GULLET AND I WATCHED RYAN ENTER THE INTERROGATION room. Daniels looked up, then stretched out his legs and slouched, one arm on the table, one draping the chair back.

"Remember me, Corey?" Ryan asked.

"Detective Do-right."

"Close enough."

"I need a cigarette."

"Tough," Ryan said.

Daniels looked momentarily surprised, went back to bored.

Rapport? I thought.

"Do you object to having this interview taped?" Ryan asked.

"Would it matter if I did?"

"It's for your protection and mine."

Ryan turned on the machine, tested, spoke his name, the name of the witness, the time, and the date.

"Your boss is in a lot of trouble," Ryan began.

"What's that got to do with me?"

"What were your duties at the GMC clinic?"

"I'm a nurse."

"What did you do, exactly?"

"Nurse people."

"Easy enough to find out."

"Do what you gotta do."

"I'm getting the impression there's a lack of enthusiasm for this conversation, Corey."

"What? I should say I like getting busted by the heat?"

"Some of that heat could be turned onto you."

"You'll never make a case for me offing those people."

"Who says anyone wants to do that?"

"Marshall's not trying to put this on me?"

"Actually, he is."

"I been hassled before. I can deal." Daniels shot a hand through his hair. "I really need a smoke."

"Why nursing?"

"What?"

"You're what? Six-five, two-eighty? Tough guy like you. Why nursing?"

"Good money. High demand."

"Write your own ticket."

"Yeah."

Ryan indicated Daniels's tattoos.

"Where'd you do your stretch?"

"Huntsville."

"What was the bump?"

Daniels snorted. "Bitch claimed I smacked her around, coonass judge bought the whole crock." Daniels made a finger pistol of his right hand and shot it at Ryan. "Don't mess with Texas."

I glanced at Daniels's tattoos. Skulls, a skewered heart, spiders in a web, entwined snakes crawling the forearm. Classy. I was beginning to wonder when the rapport would kick in when Ryan thumb-jabbed Daniels's belt buckle.

"I see you're a Harley guy."

"So?"

"I had a ninety-five Ultra Classic Electra Glide. Loved that bike more than my own mother."

For the first time Daniels looked directly at Ryan. "You shitting me?

"Man lies about some things. His height. His dick. Never his bike."

Daniels slapped a hand to his chest. "Two thousand and four Screamin' Eagle Fat Boy."

"A softail man."

"Touring bikes are for wimps," Daniels scoffed.

"No feeling in the world like flying with the wind in your face."

"You got that right."

"Ever been gunning along, suddenly you're eating cement?" Ryan asked, grinning.

"No shit." Smiling broadly, Daniels placed both arms on the table, palms up. One wrist was circled by a crescent-shaped scar. "A nun." Daniels shook his head in disbelief. "Clipped by a nun in a Hyundai. Next thing I know I'm in an ER and she's setting up a hotline to God. Hospital scene was worse than the fucking wipeout."

"When I got nuked the prick never stopped."

"This nun still follows up, feels guilty as hell. I tell her forget it. Price of the ride, man, price of the ride."

"Permanent damage?"

"Pussy left hook, but who needs it? My right's the annihilator." Another incredulous head shake. "A nun."

Ryan nodded understanding, fellow bikers baffled by the foibles of fate. Daniels was the first to speak.

"Look, man, I'm sorry those people got greased. But I had nothing to do with it."

"We're not trying to get in your face, Corey. This is information gathering. We just need to know if you ever noticed Marshall do or say anything weird."

"It's like I told that Nazi sheriff. Marshall was a psycho about two things. Keeping the place clean, and keeping out of his office."

"What was the purpose of the large room upstairs?"

Daniels shrugged. "Beats me. Never saw anyone in it but the cleaning guy."

"You never found that odd?"

"Look. I came in, I did my job, I left."

"Notice anything off about Marshall?"

"We've been over and over this shit. I wouldn't want to get naked with the guy, but Marshall was an OK boss, all right?"

"How about Helene Flynn?"

Daniels slouched back again. "Shit, I don't know. She was like this nun I'm talking about. Classy. Real nice to the patients. I tried feeling her out, you know, dropped a few lines, chick shut me down cold. I don't need to go begging for it, you know what I mean?"

"Did Helene get along with Marshall?"

Daniels's finger was working the tabletop, making a soft squeaking noise.

"Corey?"

Daniels shrugged. "I dunno. At first, yeah. Later, she seemed jumpy when the doc was around. I figured maybe he was hitting on her, too."

"Do you know why she left?"

"Marshall said she quit, hired Berry." Daniels was still fingertipping the table. "Don't ask, don't tell. That's my motto."

"Did Marshall ever work late?"

"Sometimes he let Berry and me leave early."

A second passed. Daniels's finger froze.

"Fuckin' A, man. I see what you're saying." Daniels overnodded as he spoke. "Something's wrong there. The guy's a doctor. Locking up was Berry's job."

===OO=OOO=OO===

From the sheriff's department, we went to the hospital. Pete was in a private room on the med-surge floor. Ryan waited in the lobby while I went up.

The Latvian Savant was awake and cranky. His Jell-O was green. His nurse was deaf. His gown was too small and his cheeks were catching cold. Though Pete's carping was annoying, annoyance was a relief. My heart felt light. He was healing. Katy had called finally and I'd been able to assure her of her father's imminent recovery.

Lily phoned Ryan late that afternoon. She was with friends in Montreal and wanted to see him. Ryan promised to be there by Friday. His vacation was over, he had to return to work on Monday. Leaving two days early meant he could spend the weekend with his daughter. He was grinning when he delivered the news. I hugged him. We held each other a very long time, each lost in thoughts of another. A nonsevered spouse. A newly realized child.

Ryan and I decided to splurge that night. My work in Charleston was done. Emma's unknowns were ID'd, and Marshall was looking at a lot of hard time. Maybe worse. Pete was improving rapidly. Lily was reaching out. We dined on steak and lobster at 82 Queen.

Throughout dinner Ryan and I circled cautiously, stuck to neutral topics, restricted ourselves to present and past tense. He didn't ask about the future. I didn't offer reassurance. I couldn't. I was still puzzled and confused by the strength of my reaction to Pete's proximity. To his near brush with death.

There was a lot of self-congratulation, much laughter, frequent clinking of glasses. At times I wanted to reach out and take Ryan's hand. I didn't. In the time since, I've often wondered why.

Ryan left after breakfast on Thursday. We kissed good-bye. I waved until his Jeep disappeared, then went back into Anne's house, empty again save for a dog and a cat. I was staying in Charleston until Pete could return to Charlotte. Beyond that, I had no plans.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Boyd and I spent Thursday afternoon with Emma. When she opened her front door, Boyd jumped up and nearly knocked her down. I felt like I'd taken a blow to the chest. All the sparkle was gone from Emma's face. Her skin was pallid, and though the day was warm and moist, she wore a sweat suit and socks. I had to struggle to keep my smile pasted in place.

Gullet had already told Emma of Marshall's arrest. Sitting in porch rockers, we reviewed my conversations with the doctor and his nurse. Her reaction was immediate and uncompromising.

"Daniels running an international organ ring and framing his boss? Give me a break. You've seen the evidence. Marshall is a turd and he's guilty as hell."

"Yeah."

"What? You're not convinced?" Emma's skepticism ran planetary rings around Gullet's.

"Of course I am. But there are a couple things that bother me."

"For instance?"

"There wasn't a single personal item in Marshall's office. So why that one shell?"

"A million reasons. He meant to take it home but forgot about it. One escaped from a container, rolled out of sight in his desk drawer, and he never knew it was there."

"Helms was killed in 2001. That shell was in Marshall's drawer all that time?"

"We're not talking conch shells, Tempe. The things are tiny."

"True."

Seeing a squirrel, Boyd shot to his feet. I put my hand on his head. He twirled the eyebrow hairs at me, but held.

I pressed my point. "But Marshall is smart. Why would he carry shells when burying a corpse?"

"Maybe the shell got wrapped up with Helms's body and Marshall didn't notice."

Boyd's head movement told me he was tracking the squirrel.

"Gullet said it himself," I said. "Marshall is fastidious. It just doesn't fit the guy's personality."

"Everyone slips up eventually."

"Maybe."

I tapped Boyd's head and pointed to the floor. Reluctantly, he settled back down at my feet.

Emma got iced tea, then the two of us rocked in silence.

A man passed outside the fence, a woman with a stroller, two kids on bikes. Occasional chow whines suggested ongoing interest in Rocky.

"What do you think the final body count will be?" I asked.

"Who knows?"

I remembered some of the names in my spreadsheet. Parker Ethridge. Harmon Poe. Daniel Snype. Jimmie Ray Teal. Matthew Summerfield. Lonnie Aikman.

"Can I ask you something, Emma?"

"Sure."

"Why didn't you tell me about Susie Ruth Aikman?"

"Who?" Emma sounded genuinely baffled.

"Lonnie Aikman's mother was discovered dead in her car last week. Wouldn't that be considered a suspicious death?"

"Where was she?"

"Highway 176, just northwest of Goose Creek."

"Berkeley County. That's not my jurisdiction. But I can find out about her."

Of course it wasn't. I felt like an idiot to have doubted my friend. Ask about the cruise ship incident Winborne had referenced in his article on Aikman? Forget it. None of my business.

By four thirty Emma was fading. We went inside, and I made spaghetti with sauce from her freezer. Boyd prowled the kitchen, getting in my way.

Watching Emma rearrange rather than eat her dinner, I remembered my call to her sister. I told her that Sarah would be returning from Italy in the next few days, and promised to try her again. Emma insisted I let it go.

At six Boyd and I headed home. While I drove, the chow worked a loop in the rear, moving from window to window, periodically stopping to lick my right ear and cheek.

Boyd was in midcircuit when I turned into the drive at "Sea for Miles." Suddenly, he stopped, and a low growl rose from his throat.

My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror. An SUV was riding my bumper.

Fear rippled through me.

"Easy, boy." Reaching back, I finger-wrapped Boyd's collar.

Boyd tensed and gave a full-out bark.

Eyes on the rearview, I hit a button on the armrest. The automatic locks clicked shut.

The SUV driver's door opened. I saw a logo.

Boyd barked again.

I let out my breath. "It's OK, tough guy."

It was. I recognized the figure barreling toward me.

For once, I could read the expression on Gullet's face.

The sheriff wasn't happy.