EMMA SOUNDED MORE ENERGIZED THAN SHE HAD IN DAYS. WHEN I asked how she felt, it was back to "hellcat."

"Thirty-four calls. Bingo. Lee Ann hits on a dentist holding a Willie Helms chart. Dr. Charles Kucharski. I paid the old codger a visit."

"That's how you limit yourself to paperwork?"

Emma ignored that. "Kucharski was so glad for a visitor I thought he might handcuff me to a wall in a homemade bunker."

"Meaning?"

"I doubt his patient load is overwhelming."

"Uh-huh." I sounded like Daniels.

"Kucharski remembered Helms as a tall pale guy, mid to late thirties, with a lot of tics. Helms's last visit was in April of 1996."

"What kind of tics?"

"Erratic neck and hand movements. Kucharski had to secure Helms's head and wrists to the chair while he drilled and filled. Kucharski thought it could have been Tourette's."

"Did Helms provide contact information? Address? Employer?"

"Helms's father, Ralph Helms, paid the bills. Willie listed that number in his record. When Lee Ann called, the phone was no longer in service. Turns out Helms senior died in the fall of ninety-six."

"Thus the termination of the regular checkups."

"Helms gave his employer as Johnnie's Auto Parts, off Highway 52. Guy named John Hardiston buys junkers, deals in scrap metal, that kind of thing. Hardiston says he hired Helms out of friendship with Ralph, let him live in an old trailer at the back of the yard. Helms took care of the dogs, acted as a kind of security guard. Worked for Hardiston almost ten years, then, one day, just took off."

"When was that?"

"Fall of 2001. Hardiston says Helms was always talking about going to Atlanta, so he didn't think much of it, just figured the guy finally packed up and went. Hardiston says Helms turned out to be a good employee, was sorry to lose him."

"But he didn't try to find him."

"No."

"If Helms died in 2001, that fits with my estimated PMI."

"Our bug guy suggests an outer limit of five years. That was my other news. You want me to read his preliminary report?"

"Summarize."

There were pauses as Emma pulled phrases from the text. "Empty puparial cases. Multiple soil-dwelling taxa. Beetles represented by cast skins and dead adults."

I heard the shuffling of paper.

"Helms's antemortem dental X-rays showed mucho mouth metal, so I picked up the postmortems and dropped both sets by Bernie Grimes's office. He'll call as soon as he can break free to do the comparison."

Emma paused for effect.

"There's more. Buried in the mound on my desk I also found a fax from the state forensics lab."

"The eyelash yielded DNA?"

"Pleeze. They've only had it since Thursday. But a malacologist looked at the shell."

"Malacologist?" That was a new one on me.

"Expert in clams, mussels, and snails. The thing is" —pause — "Viviparus intertextus." I could tell from Emma's cadence she was reading from the fax. "Viviparus intertextus is moderately common in swamps in the South Carolina Lowcountry, but is never found at the beach, in estuaries, or anywhere near salt water."

"So that snail shouldn't have been in that grave," I said.

"The species is strictly freshwater."

"Oooohkay." My mind thumbed through the possibilities. "The vic was killed elsewhere then transported to Dewees."

"Or the body was buried elsewhere, dug up, and moved to Dewees."

"Or the snail dropped from the gravedigger's clothing or shovel."

"All reasonable explanations."

We both mulled the list. Neither of us proposed a reasonable top candidate.

Emma shifted topics. "What's happening with the barrel lady?"

I described our visit to the GMC clinic.

"Gullet's not going to like it."

"No," I agreed.

"I'll take care of it," she said. "And I'll prod him on Helms, though I doubt much will happen over the long weekend."

"You really are feeling better?"

"I am."

"Get some sleep," I said.

After clicking off, I outlined the conversation for Ryan.

"So you and Emma could be three for three on IDs. Cruikshank. Helms. Montague. Know what's called for?"

I shook my head.

"Crab Rangoon."

"Sa-Cha shrimp?"

"Definitely. Shall we offer to feed Clod Clodersocks?"

Orbital roll. "Pete's real name is Janis."

Ryan looked at me.

"Latvian. You sure you don't mind?"

"Wouldn't want an athlete of Janis's stature eating unhealthy fried food."

I called Pete. He was home and hungry.

The idea proved lucrative for Cheng's Asian Garden in Mount Pleasant. Despite my protests, Ryan paid, once again confirming the old adage that women are doomed to perpetual attraction to the same type of man. My current lover and my estranged husband are clones in numerous respects, particularly with regard to picking up the tab. Neither lets me pay. Neither underbuys.

When we arrived at "Sea for Miles," Pete had the kitchen table set, chopsticks and all. Boyd was centered under it. Birdie was observing from the high ground of the refrigerator top.

Pete looked relaxed, his face tanned from hours on the golf course. Ryan and I looked like people who'd spent a long hot day in a Jeep.

"Never know when it could turn chilly," Pete said, nodding fake approval at Ryan's gabardine pants. Though I shot him my usual eye squint warning, I had to agree, wool looked out of place.

"Trip south was spur of the moment. Gotta hit the Gap." Ryan tipped his head at Pete's cargo shorts. "Those are natty."

"Thanks."

"Had some just like that," Ryan said.

Pete started to smile.

"Outgrew them in my teens."

The smile dissolved.

And so on.

As we worked through the shrimp, the Rangoon, and a dozen other selections, I brought Pete up to date on Montague, Helms, and the clinic. He told us he'd arranged for an accountant to help him with the GMC books.

The rest of dinner was a pas de deux of veiled digs. By the time it ended I felt like I'd been in the ring with Ali and Frazier. Nevertheless, when I explained that Ryan and I planned to revisit Cruikshank's belongings, Pete offered to help.

We were clearing the table when my cell rang. It was Emma.

"It's positive. The man on Dewees is Willie Helms."

"Yowza!"

Pete and Ryan both turned, little white cartons in hand.

"So the questions become what happened to Willie Helms, when, and why was he buried out on that island?"

"That's Gullet's department," Emma said.

Closing the cell phone, I told Pete and Ryan about Helms. They both said "yowza."

Ten minutes later it was the sheriff himself.

"Thought I told you not to stir things up at that clinic." As usual, Gullet jumped right in.

"You specified wingtipped cowboys."

"In the context of the girl who run off."

"Helene Flynn vanished. That doesn't mean she's run off."

There was a pause. Then, "Helene Flynn was unstable."

"What?"

"I'm going to discuss this with you once. Then we're going to drop it because that girl's disappearance did not take place within my jurisdiction." Gullet paused again. "When that young lady went missing, her daddy made a life's work of calling my office, demanding an investigation. I talked to Aubrey Herron personally at the time. Before her departure, Helene Flynn had taken to harassing both Marshall and Herron. In the end GMC had to ask her to leave."

"This is the first I've heard of this."

"Herron doesn't like to criticize former members of his flock."

"What was Helene harassing him about?"

"She was convinced Marshall was playing loose with the finances. Herron says he looked into it, found nothing amiss. The young lady just expected too much for the kind of operation his organization could support. Now you forget that clinic. I don't have time to be appeasing irate doctors."

"Marshall called you?"

"Of course he called me. Man was fuming. Said you'd been bullying his staff."

"Our visit hardly constituted bully—"

"And I don't have time to be running herd on you and your boyfriends."

Easy, Brennan. Let it go. This is not the man to argue with.

"I think I've got our two remaining MPs ID'd. The barrel DOA is probably the street woman I phoned you about, Unique Montague. Descriptions I obtained from the dead cat's previous owner and from a priest at St. John the Baptist match the profile I constructed from the bones."

"Miz Rousseau just called with that news."

There was a burst of static. I waited it out. "Unique Montague was a patient at the GMC clinic."

"So are a lot of folks."

"Flynn and Montague had ties to the clinic. Cruikshank was staking it out."

"'Course he was, he was looking for Flynn. And some bag lady dropping in is hardly grounds for a warrant, that being the point of the place. Talk about this other ID Miz Rousseau discussed."

"The man buried on Dewees is our long shot, Willie Helms. Lee Ann Miller found the dentist. Bernie Grimes did the comparison." I told the sheriff about Helms's father and employer. "Hardiston last saw Helms in the fall of 2001."

I braced for another monotone rant. Gullet surprised me.

"One of my deputies found a vagrant thought he'd swapped a few swigs with a Willie Helms."

"Could he describe the guy?"

"The good citizen lacks his full share of neurons. But my deputy managed to get out of him that Helms was a tall twitchy guy with blond hair and a serious love of hootch."

"That fits with the dentist's recollection. When was the man's last encounter with Helms?"

"Gentleman's oddly coherent on that point. Says it was the day the buildings went down."

I thought a moment. "The Twin Towers?"

"Nine-eleven. Says he and Helms watched coverage in some bar down by the port. Claims he never saw Helms again." Gullet cleared his throat. "Listen, nice work on Montague and Helms. Now back off that clinic. No sense rousing the dogs unless we got cause."

"What's cause?"

Long pause.

"Two patients."

"You don't think—"

"These are not suggested guidelines I'm serving up. Back off, Doc. That clinic's not my jurisdiction. I would have to present the evidence to the city police."

"Cruikshank, Helms, and Montague all turned up dead on your patch."

Gullet said nothing. Of course he knew that. Nevertheless, I pressed my point. "You're saying that if I tie another MP to that clinic, your department will interrogate Marshall and his staff? Or bring in the city police to do it?"

"Right now you've got a disgruntled employee who's probably run off, and the gumshoe her daddy hired to find her. That's not enough. You find some other patient's gone missing, you got my attention. And another thing. You've had that gumshoe's laptop long enough. I'll be collecting it first thing Tuesday."

Dial tone.

Pete and Ryan had been listening to my half of the conversation. I provided Gullet's.

"Why's the sheriff so freaked about the clinic?" Pete asked.

"Gullet strikes me as a letter-of-the-law type," Ryan said. "No warrant, no entry. No smoking gun, no warrant."

"Or he's in bed with Herron," I said.

"Maybe GMC's a big contributor to Gullet's campaign chest," Pete said.

Maybe, I thought. Or just a prominent corporate citizen pulling weight.

When the plates had been cleared, I brought Cruikshank's carton to the table and Pete took Helene's file and settled on the couch. As I showed Ryan my spreadsheet, Boyd shifted between the kitchen and the den. Birdie remained on his Sub-Zero mesa.

After adding Unique Montague and Willie Helms to the spreadsheet, I pulled Cruikshank's clientless cases.

"The Helms and Montague files contain only notes," I said.

Ryan glanced through each.

"Others contain only news clippings and notes."

I opened Lonnie Aikman's file, and Ryan and I skimmed Winborne's article.

Ryan thought a moment. "Kucharski thought Helms may have had Tourette's."

"Symptoms fit."

"So he may have been under a doctor's care."

"Maybe."

"Aikman was schizophrenic and on meds," Ryan noted.

"So the article says."

"Prescribed by a doctor."

I got Ryan's meaning. "You think Helms or Aikman could have been treated at the GMC clinic?"

"It's something to gnaw on. Willie Helms was a long shot and that panned out."

I wasn't really listening. I was remembering. Another MP Another article. Retrieved by Dumpster-diving in a storm. Name?

Grabbing the tablet on which I'd drawn my spreadsheet, I fanned the pages. A small rectangle fluttered to the tabletop. Post and Courrier, Friday, May 19.

I read aloud, picking out the salient points for Ryan.

"Jimmie Ray Teal is a forty-seven-year-old male who disappeared on May eighth," I said. "He was last seen leaving his brother's Jackson Street apartment heading for a medical appointment."

Bolting from the table, I dug out a phone directory and thumbed through the T's. There was a Nelson Teal listed on Jackson. I dialed. The phone went unanswered for ten rings. I dialed again, with the same result.

Ryan and I looked at each other.

"Aikman's mother lives in Mount Pleasant," Ryan said.

I went back to the directory.

"No Aikmans in Mount Pleasant, but there's one on Isle of Palms, another in Moncks Corner, and a couple in Charleston."

Ryan dialed the suburbs, while I took Charleston proper. Amazingly, everyone answered. Sadly, no one knew or had heard of Lonnie or his mother.

"I've met the journalist," I said.

"Got his number?"

I scrolled through calls received on my cell. Winborne's number was still there. Phoning him appealed to me about as much as a case of shingles. But at least the bozo hadn't written anything on Cruikshank.

I checked my watch: 10:07. Drawing a deep breath, I dialed.

"Winborne." Distorted, as though through half-chewed caramels.

"It's Dr. Brennan."

"Hold on."

A pop-top whooshed. I heard swallowing.

"OK. Shoot."

I repeated my name.

There was crinkling, then the sound of more chewing. "The lady dug the site on Dewees?"

"Yes."

"Got more than you bargained for on that one, eh, Doc?" Plankton was as annoying on the phone as he'd been in person.

"Mr. Winborne, this past March you wrote an article for the Moultrie News concerning the 2004 disappearance of a man named Lonnie Aikman."

"How 'bout that. The chick reads my stuff."

The chick fought the urge to disconnect.

"May I ask why you did a story so long after Aikman's disappearance?

"You're phoning to tell me that skeleton was ole Lonnie."

"No, I am not."

"It is, though, isn't it?"

"No."

"Bullshit."

I waited.

"You still there?"

"I'm here."

"The Dewees stiff's really not Aikman?"

"The remains were not those of Lonnie Aikman."

"But you know who it is."

"I'm not at liberty to release that information. Mr. Winborne, I'd like to know the reason for your interest in Lonnie Aikman."

"You know the drill, Doc." Garbled by spitty mastication. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Suddenly, I'm feeling a mite itchy."

I hesitated. What to give the little reptile?

"The man on Dewees has been positively identified through dental records. While I lack the authority to release his name, I promise to encourage the coroner to share that information with you once next of kin notification has been completed."

"That's it?"

"I also promise that if the Dewees skeleton turns into breaking news—"

"Did you actually say breaking news? Like on CNN? Like I could do a spot with Anderson Cooper? Maybe Wolf would invite me to the Situation Room?"

"Mr. Winborne, I—"

"Breaking news! I think I may wet myself."

Winborne's cackling set my nerves on edge.

"I would simply like to know what you learned about Lonnie Aikman."

"Why?"

"The information may be relevant to a death investigation." Through barely parted teeth.

"Whose?"

"I can't tell you that."

"How's Cruikshank fit in?"

"What?"

"The PI found swinging in the Francis Marion. How's he fit in?"

"You reported that Aikman's mother lives in Mount Pleasant, yet I can't find a listing."

"Cruikshank?"

This was going nowhere. I had to give him something.

"Noble Cruikshank's death is being viewed as a probable suicide."

"Probable?"

"The coroner's investigation is ongoing."

"What was he looking at?"

"Cruikshank specialized in missing persons."

"Like Lonnie Aikman?"

"I have no reason to suspect that Cruikshank's death is connected to the disappearance of Lonnie Aikman. Now I'm itching, Mr. Win-borne."

"Fair enough. Susie Ruth Aikman remarried. Phone's in her new husband's name."

"May I have the number?"

"Doc, you know better. Giving that out would be violating a confidence, exposing an informant to who knows what."

All my molars were now tightly clamped. "Would you call Mrs. Aikman and ask her to phone me?"

"Sure, Doc. This is going well, don't you think?"

Twenty minutes later he phoned back.

"Four days ago a car was hauled from a creek bed off Highway 176, northwest of Goose Creek. A woman was behind the wheel."

Winborne sounded shaken.

"Susie Ruth Aikman is dead."