THURSDAY WAS DECEPTIVELY PLEASANT.

In the morning I had two small surprises. The call to my insurance carrier went well. Both repairmen I phoned were available and would start work immediately.

During the day I taught my classes and revised the CAT scan paper for the physical anthropology conference. Late in the afternoon Ron Gillman reported that the Crime Scene Recovery unit had found nothing useful in the debris from my kitchen. No surprise there. He’d asked patrol to keep an eye on my place.

I also heard from Sam. He had no news, but was becoming increasingly convinced the bodies had been dropped on his island by dope dealers. He was taking it as a personal challenge and had dug out an old twelve gauge and stashed it under a bunk in the field station.

On the way home from the university I stopped at the Harris Teeter superstore across from the Southpark Shopping Center and bought all of my favorite foods. I worked out at the Harris YMCA and arrived at the Annex around six-thirty. The window had been fixed and a workman was just finishing sanding the floor. Every surface in the kitchen was coated in fine white dust.

I cleaned the stove and counters, then fixed crab cakes and a goat cheese salad and ate them while watching a rerun of “Murphy Brown.” The Murph was tough. I resolved to be more like her.

During the evening I revised the CAT scan paper again, watched a Hornets’ game, and thought about my taxes. I resolved to do that, too. But not this week. At eleven I fell asleep with the copies of Louis-Philippe’s journal spread across the bed.

Friday was scripted by Satan. It was then I got my first inkling of the horror about to unfold.

The Murtry victims arrived from Charleston early in the morning. By nine-thirty I was gloved and goggled and had the cases spread out in my lab. One table held the skull and bone samples Hardaway had removed during his autopsy of the lower corpse. The other held a full skeleton. The technicians at the medical university had done an excellent job. All the bones looked clean and undamaged.

I started with the body from the bottom of the pit. Though putrefied, it had retained enough soft tissue to allow a full autopsy. Sex and race were evident, so Hardaway wanted my help only in assessing age. I left the pathologist’s report and photos until later since I didn’t want to bias my conclusions by knowing his.

I popped the X-rays onto the light box. Nothing unusual. In the cranial views I could see that all thirty-two teeth were erupted, their roots fully formed. There were no restorations or missing teeth. I noted this on a case form.

I walked to the first table and looked at the skull. The gap at the cranial base was fused. This was not an adolescent.

I studied the rib ends and the surfaces where the halves of the pelvis join in front, the pubic symphyses. The ribs had moderately deep indentations where cartilage had connected them to the breastbone. Wavy ridges ran across the pubic symphyseal faces, and I could see tiny nodules of bone along the outer border of each.

The throat end of each collarbone was fused. The upper edge of each hip blade retained a thin line of separation.

I checked my models and histograms, and wrote down my estimate. The woman was twenty to twenty-eight years of age when she died.

Hardaway wanted a full analysis on the subsurface burial. Again I started with the X-rays. Again they were unremarkable, except for the perfect dentition.

I already suspected this victim was also female, as I’d told Ryan. As I’d laid out the bones, I’d noted the smooth skull and delicate facial architecture. The broad, short pelvis with its distinctly feminine pubic area confirmed my initial impression.

This woman’s age indicators were similar to those of the first victim, though her pubic symphyses showed deep ridges across their entire surfaces and lacked the little nodes.

I estimated this victim had died slightly younger, probably in her late teens or early twenties.

For the question of ancestry, I returned to the cranium. The mid-face region was classic, especially the nasal features: high bridge between the eyes, narrow opening, prominent lower border and spine.

I took measurements that I would analyze statistically, but I knew the woman was white.

I measured the long bones, fed the data into the computer, and ran the regression equations. I was entering a height estimate into the case form when the phone rang.

“If I stay here one more day I’m going to need complete linguistic retraining,” Ryan said, then added, “y’all.”

“Catch a bus north.”

“I thought it was just you, but now I see it’s not your fault.”

“It’s hard to overcome one’s roots.”

“Yo.”

“Have you learned anything new?”

“I saw a great bumper sticker this morning.”

I waited.

“Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”

“Is that what you called to tell me?”

“That was the bumper sticker.”

“We are a religious people.”

I looked at the clock. Two-fifteen. I realized I was famished and reached for the banana and Moon Pie I’d brought from home.

“I’ve spent some time observing Dom’s little ashram. Not very useful. Thursday morning three of the faithful piled into a van and drove off. Other than that I saw no traffic in or out.”

“Kathryn?”

“Didn’t see her.”

“Did you run the plates?”

“Yes, ma’am. Both vans are registered to Dom Owens at the Adler Lyons address.”

“Does he have a driver’s license?”

“Issued by the great Palmetto State in 1988. No record of a previous license. Apparently the reverend just walked in and took the exam. He pays his insurance right on time. In cash. No record of claims. No record of traffic arrests or citations.”

“Utilities?” I tried not to crinkle the cellophane.

“Phone, electric, and water. Owens pays cash.”

“Does he have a Social Security number?”

“Issued in 1987. But there’s no record of any activity. Never paid in, never requested benefits of any kind.”

“Eighty-seven? Where was he before that?”

“An insightful question, Dr. Brennan.”

“Mail?”

“These folks are not great correspondents. They get the usual personal greetings addressed to ‘Occupant,’ and the utility bills, of course, but that’s it. Owens has no box, but there could be a drop under another name. I staked the post office briefly, but didn’t recognize any of the flock.”

A student appeared in the doorway and I shook my head.

“Were there prints on your key chain?”

“Three beauties, but no hits. Apparently Dom Owens is a choirboy.”

Silence stretched between us.

“There are kids living at that place. What about Social Services?”

“You’re not half bad, Brennan.”

“I watch a lot of television.”

“I checked with Social Services. A neighbor called about a year and a half ago, worried about the kids. Mrs. Joseph Espinoza. So they sent a caseworker out to investigate. I read the report. She found a clean home with smiling, well-nourished young’uns, none of which was of school age. She saw no cause for action, but recommended a follow-up visit in six months. That was not done.”

“Did you talk to the neighbor?”

“Deceased.”

“How about the property?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

Several seconds passed.

“Yes?”

“I spent Wednesday afternoon going through property deeds and tax records.”

He went quiet again.

“Are you trying to annoy me?” I prompted.

“That piece of land has a colorful history. Did you know there was a school out there from the early 1860s until the turn of the century? One of the first public schools in North America established exclusively for black students.”

“I didn’t know that.” I opened a Diet Coke.

“And Baker was right. The property was used as a fishing camp from the thirties until the mid-seventies. When the owner died it passed to her relatives in Georgia. I guess they weren’t big on seafood. Or maybe they got fed up with the property taxes. Anyway, they sold the place in 1988.”

This time I waited him out.

“The purchaser was one J. R. Guillion.”

It took a nanosecond for the name to register.

“Jacques Guillion?”

“Oui, madame.”

“The same Jacques Guillion?” I said it so loudly a student turned in the corridor to peer in at me.

“Presumably. The taxes are paid...”

“With an official check from Citicorp in New York.”

“You got it.”

“Holy shit.”

“Well put.”

I was unnerved by the information. The owner of the Adler Lyons property also held title to the burned-out house in St-Jovite.

“Have you talked to Guillion?”

“Monsieur Guillion is still in seclusion.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t been located.”

“I’ll be damned. There really is a link.”

“Looks that way.”

A bell rang.

“One other thing.”

The hall filled with the commotion of students passing between classes.

“Just to be perverse I sent the names out to Texas. Came up empty on the Right Reverend Owens, but guess who’s a rancher?”

“No!”

“Monsieur J. R. Guillion. Two acres in Fort Bend County. Pays his taxes...”

“With official bank checks!”

“Eventually I’ll head out that way, but for now I’m letting the local sheriff snoop around. And the gendarmerie can flush Guillion. I’m going to hang here a few more days and turn the heat up on Owens.”

“Locate Kathryn. Sh called here, but I missed her again. I’m sure she knows something.”

“If she’s here, I’ll find her.”

“She could be in danger.”

“What makes you say that?”

I thought of describing my recent conversation about cults, but since I’d only been fishing I wasn’t sure if I’d learned anything relevant. Even if Dom Owens was leading some type of cult, he was not Jim Jones or David Koresh, of that I was certain.

“I don’t know. Just a feeling. She sounded so edgy when she called.”

“My impression of Miss Kathryn is that all her lobes may not be firing.”

“She is different.”

“And her friend El doesn’t look like a candidate for Mensa. Are you keeping busy?”

I hesitated, then told him about my own attack.

“Sonofabitch. I’m sorry, Brennan. I liked that cat. Any idea who did it?”

“No.”

“Have they put a unit on your place?”

“They’re doing drive-bys. I’m fine.”

“Stay out of dark alleys.”

“The cases from Murtry arrived this morning. I’m pretty tied up in the lab.”

“If those deaths are drug-related, you could be pissing off some heavy characters.”

“That’s breaking news, Ryan.” I tossed the banana peel and Moon Pie wrapper into the trash. “The victims are both young, white, and female, just as I thought.”

“Not your typical trafficker profile.”

“No.”

“Doesn’t rule it out. Some of these guys use women like condoms. The ladies might have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yes.”

“Cause of death?”

“I haven’t finished yet.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger. But remember, we’re going to need you on the St-Jovite cases when I nail these bastards.”

“What bastards?”

“Don’t know yet, but I will.”

When we disconnected I stared at my report. Then I got up and paced the lab. Then I sat. Then I paced some more.

My mind kept throwing up images from St-Jovite. Doughy white babies, eyelids and fingernails a delicate blue. A bullet-pierced skull. Slashed throats, hands scored with defense wounds. Scorched bodies, their limbs twisted and contorted.

What linked the Quebec deaths to the point of land on Saint Helena Island? Why babies and fragile old women? Who was Guillion? What was in Texas? Into what form of malignancy had Heidi and her family stumbled?

Concentrate, Brennan. The young women in this lab are just as dead. Leave the Quebec murders to Ryan and finish these cases. They deserve your attention. Find out when they died. And how.

I pulled on another pair of gloves and examined every bone of the second victim’s skeleton under magnification. I found nothing to tell me what caused her death. No blunt instrument trauma. No gunshot entry or exit. No stab wound. No hyoid fracture to indicate strangulation.

The only damage I observed was caused by animals scavenging on her corpse.

As I replaced the last foot bone, a tiny black beetle crawled from under a vertebra. I stared at it, remembering an afternoon when Birdie had tracked a June bug in my kitchen in Montreal. He’d played with the creature for hours before finally losing interest.

Tears burned my eyelids, but I refused to give in.

I collected the beetle and put it in a plastic container. No more death. I would release the bug when I left the building.

O.K., beetle. How long have these ladies been dead? We’ll work on that.

I looked at the clock. Four-thirty. Late enough. I flipped through my Rolodex, found a number, and dialed.

Five time zones away a phone was answered.

“Dr. West.”

“Dr. Lou West?”

“Yes.”

“A.k.a. Kaptain Kam?”

Silence.

“Of Spam fame?”

“It’s tuna fish. Is that you, Tempe?”

In my mind’s eye I saw him, thick silver hair and beard framing a face permanently tanned by the Hawaiian sun. Years before I’d met him, a Japanese ad agency spotted Lou and cast him as spokesman for a brand of canned tuna. His earring and ponytail were perfectly suited to the sea captain image they wanted. The Japanese loved Kaptain Kam. Though we teased him unmercifully, no one I knew had ever seen the ads.

“Ready to give up bugs and hawk tuna full time?”

Lou holds a doctorate in biology and teaches at the University of Hawaii. In my opinion he is the best forensic entomologist in the country.

“Not quite.” He laughed. “The suit itches.”

“Do it in the buff.”

“I don’t think the Japanese are ready for that.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

Lou and I, and a handful of other forensic specialists, teach a course on body recovery at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s an irreverent group, composed of pathologists, entomologists, anthropologists, botanists, and soil experts, most with academic backgrounds. One year a zealously conservative agent suggested to the entomologist that his earring was inappropriate. Lou listened solemnly, and the next day the small gold loop was replaced by an eight-inch Cherokee feather with beads, fringe, and a small silver bell.

“I’ve got your bugs.”

“They came through intact?”

“Unscathed. And you did a great job collecting. In the Carolinas the insect assemblage associated with decomposition includes over five hundred and twenty species. I think you sent me most of them.”

“So what can you tell me?”

“You want the whole rundown?”

“Sure.”

“First of all, I think your vics were killed during the day. Or at least the bodies were exposed during daylight hours for a while before burial. I found larviposition by Sarcophaga bullata.”

“Give that to me in English.”

“It’s a species of flesh fly. You collected empty Sarcophaga bullata puparial cases and intact puparia from both bodies.”

“And?”

“The Sarcophagidae aren’t too spunky after sundown. If you drop a body right next to them they might larviposit, but they’re not very active at night.”

“Larviposit?”

“Insects use larviposition or oviposition. Some lay eggs, some lay larvae.”

“Insects lay larvae?”

“First instar larvae. That’s the very first larval stage. The Sarcophagidae as a group larviposit. It’s a strategy that gives them a head start on the rest of the maggots, and also provides some protection against predators that feed on eggs.”

“Then why don’t all these insects larviposit?”

“There’s a downside. The females can’t produce nearly as many larvae as they can eggs. It’s a trade-off.”

“Life is compromise.”

“Indeed. I also suspect the bodies were exposed outside, at least for a short period. The Sarcophagidae aren’t quite as willing to enter buildings as some other groups. The Calliphoridae, for example.”

“That makes sense. They were either killed on the island or the bodies were transported there by boat.”

“In any event, I’d guess they were killed during the day, then spent some time outside and aboveground before being buried.”

“What about the other species?”

“You want the whole party?”

“Definitely.”

“For both corpses burial would have delayed the normal insect invasion. Once the top body was exposed by the scavengers, however, the Calliphoridae would have found it irresistible for egg laying.”

“Calliphoridae?”

“Blowflies. They usually arrive within minutes of death, along with their friends the flesh flies. They’re both strong fliers.”

“Bully.”

“You collected at least two species of blowflies, Cochliomyia...”

“Maybe we should stick to common names.”

“O.K. You collected first, second, and third instar larvae and intact and empty puparial cases for at least two species of blowflies.”

“Which means what?”

“O.K., class. Let’s review the life cycle of the fly. Like us, adult flies are concerned with finding suitable places to rear their young. A dead body is perfect. Protected environment. Lots to eat. The perfect neighborhood to raise the kids. Corpses are so attractive, blowflies and flesh flies may arrive within minutes after death. The female will either oviposit immediately, or feed for a while on the fluids seeping from the remains, and then lay her eggs.”

“Nice.”

“Hey, the stuff is very rich in protein. If there’s trauma to the corpse, they’ll go for that, if not they’ll settle for orifices—eyes, nose, mouth, anus...”

“I get the picture.”

“Blowflies lay huge clusters of eggs that can completely fill natural body openings and wound sites. You say it’s been cool there, so there may not have been quite as many in your grave.”

“When the eggs hatch, the maggots take center stage.”

“Exactly. Act two. Maggots are really pretty cool. On the front end they have a pair of mouth hooks that they use for feeding and locomotion. They breathe through little flat structures on the back end.”

“They breathe through their asses.”

“In a sense. Anyway, eggs laid at the same time hatch at the same time and the maggots mature together. They also feed together, so you can get these enormous maggot masses moving around the body. The group feeding behavior results in the dissemination of bacteria and the production of digestive enzymes which permit maggots to consume most of the soft tissues of a corpse. It’s all highly efficient.

“Maggots mature rapidly, and when they reach maximum size they undergo a dramatic change in behavior. They stop feeding and look for drier digs, usually away from the body.”

“Act three.”

“Yep. The larvae burrow in and their outer skins harden and form protective encasements called puparia. They look like tiny footballs. The maggots stay inside the pupal casings until their cells have reorganized, then emerge as adult flies.”

“That’s why the empty puparial cases are significant?”

“Yes. Remember the flesh flies?”

“The Sarcophagidae. The larvipositers.”

“Very good. They’re usually the first to emerge as adults. It takes them anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four days to mature, given temperatures around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. They’d be slowed under the conditions you describe.”

“Yes. It wasn’t that warm.”

“But the empty puparial casings mean some of the flesh flies had finished their development.”

“Flown the pupae, as it were.”

“It takes the blowfly about fourteen to twenty-five days to mature, probably longer in the wet environment on your island.”

“Those estimates tally.”

“You also collected what I’m pretty sure are Muscidae larvae, maggots of the housefly and its relatives. Typically these species don’t show up for five to seven days after death. They prefer to wait for what we call the late fresh or early bloat stages. Oh, and there were cheese skippers.”

Cheese skippers are maggots that jump. Though not always easy, I’ve learned to ignore them while working on putrefied bodies.

“My personal favorites.”

“Everybody’s got to make a living, Dr. Brennan.”

“I suppose one has to admire an organism that can jump ninety times its body length.”

“Have you measured?”

“It’s an estimate.”

“A particularly useful critter for estimating PMI is the black soldier fly. They don’t usually show up until twenty days after death, and they’re fairly consistent, even with buried remains.”

“They were present?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“The beetle assemblage was more limited, probably due to the wet habitat. But the typical predator forms were there, no doubt munching happily on the maggots and soft-bodied forms.”

“So what’s your estimate?”

“I’d say we’re talking about three to four weeks.”

“Both bodies?”

“You measured four feet to the bottom of the pit, three feet to the top of the lower body. We’ve already discussed the preburial larviposition by the flesh flies, so that explains the puparial cases you found on and above the deeper body. Some held adults, half in and half out. They must have been trapped by the soil while trying to exit. The Piophilidae were there, also.”

“Lou?”

“Cheese skippers. I also found some coffin flies in the soil sample you took from above the lower body, and some larvae on the body itself. These species are known to burrow down to corpses to deposit their eggs. The soil disturbance in the grave and the presence of the upper body would have facilitated their access. I forgot to mention I found coffin flies on the upper body.”

“Were the soil samples useful?”

“Very. You don’t want to hear about all the critters that chow down on maggots and decompositional materials, but I found one form that’s helpful with PMI. When I processed the soil I collected a number of mites which support a minimum time since death of three weeks.”

“So you’re saying three to four weeks for both bodies.”

“That’s my preliminary estimate.”

“This is very helpful, Lou. You guys amaze me.”

“Does all this square with the condition of the remains?”

“Perfectly.”

“There’s one other thing I want to mention.”

What he told me next sent an icy wind rocketing through my soul.