presented itself.

"Cruikshank was fumbling trying to lock his car. Marshall saw no one around, and the street was dark. He stepped up behind Cruikshank and had the loop over his head before Cruikshank sensed danger."

"How did he get the body to the national forest?"

"As soon as he'd strangled Cruikshank, Marshall draped one of Cruikshank's arms around his neck and slid his own arm around Cruikshank's waist. If anyone saw them, it would look like someone was hauling a drunken companion home. Marshall managed to maneuver the body into the front passenger seat of his own car and drove off. When he passed an unlit church parking lot, he pulled in and transferred the body to the trunk.

"Then he went home, collected two lengths of rope, and drove into the Francis Marion. Parking at the same spot where we all gathered on the day of the body recovery, Marshall took Cruikshank from the trunk and dragged him travois style into the woods. At the tree, he looped one rope under Cruikshank's armpits, threw the other end over the limb, and hoisted until Cruikshank's feet just cleared the ground. He'd dragged the body on a collapsible stepladder, which he then used to affix a second rope around Cruikshank's neck and tie it to the limb. Then he cut away the torso rope, collected his ladder, and left."

"And Cruikshank's car?"

"Marshall got the keys after he strangled Cruikshank. It must have given him a start when he found a wallet with another name, but he eventually decided he had the right man but the wrong jacket. That probably struck him as a piece of good fortune. The day after he strung Cruikshank up, he drove the car to the airport long-term parking lot. Used a briefcase to hide the license plate and decals that he removed. Then he took a cab from the airport back into the city. About a month later, the police removed the car to an abandoned car lot. By that time, Marshall must have been feeling downright invincible."