WE WAITED OUTSIDE, DRINKING COFFEE FROM STYROFOAM CUPS. A small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, attracted by the cruisers and the crime scene van. When the DA arrived with the warrant, the CSU moved in. Gullet asked Ryan and me to sit tight while the team tossed the clinic and he and his deputy interrogated the staff.

An hour passed. Slowly, the gawkers drifted off, disappointed that no body had appeared.

Just before noon, Gullet strode across Nassau to where Ryan and I were leaning on the Jeep.

"Finding anything that could lead to charges?" I asked.

"Got a couple things you might want to see."

Ryan and I followed Gullet into the clinic. Berry was being questioned at her desk. Daniels was sitting in one of the vinyl chairs. Neither appeared to be enjoying the day. Marshall had gone out to wait in his car.

"What if he uses his cell phone?" I asked Gullet.

"I can't really prevent that, but I can sure trace any calls he makes."

Gullet led us to a second-story treatment room. The place looked standard-issue. Chair. Stool. Gooseneck lamp. Dome-topped trash can. Paper-draped examination table.

As I crossed the linoleum, my eyes roved the cabinets and walls. Plastic cups, tongue depressors, eye test chart, baby scale.

"No bloody scalpel?" Ryan asked behind me.

"Just this."

I turned. Gullet was holding a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a noose made of quarter-inch wire. Seeing the side twist, I knew the loop's deadly purpose.

I pictured Unique Montague hopping up onto the treatment table, alone, unwell, trusting the kindly doctor to make her better. I pictured Unique in that rusty barrel, decomposing in salt water. I imagined sea creatures probing the metal to get inside to her rotting flesh. I felt the beginnings of rage.

"Where was it?" Ryan asked.

"Stashed in an under-counter cabinet."

"Prints?" I asked, seeing powder on the wire.

Gullet shook his head.

"He probably wore surgical gloves. Though it sure as hell wasn't to protect the patient." I couldn't keep the loathing from my voice.

"Follow me," Gullet said.

The two remaining upstairs doors led into one large chamber, probably created by removing walls between what had been small bedrooms and a bath. The chamber had been outfitted with a refrigerator, a double stainless steel sink, and counters and cabinets identical to those in the examining room. An IV pole stood in one corner. An operating table held center stage.

Lining one wall were four bright blue coolers, the kind you buy at Wal-Mart to haul lunch to the beach. Each had been tagged with a red-and-yellow evidence sticker.

"A do-it-yourself surgery," Ryan said.

"Complete with blackout curtains and state-of-the-art OR lighting." Gullet swept an arm around the room.

Evidence bags covered the table. I crossed to them.

Surgical clamps. At least twenty scissors of various types. Hemostatic, mosquito, and tissue forceps. Scalpel handles and boxes of disposable blades. Shipping labels stamped BIOLOGICAL SUPPLY HOUSE SPECIMEN. Sterile pouches. Stacked instrument trays.

Liquid mercury boiled in my chest.

"What about patient files?" I asked, finding it hard to keep my voice neutral.

"Berry will be producing all paper records," Gullet said. "We've confiscated the computer."

"Does patient information go up the chain to GMC?"

Gullet shook his head. "Clinic is a self-contained operation, records never leave. After six years, they're destroyed."

"What's Berry's story?" Ryan asked.

"Never saw a thing out of the ordinary. Dr. Marshall is a saint."

"How about Daniels?"

"Never saw a thing out of the ordinary. Dr. Marshall is a saint."

"The cleaning guy?"

"O'Dell Towery. Comes in nights. Mildly retarded. Got a deputy talking with Towery now. Doubt that's going anywhere."

"What's happening in Mexico?" I asked.

"Soon's I hear, you'll know."

"What about Marshall's office?"

"CSU bagged one thing you'll like." Gullet thrust both hands into his pants pockets, came out empty, patted his shirt. "Hold on."

I heard the sheriff clomp down, then back up the hall. Reentering the OR, he held out a small evidence bag. "From a hollow below the pen rack in the desk drawer. CSU sucked it out with some kind of vacuum thingy."

I felt jubilation elbow the abhorrence in my gut.

The bag held a small brown shell. Like the small brown shell I'd found in Willie Helms's grave.

"If you folks will excuse me a moment," Gullet said, "I must inform the good doctor that he is under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Unique Montague, and arrange for his custody and transportation."

===OO=OOO=OO===

After a quick lunch, Ryan and I stopped by the hospital. More good news. Pete was conversing normally and regaining a little color. According to the surgeon, the Latvian Savant had suffered muscle tearing and some arterial bleeding and would need rehab, but should mend without permanent damage.

I was surprised by the choking sensation in my throat.

I knew I'd be relieved and grateful, but was stunned by the intensity of emotion that swept through me. Looking at Pete with his tubes and tape and machinery, I felt tears break from my lids. A few inches more toward the midline, and that bullet could have killed him. Disguising the gesture as a hair tuck, I wiped my cheeks.

Ryan took my hand and squeezed. I looked up. The confusion on his face told me he'd seen.

Emma had also had a reasonably good report. Her blood count wasn't up, but neither was it down. Dr. Russell had adjusted her regimen and dosage, and though still exhausted, she was no longer tossing all of her cookies.

At our request, Emma called the malacologist. If Ryan and I came to Columbia, would he examine the shells that day?

He would. We were cookin'!

The drive took less than ninety minutes. A man named Lepinsky met us in the lobby of the state crime lab building. Lepinsky was tall and brawny, with a shiny bald head and a loop in one ear, more Mr. Clean than my image of a biology prof.

"Thanks for coming in," I said.

Lepinsky shrugged one overmuscled shoulder. "No classes today, campus is a spit from here."

Lepinsky took us to a small lab containing cabinets with zillions of long, narrow drawers. Black-topped counters held work trays, glove boxes, glass slides, and microscopes.

"Let's see what you got," Lepinsky said, holding out a hand the size of one of those foam things fans wave at sporting events.

I produced the evidence bag.

Lepinsky tweezed out the shell, placed it under a scope, sat, and adjusted focus.

Seconds ticked by. A full minute. Five more.

Ryan and I exchanged glances over Lepinsky's hunched back. Ryan raised his brows and palms. What could be taking so long? I shrugged.

Lepinsky flipped the shell.

The air was close and hot and smelled of disinfectant and glue. Beside me, Ryan shifted his feet. Checked his watch.

I gave him the look my mother gave me when I wiggled in church.

Ryan cleared his throat, turned, and checked out the cabinets.

Lepinsky again rotated the shell. Changed magnification.

Ryan crossed his arms. I knew a comment was coming.

"Cases hold reference collections?" he asked.

"Mm," Lepinsky said.

"Cost a lot of clams?"

Lepinsky didn't answer.

"Must have been a bear to mussel them up here."

I rolled my eyes.

"Mussels and clams are not the same thing," Lepinsky said, deadpan as Gullet, then looked up. The scope light made the hairs curling from his T look like small, white wires.

"And what are you kiddies hoping Santa will bring?"

"A freshwater snail named Viviparus intertextus," I said.

"You've been good boys and girls."

===OO=OOO=OO===

"So mussels and clams don't attend the same family reunions," Ryan said, merging onto I-26. "Go figure."

It was after six, and we were on our way back to Charleston. We'd stopped at Maurice's Piggy Park. The man's politics are offensive, but Maurice Bessinger makes primo barbecue sauce.

Exhausted from my all-nighter, and gorged on pork, fries, and sweet tea, I wanted to collapse against the headrest and drift off. Instead, I called to tell Gullet about Lepinsky's ID.

"The snails were the same freshwater species I found buried with Helms."

"You're going to love this."

Did I actually hear a note of something in Gullet's voice? Pleasure? Satisfaction?

"When they finished the clinic, the DA got a second warrant and CSU tossed Marshall's home. The doctor is one fastidious little toad. Place was like a monastery, antiseptically clean, few personal items. But Marshall was a collector."

"Shells!" No question about my tone. Elation.

"Hundreds, all labeled and lined up in neat little boxes."

I heard a voice in the background.

"Hang on." Gullet put me on hold.

While waiting, I told Ryan about Marshall's hobby.

"Hope he didn't put clams and mussels in the same tray."

When Gullet reengaged he had more news.

"Marshall's Bayliner's in Key Largo, Florida."

"That was fast."

"Sent out an APB on the boat's make and registration number. Key Largo cops spotted her about twenty minutes ago. Name's the Flight of Whimsy."

"Flight, yes, whimsy, no. How'd she get to the Keys?"

"Gentleman named Sandy Mann claims to have purchased her in Charleston, made the run south on Sunday. Time line tallies. According to witnesses, the Flight of Whimsy's been docked at the marina since sometime on Monday."

"What's Mann's story?"

"He's on his way in to tell it."

"Rodriguez?"

"The Puerto Vallarta police hit the Abrigo whatever about the time we were busting Marshall. Found pretty much the same setup, though more sophisticated on that end. Spa's a front."

"Rodriguez?"

"Not at the spa, his home, or his club. One vehicle missing. Girlfriend thinks he may have driven to Oaxaca to visit friends."

"He's skipped."

"Most likely."

"Marshall must have tipped him."

"They'll nail him. Though the Mexican cops aren't certain what the charges will be."

"The man sold organs ransacked from murder victims."

"I suspect Dr. Rodriguez's lawyer will paint a different picture. If he has bogus records for the sources of the organs he implanted it may be hard to make a case. We need to show delivery of a victim's organ and knowledge on his part."

"Doctor." I snorted in disgust. "The man is a moral invalid and should be locked up. No one who promotes death deserves to be called doctor. Same goes for Marshall."

"Marshall's not going anywhere. Magistrate's holding him on a charge of murder one."

"What's he saying?"

"'I want a lawyer.'"

"Statute gives him the right to a hearing before a judge within forty-eight hours. Marshall will be out on bond by Friday."

"If so, we'll be on him like white on rice. My deputy's going through clinic files now."

"You've got my spreadsheet?"

"First set of names we checked. Nothing. Marshall probably destroyed all records for patients he killed."

"He still had Montague's file."

"True."

When we'd disconnected, I updated Ryan. Then I leaned back and closed my eyes. Though dog tired, I felt good. Really good.

Marshall was behind bars and evidence was being collected that would nail him for homicide and countless other charges.

We'd shut down an international ring trafficking in human organs. Though Rodriguez had slipped the net for now, I was sure he'd be caught and prosecuted.

I'd fulfilled my vow to help Emma. The man on Dewees, the man in the trees, and the lady in the barrel could now rest in peace.

Gullet was working with the Charleston PD, and I was sure other MPs would eventually be tracked. Maybe Aikman, Teal, and Flynn. If international laws were broken, the FBI would undoubtedly sign on.

When Ryan pulled in at "Sea for Miles," I checked the dash clock: 7:42. We were climbing the steps when my cell phone sounded. I clicked on, hoping it was Gullet with news Rodriguez was in the bag.

"Dr. Brennan." The voice was male, but otherwise, nothing clicked.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Dr. Lester Marshall. I need to see you."

"There is absolutely nothing—"

"Quite the contrary. And perhaps I misspoke." Marshall paused. "It is you who need to see me."

"I doubt that."

"Doubting me would be unwise, Dr. Brennan. Come tomorrow. You know where to find me."