"I BUSTED A HIT MAN WHO POPPED HIS VICS WITH A SPANISH windlass." Ryan was using the slang term for the weapon described in Angel's chapter. "Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu boy, old school. Hated guns.

"He'd slip a wire noose over the vic's head, loop one side around a solid object, piece of pipe, maybe a screwdriver. Twist the side loop, the noose tightened. Simple but effective means of strangulation."

Exactly as Angel described.

I was almost too repulsed to speak. "That explains why only a single vertebra was fractured, and on only one side. The wire concentrated the force. The side loop was on the left."

I pictured the groove circling Unique Montague's neck, the claw marks left by her desperate struggles for breath.

"It also explains cause of death," I said. "C-6 and C-7 are angled five to ten degrees, so pressure applied to the carotid tubercle from the front would have been directed downward and backward." I swallowed. "Circulation to the brain would have been compromised and air would have been cut off from the lungs."

"You're sure it's the same injury on all three?"

I nodded.

Ryan pierced me with the ice blues. "So your drunken PI didn't kill himself after all."

"Cruikshank, Helms, and Montague were all garroted."

"Why?"

"Don't know."

"Helms and Montague were stabbed, or jabbed, or pierced in some way. Cruikshank wasn't. Why?"

"Don't know."

"Helms was buried in a shallow grave. Montague was dumped at sea in a barrel. Cruikshank was strung up."

"Don't say it."

Ryan did not query a third "why."

Firing to my feet, I grabbed my cell phone. "It's that clinic. It all goes back to that clinic." Ryan watched me punch numbers. "Gullet wanted three? I got him three. But where is he? Off snuffing bass with his buddies."

Gullet's receptionist replayed her earlier message. The sheriff was unreachable. I repeated that my need for contact was urgent. Unreachable. When I asked for the sheriff's home or cell phone number, the woman disconnected. "Sonova—"

"Calm down." Ryan, reason itself. "Call Emma."

I did. She was impressed with my findings, but suggested that nothing would change overnight.

"Terrific. You're as concerned as that bonehead sheriff. People are vanishing, turning up dead, but what the hell. Bad timing! It's Memorial Day!"

Ryan folded his arms and dropped his chin.

"Tempe—" Emma tried to break into my tirade.

"Throw some steaks on the barbie and crack out the beer! Jimmie Ray Teal may be rotting somewhere with a noose around his neck, maybe Helene Flynn, too. Who knows? Maybe a couple of hookers, a schizophrenic? But damn, it's a holiday!"

"Tempe—"

"Cruikshank, Montague, and Helms were garroted, Emma. Some cold-blooded maniac put a wire around their necks and squeezed the life out of them. And God knows what else was done to Helms and Montague."

"Tempe."

"Am I the only one who cares about these people?" Even to me I was sounding shrill, and somewhat irrational. If Teal and Flynn were dead somewhere, no urgent action would restore their lives.

"I want you to call my sister."

"What?" That caught me completely off guard.

"Will you do that for me?"

"Yes. Of course." Dear God, what had happened? "Why?"

"The discord between us has continued too long."

I swallowed hard. "Did you see Dr. Russell today?"

"I'll see her tomorrow."

"Why the change of heart?"

"Find Sarah. Say that I'd like her to visit."

"Shall I—"

"Yes. Tell her I'm sick."

"Give me the number."

Embarrassed hesitation. "I don't know it."

With my newly acquired skills in doctor-digging it took little Internet time to locate Mark Purvis, a cardiologist on staff at two Nashville hospitals. Unlike Marshall, Purvis was boarded up the wazoo.

Another few sites and I'd learned that Mark Purvis was married to Sarah Rousseau, an '81 graduate of South Florence High School in Florence, South Carolina. A number of Sarah's classmates really wanted to get in touch with her. Imagine.

I'd also acquired the Purvis's home number, address, and a map to their house. God bless the electronic age.

The Purvis's housekeeper informed me that the doctor and his wife were in Italy until the first week of June.

I practically slammed down the phone. Was the whole world suddenly unreachable?

Seeing my agitation, Ryan suggested a beach stroll. Boyd backed the plan. While walking, we all agreed that the only forward motion to be made that day would have to involve Cruikshank's boxes and laptop.

Back at "Sea for Miles" we all had a drink, then went straight to the den. Ryan and I took the couch. Boyd settled at our feet. Birdie joined us, but chose to observe from the hearth.

"Want to take a crack at Cruikshank's code?" I asked.

"What do you think, Hootch?" Ryan addressed Boyd with the nickname he'd given him upon their first meeting.

Boyd raised his head, twirled the eyebrow hairs, then laid his chin back onto his paws.

"Hootch says no problemo."

"I'll finish this last box." I didn't mention the reason a few items had remained unexamined. Why stir memories of my Wednesday night meltdown and cuddle with Pete?

As I was opening the flaps, the subject of the Wednesday night driveway incident appeared in the flesh.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?" Pete called from the foyer.

Ryan's jaw muscles bunched.

Boyd shot from the room. I heard a thunk, then the rattle of golf clubs. Seconds later Pete appeared, the chow cavorting around him.

"Counselor." Ryan nodded a greeting to Pete.

"Detective." Pete nodded to Ryan.

"Tempe." Pete nodded to me. Adults, being polite. Then a smile curled Pete's lips.

"Sugar britches."

Don't start, I squinted.

"What's the latest?" Pete asked, all innocence.

I brought him up to date.

"I'm going through these last few things. Ryan is taking a shot at the notes."

"The detective may succeed where the lowly attorney has failed." Pete's voice had taken on an edge. He turned to Ryan. "Hoping to find the key to the killer, Andy?"

"No, info on troop movements in Iraq, Pete."

"Forgot." Pete pointed a finger at Ryan. "Andy's one mirthful fellow."

"You probably garner a few laughs on the links."

Pete fired a shot from his finger pistol. "Detect your asses off, people. I'm going to shower."

Boyd followed Pete to the doorway.

"Pete?"

He turned. "Yes, sugar britches?"

"Have you picked up any vibes at GMC as to why Cruikshank might have been killed?"

"None whatsoever." To Ryan. "By the way, good choice. Black goes with everything. Never needs laundering."

I watched Pete leave, feeling what? Annoyance? Pity? No. Mostly the sadness of loss.

Setting aside the trophy, the baseball, the police paraphernalia, and the photos, I dug out the book and the two envelopes I'd yet to open.

The book was titled The Chronicle of Crime, and promised details on "the most infamous criminals of modern times and their heinous crimes." Tall order.

I flipped to the table of contents. All the usual suspects were there. Lizzie Borden. Ted Bundy. Dr. Crippen. Jeffrey Dahmer. Albert Fish. Charlie Manson. Jack the Ripper. Peter Sutcliffe.

Something tingled below my sternum. Why was Cruikshank researching serial killers? Personal interest? Or was he looking for insight into Charleston's MPs?

I put the book on the coffee table and opened Cruikshank's first envelope. The contents consisted of a single photocopy and pages printed from the Net. The latter looked familiar. Very familiar.

"Cruikshank was looking at Lester Marshall," I said. "Visited the same physician credential checking sites that I did."

"Makes sense. He was observing the place where Marshall practices medicine. Cruikshank get anything beyond what you found?"

"Not really. But some of his searches had to do with another doctor. Dominic Rodriguez graduated St. George's the same year as Marshall, 1981, did a surgical residency at the University of California-San Diego, then practiced medicine there until 1990. The site lists nothing beyond that."

I picked up the photocopy.

"Looks like Cruikshank obtained a list of residency appointments for St. George's grads spanning the years eighty to eighty-five. Doesn't appear to have come from the Net."

I was talking as I read.

"Lot of foreign names. Some impressive appointments. Neurology — University of Chicago; internal medicine — Georgetown; emergency medicine — Duke. No Lester Marshall, but the name Dominic Rodriguez is circled. Do you suppose Cruikshank was looking at this guy because he and Marshall were classmates? But why Rodriguez? He's a cutter, Marshall's family medicine."

Ryan thought about that.

"Marshall dropped out of sight in Tulsa in eighty-nine, reappeared in Charleston in ninety-five. You're saying Rodriguez slipped under the radar in San Diego in ninety. That's curious."

I was replacing the first envelope when I noticed a flyer lying flat up against the side of the box. I took it out. The thing was a one-page travel brochure touting the benefits of a health spa in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

"Maybe Rodriguez was Mexican," I said, holding the ad up. "Started pining for the homeland."

"Right." Meaning, not a chance.

"It happens. Surgeons burn out. Maybe Rodriguez went to Puerto Vallarta in ninety to practice medicine in a less stressful environment."

"A spa?"

"The text promises medically trained personnel offering options found in few clinics worldwide."

"Such as?"

"There's a number you have to call."

"Maybe Cruikshank had the ad because he was looking for a detox program south of the border."

"Why?"

"The guy was a drunk."

"Why Mexico?"

"Good burritos."

Orbital roll. "Making progress with the code?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Patience, fair maiden."

Tossing the flyer into the box, I opened the second envelope.

Again, the contents were photocopies and printouts. There were six, maybe seven in all, some single sheets, others composed of multiple pages.

I started reading. At first, I was confused. As comprehension grew, the room receded around me, and a dark feeling took root inside me.

When I'd finished the articles, I checked the table of contents in the crime book. There it was. Fingers cold with dread, I turned to the chapter. A yellow Post-it marked the page, suggesting that particular case had been the focus of Cruikshank's interest.

Every neuron in my mind screamed no! The explanation was just too macabre. But it all fit. The clinic. The disappearances. The cut marks on Helms and Montague.

Had Helene Flynn been murdered because she'd learned about this? Had she stumbled on the truth while searching for evidence of financial wrongdoing? Had Cruikshank also found out?

I opened my lips to share the horrific idea with Ryan. I never spoke.

The next few moments exploded so quickly that in my memory there was no sequence. My later attempts to reconstruct the chronology yielded only jumbled images.

Pete moving toward the kitchen. Boyd rocketing from the den. Boyd barking. The kitchen light shooting arrows onto the corridor wall. A gunshot ringing out. Me on the floor, Ryan pressing my head to the carpet. Ryan's weight leaving my back. Me scrambling toward the kitchen, crouching, terrified. The barking more frenzied.

My blood freezing in my veins. Pete facedown on the floor, red mushrooming from some unseeable wound.