Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

"Foiled by a mollusk," Pete said.

"Who dialed Cruikshank from Marshall's office?" I queried detail number two.

"O'Dell Towery."

"The cleaning man?"

Gullet nodded. "Towery's slow, but he remembers because it was outside his ordinary routine. Says Marshall instructed him to use his office phone at a specified time. Said he was expecting a message and wouldn't be able to make the call himself at that time. Told Towery that if no one answered, he should just hang up and give the slip with the number back to Marshall the next day. Marshall had an alibi elsewhere for that time. If problems arose, the call would at least muddy the picture, at best throw suspicion on Daniels."

Silence.

Gullet's eyes dropped to his hands. "I understand Miz Rousseau's pretty sick."

"She is," I said. My mind wandered.

Emma had been running a fever when I'd visited on Thursday. That night, her temperature shot to 102, and the sweats, headache, and nausea became violent.

Suspecting infection, Russell had hospitalized Emma on Friday. I'd called Sarah Purvis on Saturday morning. Though just home from Italy, Sarah had immediately set out for Charleston.

Before her sister's arrival, Emma and I had had plenty of time to talk. I described all that had happened since Thursday. She reported that the Berkeley County coroner had ruled Susie Ruth Aikman's death as natural. The old woman had died of a massive coronary.

Then Emma had told the strange tale of the cruise ship incident.

A male passenger died while at sea. When the ship anchored in Charleston, the man's widow authorized cremation, signed the paperwork, then left with the urn. Days later a woman appeared at Emma's office claiming to be the wife of the deceased and wanting the body. Documents showed that lady number two was, indeed, the missus. Lawsuits were pending concerning disposition of the gentleman's ashes.

"This philandering cad had two women fighting over his remains, Tempe. He was one of the lucky ones." Emma swallowed. I could see that conversation was becoming an effort. "I'm dying, of course. We all know that."

Fighting a tremor in my chest, I'd tried to shush her. She continued to speak.

"My death will not go unnoticed. I have people in my life. I'll be remembered, maybe even missed. But Marshall and Rodriguez preyed upon society's outcasts. Those dwelling alone on the edge, those with no one to mourn their passing. Cookie Godine's disappearance wasn't even reported. Ditto for Helms and Montague. Thanks to you, Tempe, those bodies did not remain anonymous."

Unable to speak, I'd stroked Emma's hair, one gulping, heaving breath away from full-out sobbing.

Gullet resumed speaking after his own brief reverie. "Doesn't seem right."

"No," I agreed. "It doesn't."

"She's a fine woman, and a true professional."

Gullet stood. I stood.

"Guess it's best not to question the good Lord's ways."

There seemed no reply to that, so I gave none.

"You did a crack-up job, Doc. I learned some things working with you.

Gullet held out a hand. Surprised, I shook it.

The last missing piece went from me to Gullet.

"The leak to Winborne didn't come from your office, Sheriff. At Emma's urging, Lee Anne Miller stirred the pot at the MUSC morgue. Winborne's informant was a second-year autopsy tech." Emma had also told me that on Saturday.

Gullet started to speak. I cut him off. If he was about to offer an apology for having accused me of sabotaging the investigation, I didn't want one.

"Was," I emphasized. "The gentleman is currently unemployed."

Gullet thought for a long moment, then turned to Pete.

"My best wishes to you, sir. Do you want to be kept informed as to charges against Lanyard? I expect he'll plead."

"This is your patch, Sheriff. What's acceptable to you and the DA is acceptable to me. When it's done, you might tell me the result, if you don't mind."

Gullet nodded. "I'll do that."

To me, "Seven A.M. Tuesday?"

"I'll be ready," I said.

DAWN BROKE WITH A COOL GRAY DRIZZLE THAT CONTINUED throughout the morning. The sky went from charcoal to slate to pearl, but the sun remained only a dull white smudge.

By eight we were on the back of Dewees Island, in a stand of maritime forest five yards in from the high-tide beach. An occasional gust whispered in the glistening wet leaves. Drops ticked the plastic sheeting as I exposed it with my trowel. Miller's boots squished as she circled, Nikon capturing the melancholy mural.

Gullet stood above me, face impassive, errant breezes puffing his nylon jacket. Marshall watched from a golf cart, manacled arms crossed, a deputy at his side.

Beyond the rain and the wind and the camera, there was a stillness about the scene that seemed fitting. Solemn and somber.

By noon Miller and I were able to free Cookie Godine from her makeshift grave. A mild stench rose, and millipedes skittered back toward darkness as we lifted the sad bundle and carried it to the waiting van.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Marshall raise a hand to cover his nose and mouth.

Friday morning I rose at nine, put on a dark blue skirt and crisp white blouse, and drove to St. Michael's Episcopal. Leaving my car in the lot, I walked to the Old City Market, made a purchase, then returned to the church.

Inside, the crowd was larger than I'd expected. Emma's sister, Sarah Purvis, silent and pale. Sarah's husband and children. Gullet and a number of his staff. Lee Anne Miller and Emma's employees from the coroner's office. There were also several dozen people I didn't recognize.

I watched the mourners throughout the service, but didn't sing or join in the spoken prayers. I knew I'd weep if I dared open my mouth.

At the cemetery I stood back from the grave site, observing as the casket was lowered and the attendees filed by, each tossing down a handful of dirt. When the group had dispersed, I approached.

For several long moments I stood over the grave, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"I'm here to say good-bye, old friend." A tremor shook my chest. "You know you will be missed."

With trembling hands, I dropped the bouquet of baby's breath and everlasting life onto Emma's coffin.

It is now Friday night, and I am lying alone in my too empty bed, aching with regret that Emma is gone. Tomorrow, I will take Birdie and Boyd and return to Charlotte. I will be sad to leave the Lowcountry. I will miss the smell of pine, and seaweed, and salt. The ever-changing play of sunlight and moonlight on water.

In Charlotte, I will help nurture Pete back to health. I could not do that for Emma, could not will good cells into her body or drive out the Staphylococcus that finally took her life. I will still think about my husband's unfaithfulness, and about my perplexing continued attachment to him. I will try to separate those feelings from the feeling of tenderness engendered by the child who is as much him as she is me.

In a few weeks I will pack my bags, drive to the airport, and board a flight to Canada. In Montreal, I will pass through customs, then take a taxi to my condo in centre-ville. The next day, I will report to my lab. Ryan will be eleven floors down. Who knows?

One thing I do know. Emma is right. Whatever the outcome, I am among the lucky. I have people in my life. People who love me.

At times I scratch my head in puzzlement. After years of obscurity, my field of endeavor is suddenly hot.

When I completed my grad studies, it was the rare cop or prosecutor who'd heard of forensic anthropology, and the rarer one who used it. My colleagues and I formed a tiny club, known to few, understood by fewer. Law-and-order professionals knew little about us. The general public knew nothing.