EMMA HAD LANDED ON THE CROWN OF HER HEAD. HER BACK was humped and her neck and limbs were in-kinked like the legs of a sun-fried spider.

I rushed over and pressed two fingers to her throat. The pulse was steady, but weak.

"Emma!"

She didn't respond.

Lowering Emma, I gently eased her cheek to the tile. Then I bolted to the corridor.

"Help! I need medical help!"

A door opened and a face appeared.

"Emma Rousseau's collapsed. Call the ER."

The brows rocketed and the mouth went round.

"Now!"

The face withdrew. I raced back to Emma. Seconds later two paramedics blasted into the room. They fired questions as they loaded Emma onto a gurney.

"What happened?"

"She collapsed."

"Did you move her?"

"I rolled her to clear the windpipe."

"Medical problems?"

I blinked and looked at him.

"Was she taking medication?"

I felt helpless. I hadn't a clue.

"Out of the way, please."

I heard the whine of rubber wheels on tile. A soft squeaking.

Then the autopsy room door clicked shut.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Emma's eyes were closed. A tube ran from her left arm to an IV bag above her head. The tube was taped with white adhesive. Its color was little different from that of Emma's skin.

This woman had always been a firestorm of energy, a force of nature. Not now. In her hospital bed she looked small and fragile.

I tiptoed across the cubicle and took my friend's hand.

Emma's eyes opened.

"I'm sorry, Tempe."

Her words surprised me. Wasn't it I who should be apologizing? Wasn't it I who had ignored the signs of distress?

"Rest, Emma. We'll talk later."

"Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma."

"What?" Reflex. Denial. I knew what Emma was saying.

"I have non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. NHL. And I'm not talking hockey." Weak smile.

"How long?" Something cold started to congeal in my chest.

"Awhile."

"How long is awhile?"

"A couple of years."

"What type?" Stupid. I knew next to nothing about lymphoma.

"Nothing exotic. Diffuse large B-cell lymphoma." Rote, as though she'd heard or read the words a thousand times. Dear God, she probably had.

I swallowed hard. "You're in treatment?"

Emma nodded. "I was in remission, but I've relapsed. I'm getting the CHOP regime on an outpatient basis. Vincristine, prednisolone, doxorubicin, and cyclophosphamide. My biggest worry is infection. The cytotoxic drugs leave me wide open to infection. One good staph offensive could lay me flat."

I wanted to close my eyes, to make this all go away. I kept them open.

"You're a hellcat." Forced smile. "You'll be fine."

"I learned Saturday that I'm not responding as well as my doctor had hoped."

The bad-news phone call. Was that what Emma had started to share outside the hospital? Had I been too preoccupied with the skeleton to listen? Had I done something to discourage her confidence?

"Have you told anyone?"

Emma shook her head.

"That wasn't a migraine on Saturday."

"No."

"You should have leveled with me, Emma. You could have trusted me."

Emma shrugged. "You can't help. Why worry you?"

"Does your staff know?"

A look flared in Emma's eyes. "I've lost some weight and some hair, but I can still do my job."

"Of course you can."

I stroked Emma's hand. I understood my friend. But only in part.

Emma cared fiercely about her duties, and would let nothing interfere with her performance of them. She and I were clones in that way.

But something else drove Emma Rousseau. Something I'd never fully grasped. A desire for power? Recognition? Some manic need to outshine? Emma marched to drumbeats I didn't hear.

"They're having a lot of success with lymphoma these days." Lousy at nurturing, I fell back on cliché.

"Damn right."

Emma raised a palm. I high-fived it. Her hand dropped back to the bed.

Diffuse large B-cell. A high-grade lymphoma. The cancer was destructive and moving fast.

I felt burning behind my eyes. Again, I managed to keep them open. To keep my lips smiling.

The muffled sound of "Bad Boys" floated from a bedside locker.

"My cell," Emma said.

"Is that the COPS theme?"

Emma gestured impatiently. "It's in the plastic bag with my clothes."

By the time I extracted the phone the music had ended. Emma checked the caller ID and hit redial.

I knew I should protest, should advise rest and stress avoidance, but it was pointless. Emma would do what Emma would do. In that, we were also clones.

"Emma Rousseau."

I heard a tinny voice on the other end of the line.

"I've been tied up," Emma said.

Tied up? I mouthed.

Emma shushed me with a hand.

I rolled my eyes. Emma pointed a warning finger.

"Who phoned it in?"

The tinny voice answered, but I couldn't make out the words.

"Where?"

Emma pantomimed writing. I dug a pen and tablet from my purse. The IV tubing rattled as Emma scribbled.

"Who's on it?"

The tinny voice spoke at length.

"Give me the particulars."

Emma shifted the phone and the voice was cut off. As she listened, her eyes flicked to her watch. It wasn't there. She pointed at mine. I held out my wrist.

"Don't touch the body. I'll be there in an hour."

Clicking off, Emma threw back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"No way," I said, placing a hand on each of her knees. "Unless I'm mistaken, you lost consciousness a few hours back."

"The ER doc says it's fatigue brought on by the meds. All my vitals are good."

"Fatigue?" Even for Emma, this was a stretch. "You collapsed and nearly left your brains on the floor."

"I'm OK now." Emma stood, took a step, and her knees buckled. Bracing against the headboard, she closed her eyes, willing her body to work.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

I didn't bother to argue. Prying loose her fingers, I eased Emma back onto the bed, and pulled the blanket to her waist.

"I have too much to do," she resisted weakly.

"You're not going anywhere until a doctor releases you," I said.

Emma's eye roll left mine in the dust.

I looked at my friend. She had no husband or children. No lover that I knew of. She'd spoken once of an estranged sister, but that had been years ago. As far as I knew Emma had no one close in her life.

"Do you have friends who can look in on you?"

"Whole squadrons." Emma flicked at a nonexistent something on the blanket. "I'm not the freakoid loner you think I am."

"I don't think that at all," I lied.

At that moment, an ER resident stepped into the cubicle. He had greasy black hair and looked like he'd been up since Reagan held the White House. A plastic rectangle on his scrubs said his name was Bliss.

Or was the badge some sort of subliminal greeting? I wish you bliss.

Bliss began flipping through the pages of Emma's chart.

"Tell her you're not eyeing me as today's organ donor," Emma said.

Bliss looked up. "You're fine."

"Two hours ago she was passed out cold," I said.

"The treatment she's undergoing can be debilitating." Bliss turned to Emma. "You shouldn't run a marathon, but otherwise you're good to go. Assuming you contact your regular physician."

Emma gave a thumbs-up.

"She's planning to go straight back to work," I said.

"That's not a great idea," Bliss said. "Go home. Take some time to recover your strength."

"It's not like I play tackle for the Carolina Panthers," Emma said.

"What do you do?" Weary, making notes in the chart.

"She's the coroner," I said.

Bliss stopped writing and looked at Emma. "That's why the name seemed familiar."

A nurse appeared. Bliss instructed her to disconnect Emma's IV

"Your friend's right." Bliss flipped back the pages of the chart. "Take the day off. If you don't get rest there could be a repeat performance."

Seconds after Bliss's departure, Emma was on the phone to Gullet. The sheriff was out. Emma said she would personally drop off the NCIC forms.

Disconnecting, she dressed and strode from the cubicle. I trailed behind, determined to talk her into going home. Or, failing that, to stay close in the event she took another header.

Together, we zipped CCC-2006020277 into his body bag and asked a tech to return him to the cooler. Then we stored his X-rays and gathered his paperwork. Throughout, I pushed my plan for bed rest.

Throughout, Emma repeated, "I'm OK."

Leaving the hospital felt like walking into a vat of warm honey. Emma fired down the ramp, as though trying to put space between us.

Catching up, I tried one last salvo.

"Emma." Sharper than I'd intended. I was frustrated and out of arguments. "It's ninety-five. You're exhausted. No case is so important it can't wait until tomorrow."

Emma let out her breath in annoyance.

"The call I just took was from one of my investigators. Couple of boys found a body in the woods this afternoon."

"Let your investigator handle it."

"The case could be sensitive."

"Every death is sensitive."

"Damn, Tempe. First two, three thousand cases I've worked, I guess I didn't see that."

I just looked at her.

"Sorry." Emma pushed the hair from her forehead. "About three months back an eighteen-year-old kid vanished. History of depression, no money, passport, or possessions missing."

"The cops suspected suicide?"

Emma nodded. "No note or body was ever found. My investigator thinks this could be him."

"Let your investigator handle the recovery."

"There's no margin for error on this one. Daddy's a local politico. Guy's angry, vocal, and hangs with the power boys. That's a dangerous combination."

I wondered again if blowback from the cruise ship incident was affecting Emma more than I knew.

"What tipped your investigator?"

"The remains are hanging from a tree. The tree's less than a mile from the kid's last known address."

I pictured the scene. That picture was all too familiar.

"Has Daddy been told?"

Emma shook her head.

Plan B.

"How about this?" I proposed. "Tell Daddy that his son's disappearance is being given top priority. A body has been found, but three months' exposure complicates analysis. Outside expertise is needed to make an identification."

As usual, Emma got it right off. "The coroner's office wants the best, and cost is no obstacle."

"I like the way you think."

Emma smiled a weak smile. "You'll really do it?"

"You have the authority to bring me into the case?"

"Yes."

"I'll do it if you promise to go straight home to bed."

"How about this?" Emma counterproposed. "I deliver the NCIC forms to the sheriff, get him working on the Dewees skeleton. You supervise recovery of my hanging victim. We keep in touch by phone."

"After your nap."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Sounds like a plan."