“If we could find diatoms in the marrow cavity of a long bone, couldn’t we conclude they’d gotten there by cardiac action?”

  Larabee thought about that.

  “Yeah. We probably could.” He pointed a scalpel at me. “We’ll have a femur tested.”

  “We should also send a sample of the lake water. If they find diatoms in the femur they can compare the profiles.”

  “Good point.”

  I waited while Larabee cut lengthwise along Aiker’s esophagus.

  “Is it significant that he was found in the rear seat?”

  “The weight of the engine would have pulled the front of the vehicle down, leaving the last bubble of air trapped against the roof in back. When victims can’t get car doors open, they crawl back and up to keep breathing as long as possible. Or sometimes the corpse just floats to the rear.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ll run a tox screen, of course. And crime scene’s processing the car and boat ramp. But I’m not finding anything suspicious.”

  Aiker’s clothing and personal effects were drying on the counter. I walked over for a look.

  It was like telescoping the agent’s last morning on earth into a few soggy, mud-coated items.

  Jockeys. T. Blue-and-white-striped long sleeve shirt. Jeans. Athletic socks. Adidas cross trainers. Black Polarfleece hooded jacket.

  Did Aiker put his socks on before his jeans? His pants before his shirt? I felt sadness for a life so suddenly ended.

  Beside the clothing lay the contents of Aiker’s pockets.

  Comb. Keys. Miniature Swiss army knife. Twenty-three dollars in folding money. Seventy-four cents in coins. Wallet-sized billfold with FWS badge and ID. Leather cardholder.

  In addition to a North Carolina driver’s license, Hawkins had removed a long-distance calling card, a US Airways Frequent Flyer card, and Diners Club and Visa credit cards from the rectangular leather pouch.

  Gloving my right hand, I ran a finger across the photo on the driver’s license. The steady, brown eyes and sandy hair were a long way from the grotesque distortion lying on Larabee’s table.

  Leaning close, I studied the face, wondering what Aiker had been doing on a boat landing at Crowder’s Mountain. I picked up the license and flipped it.

  Another card was adhering to the back. I peeled it off with my thumbnail. A Harris-Teeter supermarket VIC card. I laid the card on the counter and glanced back at the license.

  And caught my breath.

  “There’s something stuck to the back of this,” I said.

  Both men turned to look at me. Digging forceps from a drawer, I peeled a limp, flat sheet from the back of the license.

  “Looks like folded paper.”

  Again using forceps, I teased free an edge and tugged back a layer. One more tug, and the paper lay unfolded on the counter. Though blotchy and diluted, lettering was visible.

  “It’s some sort of handwritten note,” I said, easing the paper onto a tray to carry it to the fluorescent magnifier. “Maybe an address or phone number. Or road directions.”

  “Or a last will and testament,” said Hawkins.

  Larabee and I looked at him.

  “More likely a shopping list,” Larabee said.

  “Guy could’ve scribbled something then shoved it in between his plastic thinking maybe it’d survive.” Hawkins sounded defensive. “Hell, that’s probably exactly what did happen. Paper was protected from the water because it was sealed between the cards.”

  Hawkins had a point about the mode of preservation.

  As I clicked on the tube light surrounding the lens, Hawkins and Larabee joined me. Together we viewed the writing under illumination and magnification.

  o question. C o ins dirty.

  ding to lumbia.

  Be car

  See you in tte day.

  Even under ideal conditions, the scrawl would have been hard to decipher.

  “The first part is probably ‘No question,’” Larabee said.

  Hawkins and I agreed.

  “Something to Columbia?” I suggested.

  “Sending?”

  “Lending?”

  “Heading?”

  “Landing?”

  “Something’s dirty.” Hawkins.

  “Clowns?”

  “Collins?”

  “Maybe that’s not a C. Maybe it’s an O or a Q.”

  “Or a G.”

  I positioned the magnifier closer to the paper. We leaned in and stared, each of us trying to make sense of the blotches and smears.

  It was no good. Parts of the message were illegible.

  “See you somewhere on some day,” I said.

  “Good,” Hawkins and Larabee said.

  “Charlotte?” I said.

  “Possible,” Larabee said.

  “How many places end in tte?”

  “I’ll check an atlas,” Larabee said, straightening. “In the meantime, the Questioned Documents guys might be able to do something with this. Joe, call over to QD and ask if we should keep this thing wet or let it dry.”

  Hawkins removed gloves and apron, washed his hands, and headed for the door. I clicked off the lamp.

  As Larabee proceeded with his autopsy, I told him about Cagle’s coma, and about my discussion with Terry Woolsey. When I’d finished, he looked up at me over his mask.

  “Think maybe you’re working with a lot of what-ifs, Tempe?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  At the door I turned for one last comment.

  “But what if I don’t?”

  AND WHAT IF I’D MISSED SOMETHING?

  Instead of furthering my frustration with more computerized exercise, I went to the cooler, pulled out the privy skull and hand bones, and did a full reanalysis.

  The remains still whistled the same tune: thirty-something white boy.

  But it wasn’t Brian Aiker.

  Back to the laptop.

  The privy skull and hand bones turned up at the Foote farm. Bear bones and macaw feathers turned up at the Foote farm. Coincidence?

  The Lancaster skeleton turned up sans head and hands. Coincidence?

  The Lancaster skeleton was found three years ago. Brian Aiker vanished five years ago. Coincidence?

  Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb disappeared around the same time. Coincidence?

  Bear bones and feathers from endangered bird species. Missing FWS agents. Coincidence?

  Think outside the box, Brennan.

  I was prying off the lid when the phone rang.

  “Yo.” Slidell.

  “What’s up?”

  “Pounder’s singing like a canary on crack.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Tyree was serving coke for Dorton.”

  “There’s a surprise.”

  “Dorton got the blow from a South American connection, Harvey Pearce made pickups somewhere down east near Manteo, hauled the stuff up to Charlotte from the coast. From there it went to points north and west.”

  “Tyree paid Pounder to use Mama Foote’s farm as a relay point,” I guessed.

  “Bingo.”

  “And Dorton’s cousin J.J. made his living in the family business.”

  “Here’s the part you’re really going to like. Seems Pearce got talked into buying a bird from one of the South Americans some time back, sold the thing for a nice profit. Dorton got wind of it. Ever the entrepreneur, Mr. Strip Club and Drug Lord decided to branch out.”

  “Let me guess. Ricky Don took advantage of little J.J.’s hunting skills.”

  “Pearce also supplied product from the Low Country.”

  Product. Rare and special animals being slaughtered for profit. What noble creatures we hominids are.

  “Dorton hooked himself up with an Asian connection, became the king of gall.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Pounder didn’t have a name. Said he thought the mutt was Korean. Had some kind of inside line.”

  “Inside line on what?”

  “Dick-brain wasn’t sure. Don’t worry. We’ll nail the guy’s ass.”

  “What’s Tyree saying?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “How does Tyree explain the calls between his cell phone and J. J. Wyatt’s?”

  “Little ragnose says things ain’t always what they seem. I’m paraphrasing.”

  I was almost afraid to ask the next question.

  “What about Tamela Banks and her family?”

  “Tyree claims to know zip.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “DOA.”

  Slidell’s callousness curled the fingers of my free hand into a ball.

  “We’re talking about a dead newborn, Detective.”

  “Excuse me.” Singsong. “I missed my charm school class this week.”

  “Call me when you know more.”

  Slamming the receiver, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

  Images skittered through my mind.

  Eyes devoid of caring, irises swallowed by drug-dazed pupils.

  Gideon Banks’s tortured face, Geneva hovering silent in a doorway.

  Charred and fragmented baby bones.

  I thought of my daughter.

  Infant Katy in soft, footed pj’s. Toddler Katy in pink ruffled swimsuit, chubby feet splashing in a plastic pool. Young woman Katy in shorts and tank, long brown legs pushing a front porch swing.

  Scenes of normalcy. Scenes in which Tamela’s baby would never have a part.

  Needing something, but unsure what, I reached for the phone and dialed my daughter. Her roommate answered.

  Lija thought Katy had gone to Myrtle Beach with Palmer Cousins, wasn’t sure because she’d been away herself.

  Was Katy answering her cell phone?

  No.

  I hung up, feeling scared.

  Wasn’t Katy working as a temporary receptionist at Pete’s firm? This was Tuesday.

  Didn’t Cousins have a job to go to?

  Cousins. What was it about the guy that made me uneasy?

  Thinking about Cousins brought me back to Aiker.

  Back to the box.

  Paw your way out.

  I began typing random ideas onto the screen.

  Premise: The Lancaster remains and the privy remains were one person.

  Deduction: That person is not Brian Aiker.

  Deduction: That person is not Charlotte Grant Cobb. DNA testing confirmed that the Lancaster remains were male.

  Slidell’s DOA comment had me angry and on edge. Was I being unfair to him? Maybe. Still, I kept losing my train of thought.

  Or was it anxiety over my daughter?

  It was Slidell. The man was a bigoted, homophobic cretin. I thought about his tactless treatment of Geneva and Gideon Banks. I thought about his insensitive digs at Lawrence Looper and Wally Cagle. What was that metaphoric quagmire about sleeping in tents and buying undies? Or his pearl concerning gender roles? Oh, yeah. Nature throws the dice, you stick with the toss. Embryonic brilliance.

  Outside the cube.

  What appeared to be coke turned out to be goldenseal.

  What appeared to be leprosy turned out to be sarcoidosis.

  Another Slidellism: Things ain’t always what they seem. Or was that a Tyreeism?

  Outside the four squares.

  An idea. Improbable, but what the hell.

  I went to my purse, pulled out the card I’d taken from under Cagle’s blotter, and dialed.

  “South Carolina Law Enforcement Division,” a female voice answered.

  I made my request.

  “Hold, please.”

  “DNA.” Another female voice.

  I read the name from the card.

  “He’s out this week.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Ted Springer, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  I identified myself.

  “Hold on.”

  Seconds passed. A minute.

  “Madam Anthropologist. What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Ted. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Your section did a case for the Lancaster County coroner about three years ago, headless, handless skeleton.” Again, I read the name from the card, explained that the man wasn’t in. “Walter Cagle did the anthro.”

  “Do you have a file number?”

  “No.”

  “Makes it tougher, but God bless computers, I can track it down. What do you need?”

  “I wonder if you could take a look at the amelogenin profile in the case, see if anything looks odd.”

  “How soon do you need this?”

  I hesitated.

  “I know,” Springer said. “Yesterday.”

  “I’ll owe you,” I said.

  “I’ll collect,” he said.

  “Margie and the kids might not approve.”

  “Point taken. Give me a few hours.”

  I gave him my cell phone number.

  Next I called Hershey Zamzow at his FWS office in Raleigh.

  “I’m curious. Do you know the whereabouts of any of Charlotte Grant Cobb’s family?”

  “Cobb grew up in Clover, South Carolina. Parents were still living there when Charlotte went missing. As I recall, they weren’t too cooperative.”

  “Why?”

  “Insisted Cobb would turn up.”

  “Denial?”

  “Who knows. Hold on.”

  I twisted the phone cord as I waited.

  “I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re still at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”

  As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.

  “How tall was Cobb?”

  “She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d call an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”

  “Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.

  “Poor bastard.”

  “Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”

  “Not that I knew of.”

  “Any idea why he might have gone there?”

  “Not a clue.”

  I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.

  And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.

  Oh, boy.

  * * *

  Boyd charged the lawn like the Allies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.

  Showing somewhat more restraint and considerably more dignity, Birdie nibbled the corner of a French fry, then sat, extended one hind leg, and diligently cleaned between his toes.

  Cat and dog were sleeping when Ted Springer called from Columbia at eight.

  “Microbiologists put in a long day,” I said.

  “I was running some samples. Listen, I found the file on your Lancaster skeleton and there may be something.”

  “That was quick,” I said.

  “I got lucky. How much do you know about the amelogenin locus?”

  “Girls show one band, boys show two, one the same size as the ladies, one slightly larger.”

  “B-plus answer.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Amelogenin appears as two bands on a gel, but there’s one nifty little variation not everyone recognizes. With normal males, the two bands are of similar intensity. You with me?”

  “I think ‘normal’ is going to be the operative word,” I said.

  “With Klinefelter’s males, the band representing the X chromosome is twice as intense as that representing the Y chromosome.”

  “Klinefelter’s males?” My brain was grinding, refusing to shift into gear.

  “The XXY karyotype, where there are three sex chromosomes instead of two. My colleague didn’t pick up on the intensity difference.”

  “The unknown had Klinefelter’s syndrome?”

  “The system’s not one hundred percent.”

  “But KS is a good possibility in this case?”

  “Yes. That help any?”

  “It just might.”

  I sat motionless, like a hunting trophy that’s been stuffed and mounted.

  Klinefelter’s syndrome.

  XXY.

  A bad roll of Slidell’s embryonic dice.

  Booting up the computer, I began surfing. I was working through the Klinefelter’s Syndrome Association Web site when Boyd nudged my knee.

  “Not now, boy.”

  Another nudge.

  I looked down.

  Boyd put a paw on my knee, raised his snout, and snapped at the air. Gotta go.

  “Is this on the level?”

  Boyd dashed across the room, spun, snapped, and twirled the eye hairs.

  I checked the time. Ten-fifteen. Enough.

  Killing the computer and lights, I headed for Boyd’s leash.

  The chow danced me out of the den, thrilled at the prospect of one last sortie before bedding back down.

  The darkness in the annex was almost total, relieved only by heat lightning flickering through the trees. Inside, the mantel clock ticked. Outside, moths and June bugs fought the windows, their bodies making dull, thudding sounds against the screens.

  When we entered the kitchen Boyd’s demeanor changed. His body tensed, and his ears and tail shot up. A short growl, then he lunged forward and began barking at the door.

  My hand flew to my chest.

  “Boyd,” I hissed. “Come here.”

  Boyd ignored me.

  I shushed him. The dog kept barking.

  Heart pounding, I crept to the door and pressed my back to the wall, listening.

  A car horn. June bugs. Crickets. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Boyd’s barking was becoming more urgent. His hackles were up now. His body was rigid.

  Again I shushed him. Again he ignored me.

  Over Boyd’s barking, I heard a thunk, then a soft scraping just outside the door.

  My insides turned to ice.

  Someone was there!

  Call 911! my brain cells screamed. Run to the neighbors! Escape through the front door!

  Escape from what? Tell 911 what? A bogeyman is on my porch? The Grim Reaper is at my back door?

  I reached for Boyd. The dog twisted from me and continued his protest.