HEART BANGING, I DOUBLE-STEPPED THE STAIRS, RACED INTO THE house, grabbed my cell, and hit a speed-dial key.

The phone rang four times, then an answering service cut in.

And delivered a message in French and English.

I punched again, missed, fingers clumsy with agitation. Repunched.

Same result.

"Pickup, damn it!"

"Just tell me who he was." Pete was following as I paced from room to room. Boyd was trailing Pete.

I hit the R on my speed dial a third time.

A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I was attempting to reach was unavailable.

"Go ahead. Turn yourself off!"

I hurled the phone. It bounced from the couch to the floor. Boyd ran over to sniff the offending object.

"Talk to me." Pete was speaking in that tone psychiatrists use to calm hysterical patients. "Who was that?"

Deep breaths. Steady. I turned to face him.

"Andrew Ryan."

A moment of mental Rolodexing. "The cop from Quebec?"

I nodded.

"Why would he show up then split without saying a word?"

"He saw us together."

More cerebral linking. Synapse. "So you two are—" Pete raised both brows, pointed to me, then toward the driveway where Ryan had been.

I nodded.

"Looked bad?" he asked.

"What do you think?"

I dialed Ryan twice more. His cell remained off.

I performed my nightly toilette with robotic detachment. Cleanser. Moisturizer. Toothpaste.

We're not sophomores going steady, I told myself. We're adults. Ryan is a reasonable man. I'll explain. We'll both laugh.

But would Monsieur Macho allow me the chance?

Lying in bed, I felt the weight of doubt in my gut. I took a long time to fall asleep.

===OO=OOO=OO===

By nine the next morning I wanted to turn my own cell off.

No. I wanted to pulverize it, then flush the plastic and metal bits into the sewer system of some remote Third World country. Bangladesh would do. Or maybe one of the Stans.

The first call came at 7:55.

"Morning, ma'am. Dickie Dupree."

That was it for Southern pleasantries.

"Just checked my e-mail."

"You're up early today, Mr. Dupree."

"Found this report of yours. Now I'm looking toward dealing with a pack of dimwit bureaucrats."

"You're welcome, sir. I thought you'd appreciate a copy."

"What I don't appreciate is your telling folks up at the state capital that I got priceless relics on my land."

"That's not exactly what I told them."

"Comes damn close. Report like this can cause me delays. And delays can cause me a world of hurt."

"It's unfortunate if my findings adversely affect your project," I said. "My job was to describe honestly what I found."

"This country's going to hell 'cause of crap like this. Economy's in the toilet. People are screaming there's no work, nowhere to live. I provide jobs, put up decent housing. What do I get for my efforts? Horseshit like this."

On Dewees, Dupree was putting up million-dollar beach homes for the overindulged. I didn't say it.

"Now some cracker-ass fool with more degrees than brains is going to come down here and declare my property some kinda heritage site."

"I'm sorry if my findings inconvenience you."

"Inconvenience? That how you see it?"

The question seemed rhetorical, so I didn't reply.

"Your meddling could hand me a damn sight more than inconvenience."

I used my steely voice again. "You might have requested a cultural resource assessment before agreeing to develop the land."

"We'll see who's inconvenienced, Miz Brennan. I, too, have friends. Unlike your pals, these boys ain't paper-pushing eggheads."

With that he was gone.

I sat a moment, considering Dupree's last statement. Was the little toad implying he might order someone to hurt me?

Right. Maybe send Colonel to gnaw me to death, though any harassment of me would be stupid and ineffective. It would not solve his problem.

I dialed Ryan. His phone was still off.

Throwing back the covers, I headed for the bathroom.

The next call came at eight fifteen. I was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating one of Pete's cranberry and pine nut muffins.

Cranberry and pine nut? My reaction, too, but that's what they were. I'd read the label twice.

Birdie was at his bowl crunching small brown pellets. Boyd was in begging mode, chin on my knee.

"Gullet here."

"Good morning, Sheriff."

Gullet, too, skipped preamble. "Just left Parrot. Took some memory jogging, but the gentleman finally recalled a box that might have gotten separated from the main stack."

"Might this box have contained a computer and camera?"

"Parrot's a little hazy on contents. Vaguely remembered some electronic equipment."

"And what might have happened to this errant box?"

"Seems his son might have accidentally carried it off."

"Kids."

"I gave Parrot an hour to discuss the matter with sonny. I'll call when I hear from him."

I dialed Emma. And got her recorded voice.

I dialed Ryan.

"L'abonné que vous tentez de joindre…" The mobile customer you are trying to reach…

I wanted to reach across the line and throttle the woman. In two languages.

I tried Ryan at eight thirty and again at eight forty-five. No go.

I clicked off, misgivings still firmly lodged in my innards. I wondered where Ryan had gone. Why he'd come here. Why he'd kept his visit a secret. Was it surveillance? Trying to catch me with Pete?

At nine, I called Emma a second time. I was on a voice mail roll. The same recording asked for my name and number.

Odd, I thought, rinsing then placing my cup in the dishwasher. I'd phoned Emma twice the night before, at six and at eight, and twice this morning. It wasn't like her to ignore my messages. Especially now, when I was so concerned about her health.

I knew that Emma often monitored calls, dodged conversations she didn't want to have. But she'd never done that with me. At least, not that I knew of. But then, when wrapped up in normal life, I called so rarely. Was she now ducking my calls because proximity made me a threat? An annoyance? Was my worry causing her discomfort? Did she regret taking me into her confidence? Was she avoiding me to avoid the reality of her disease?

Or was she really sick?

I made a decision.

Crossing the house to Pete's bedroom, I leaned close to the door. "Pete?"

"I knew you'd come knocking, sugar britches. Give me a minute to light some candles and cue Barry White."

Pete. You gotta love him.

"I have to go see Emma."

The door opened. Pete was wearing a towel and a half face of shaving cream.

"Deserting me again?"

"Sorry." I considered telling Pete about Emma's NHL, decided that doing so would betray a confidence. "Something's come up."

Pete knew I was being evasive. "If you divulge the full story you'll have to kill me, right?"

"Something like that."

Pete cocked a brow. "Any word from the French Foreign Legion?"

"No." I switched topics. "Gullet called. Parrot's kid probably has Cruikshank's computer."

"Think he'll release it to us so we can check the hard drive?"

"Probably. The sheriff's not exactly a techie, and he says he's short-handed right now. And, thanks to Emma, he views me as part of the team. Sort of."

"Keep me posted."

"Can you manage to charge and carry your cell?"

Pete had been the last person in the western hemisphere to obtain a mobile phone. Unfortunately, his bold advance into the world of wireless communication had peaked at the moment of purchase. His BlackBerry usually lay dead on his dresser, forgotten in a pocket, or buried in the center compartment of his car.

Pete gave a snappy salute. "Will secure and maintain apparatus, Captain."

"Show no mercy at God's Mercy Church, Counselor," I said.

Ill-chosen words, as things turned out.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Emma owned a property so "old Charleston" it should have been dressed in a hoopskirt and crinolines. The two-story house was peach with white trim and double porches, and sat on a lot enclosed by wrought iron fencing. A giant magnolia shaded the tiny front yard.

Emma had been negotiating to purchase the home when we met. She'd fallen in love with its woodwork, its gardens, and its Duncan Street location, just minutes from both the College of Charleston and the MUSC complex. Though the house was beyond her means in those days, she'd been overjoyed when her bid was accepted.

Good timing. In the years that followed, Charleston real estate shot into the stratosphere. Though her little slice of history was now worth a small fortune, Emma refused to sell. Her monthly payments were stiff, but she made it work by spending money on little other than food and her home.

It had rained throughout the night, freeing the city from its premature skin of oppressive heat. The air felt almost cool as I pushed open Emma's gate. Details seemed magnified. The rusty squeak of old hinges. Buckled cement where a magnolia root snaked beneath. The scent of oleander, confederate jasmine, crepe myrtle, and camellia floating from the garden.

Emma answered the door wearing a bathrobe and slippers. Her skin looked pasty, her lips dry and cracked. Greasy stragglers hung from an Indian-print scarf knotted on her head.

I tried to keep the shock from my face. "Hey, girlfriend."

"You're more persistent than a Yahoo! pop-up."

"I'm not selling products to enlarge your man's penis."

"Already got a magnifying glass." Emma mustered a weak smile. "Come on in."

Emma stepped back, and I brushed past her into the foyer. The smell of pine and wood polish replaced the perfume of flowers.

The inside of Emma's house was exactly as promised by the outside. Straight ahead, double mahogany doors gave way to a wide hallway. A large parlor opened to the right. A bannistered staircase curved up to the left. Everywhere, Baluchi and Shiraz carpets topped gleaming wood floors.

"Tea?" Emma asked, exhaustion emanating from every part of her body.

"If you let me make it."

As I followed Emma, I scoped out the house.

One look told me where my friend's money was going. The place was furnished with pieces that had been crafted before the founding fathers inked up their pens. Had she needed cash, Emma could have sold off antiques through the next millennium. Christie's would have taken months just to write catalog copy.

Emma led me to a kitchen the size of a convenience store, and settled herself at a round oak table. While I started a kettle and got tea bags, I told her about Cruikshank's boxes. She listened without comment.

"Cream and sugar?" I asked, pouring boiling water into a pot.

Emma pointed to a china bird on the counter. I carried it to the table and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

As Emma sipped I brought her fully up to date. The missing computer. The images on the disc. The odd fractures on the two cervical vertebrae.

Emma asked a few questions. It was all very friendly. Then I changed the tone.

"Why are you ignoring my calls?"

Emma looked at me as you might a squeegee kid asking to do your windshield, uncertain whether to say "thanks" or "buzz off." A few seconds passed. Setting her mug carefully on the table, she seemed to make a decision.

"I'm sick, Tempe."

"I know that."

"I'm not responding to treatment."

"I know that, too."

"This latest round is knocking me on my ass." Emma turned her face away, but not before I saw the pain in her eyes. "I've been unable to do my job. First Monday, now today. I've got a skeleton I'm failing to get ID'd. You tell me I've got a dead former cop who might not have killed himself. And what am I doing? I'm home sleeping."

"Dr. Russell said you might experience some fatigue."

Emma laughed. There was no humor in it. "Dr. Russell's not here to see me heaving my guts out."

I started to protest. She cut me off with a raised hand.

"I'm not going to get better. I need to face that." Emma's eyes came round and dropped to her mug. "I need to consider my staff and the community I've been elected to serve."

"You don't have to make any major decisions right now." My mouth felt dry.

A wind chime danced outside the window, merry, oblivious to the anguish on the opposite side of the glass.

"Soon," Emma said softly.

I set down my mug. The tea was cold, untouched.

Ask?

The chimes tinkled softly.

"Does your sister know?"

Emma's eyes came up to mine. Her lips opened. I thought she was about to tell me to go to hell, to stop meddling and mind my own business. Instead she just shook her head no.

"What's her name?"

"Sarah Purvis." Barely audible.

"Do you know where she is?"

"Married to some doctor in Nashville."

"Would you like me to contact her?"

"Like she'd care."

Pushing from the table, Emma walked to the window. I followed, stood at her back and lay a hand on each of her shoulders. For several moments no one spoke.

"I love baby's breath." Emma was gazing at a stand of delicate white flowers in the garden outside. "The flower ladies sell baby's breath at the marketplace. That, too." She pointed at a cluster of green and white stalks topped by long, slender leaves. "Know what that is?"

I shook my head.

"Rabbit tobacco. Tea brewed from rabbit tobacco was once considered the best cold remedy in the Carolina Lowcountry. Rural folks still smoke it for asthma. Its other name is life everlasting. I planted it when…"

Emma took a deep, ragged breath.

Though my throat felt tight, I kept my voice low and even.

"Let me help you, Emma. Please."

A beat passed. Another.

Without turning, Emma nodded.

"But don't call my sister." She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Not yet."

Driving from Emma's home, emotions battled in my head. Anxiety concerning my relationship with Ryan. Frustration with the Dewees and Cruikshank cases. Worry for Emma. Anger at my impotence in the face of her illness.

Moving through the sunshine of that glorious morning, I swallowed the fear and fury and doubt, and reshaped them into something new. Something positive.

I couldn't reach into my friend's marrow and restore the life her own cells were taking from her. But I could ply my trade and ease her professional concerns. I could work to give Emma the answers she wanted regarding the skeletons.

A stubborn resolve formed in my heart.

As it did so, the Lowcountry was again preparing to give up a secret. Another body would be discovered within twenty-four hours. This one would present me with more than dry bones.