RIVING PERMIT ISSUED BY THE GREAT STATE OF SOUTH CAROLINA." Gullet thumb-scraped the plastic some more, raised his shades to his head, and tilted the wallet this way and that.

"No way this poor fella's Matthew Summerfield." Gullet thrust the wallet at Miller.

The coroner's investigator angled the plastic as the sheriff had done. "You got that right." Miller offered the wallet to me. "Print's too small for these old eyes."

Though the photo was badly deteriorated, it was clear the man pictured was no kid. He had flabby features, black-rimmed glasses, and wispy hair slicked into a comb-over. I strained to make out the lettering to the right of the photo.

"The name looks like Chester something Pinney. Maybe Pickney. Or Pinckney. The rest is too damaged," I said.

Miller produced a ziplock and I dropped the wallet into it. She handed the baggie to Gullet.

"If you've got no objection, we'll deliver this gentleman's mortal remains to the morgue. Miss Rousseau will want to find out who he is and make next-of-kin notification as soon as possible."

Miller looked at her watch. We all followed suit, Pavlovian pups.

"Going on seven," Gullet said. "Nothing more going to happen tonight."

Nodding to Miller and me, the sheriff repositioned his shades on the bridge of his nose, whistled to the dog, and set off toward the road.

While her colleague cut free and bagged the remaining segment of rope, Miller and I satisfied ourselves that no further information could be wrung from the site. Vines and moss whispered overhead. Mosquitoes whined. Amphibians chanted from the murky gloom of the bog.

The sky was bleeding into a Lowcountry dusk as Miller slammed the double doors on the coroner's van. Her face was splotchy with insect bites, and perspiration darkened her back and chest.

"I'll be calling Emma shortly," I said. "I can fill her in."

"Thank ya, sweetie. That's one less chore to worry my mind."

I dialed from the road. Emma answered after three rings, her voice sounding thin and edgy. I explained what had taken place.

"I don't know how to thank you."

"No need," I said.

"The Summerfields will be relieved."

"Yes," I said, with little enthusiasm. A common scenario. One family gets good news, another gets bad.

I heard an intake of air, then nothing.

"What?"

"You've done so much."

"Not really."

"I hate to ask."

"Ask."

A hitch, then, "I have a treatment tomorrow. I—"

"What time?"

"The appointment is at seven."

"I'll pick you up at six thirty."

"Thanks, Tempe." The relief in her voice almost made me cry.

Again, I arrived home steeped in the smell of death. Again, I went straight to the outdoor shower and stood under water as hot as I could stand, soaping and lathering over and over.

Boyd greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, going upright, then working figure eights around my legs. Birdie watched with disapproval. Or maybe scorn. It's hard to tell with cats.

After throwing on clothes, I filled pet bowls, then checked the house phone. Ryan hadn't called. Nor had he left a message on my cell.

Pete's car was not in the drive. Except for Bird and the chow, the place was empty.

When I unpegged his leash, Boyd flew into a frenzy, racing circles around the kitchen, ending with forepaws down, rump pointed skyward. I took him for a long walk on the beach.

Returning home, I again checked both phones. Nada.

"Call Ryan?" I asked Boyd.

The chow twirled his eyebrow hairs and canted his head.

"You're right. If he's pouting, we'll give him space. If he's busy, he'll phone when he can."

Climbing to my room, I slid open the glass door and fell into bed. Boyd settled on the floor. For a long time I lay awake, listening to the surf and smelling the ocean.

At some point, Birdie hopped up and curled at my side. I was thinking about eating something when I drifted off.

Gullet was right. Nothing more happened that night.

===OO=OOO=OO===

"Pinckney?"

At shortly after eleven the next morning, Emma and I were in a treatment room at a clinic two blocks east of the main hospital. She wore a hospital smock. An IV ran from her left arm. With her right she held a mobile to her ear. Coroner perk. Dispensation from the no cell phone rule.

"Landline?" Emma asked.

Pause.

"What's the address?"

Pause.

"I know it. I'll swing by there in about an hour."

Emma clicked off and spoke to me.

"Chester Tyrus Pinckney."

"I was close," I said.

"The phone's been cut off, but the address isn't too far from Rockville."

"Isn't that way south? Down by Kiawah and Seabrook?"

"Wadmalaw Island. The area's pretty rural."

I thought about that.

"Mr. Pinckney traveled a long way to hang himself."

Before Emma could reply a woman entered the room. She wore a white coat and held a chart in one hand. Her face was friendly but neutral.

Emma introduced the woman as Dr. Nadja Lee Russell. Despite the bravado she'd been showing all morning, her voice belied nervousness.

"I understand you had an episode," Russell said.

"Just fatigue," Emma said.

"You lost consciousness?"

"Yes," Emma admitted.

"Has that happened before?"

"No."

"Any fever? Nausea? Night sweats?"

"Some."

"Which?"

"All of the above."

Russell made notes, then flipped pages in the chart. The room hummed with the sound of the overhead fluorescents.

Russell read on. The silence grew ominous. I felt cold bands squeezing my chest. It was like waiting out a verdict. You will live. You will die. You are better. You are not. I forced myself to smile.

Finally, Russell spoke.

"I'm afraid I don't have good news, Emma. Your counts still have not improved as much as I would have liked."

"They're down?"

"Let's just say I'm not seeing the level of progress I was hoping for."

The room seemed to compress around me. I reached out and took Emma's hand.

"What now?" Emma's voice was devoid of emotion. Her face had gone rigid.

"We continue," Russell said. "Every patient is different. For some, the treatment takes longer to kick in."

Emma nodded.

"You're young, you're still strong. Continue to work if you feel up to it."

"I will."

Emma's eyes followed Russell's retreat out the door. In them I saw fear and sadness. But most of all, I saw defiance.

"You bet your sweet ass I'll keep working."

===OO=OOO=OO===

The travel brochures describe Wadmalaw as the most unspoiled of Charleston's islands. In this case, also the least alluring.

Technically, Wadmalaw is an island, carved off from the mainland by the Bohicket and North Edisto rivers. But Wadmalaw is blocked from the ocean by its upscale "barrier" neighbors to the south and east, Kiawah and Seabrook. The good news: Wadmalaw is stable, and rarely suffers the full-frontal blast of a hurricane. The bad news: no sandy beaches. Wadmalaw's acreage is a hodgepodge of woodland and wetland, ecozones hardly packing in tourists and vacation home buyers.

Though a few upscale houses have recently gone up on Wadmalaw, the area's residents remain mostly farmers, fishers, crabbers, and shrimpers. The island's one attraction is the Charleston Tea Plantation. Begun in 1799, the plantation lays claim to the title of oldest tea farm in America. But then, it's perhaps the only tea farm in America.

But who knows? If skinks and cooters ever catch the imagination of ecotourists, Wadmalaw will be golden.

The small town of Rockville lies at Wadmalaw's southern tip. It was in the general direction of this metropolis that Emma and I pointed ourselves after leaving the clinic.

On the walk to my car I tried broaching the subject of NHL. Emma made it clear that the topic was off-limits. Initially, her attitude annoyed me. Why ask for my company then close me out? But then, wasn't that exactly how I'd behave? Nullify weakness by refusing to grant it the validation of the spoken word? I wasn't sure, but I yielded to Emma's wishes. Her illness, her call.

I drove, Emma rode shotgun. Her directions took us southwest across James and Johns islands, onto the Maybank Highway, then onto Bears Bluff Road. Except for navigational commands, and a few exchanges concerning road signs, we rode in silence, listening to the air conditioner and to bugs slapping the windshield.

Eventually, Emma directed me to turn onto a small road lined with live oaks dripping Spanish moss. Shortly, she ordered another right, then, a quarter mile later, a left onto a rutted dirt lane.

Ancient trees leaned inward from both sides, drawn through decades to the ribbon of sunlight created by the lane's passage. Beyond the trees were trenches, black-green with moss and brackish water.

Here and there, a battered mailbox marked the opening to a driveway snaking off from one shoulder or the other. Otherwise, the narrow track was so overhung with vegetation, I felt like I was piloting through a leafy green wormhole in space.

"There."

Emma pointed to a mailbox. I pulled up beside it.

Metallic letters formed an uneven row, the kind you buy at Home Depot and paste on. PINCKNEY.

On the ground, a homemade sign leaned against the box's upright. Rabbits for Sale. Good bait.

"What do you catch with rabbits?" I asked.

"Tularemia," Emma answered. "Turn here."

Thirty yards in, the trees yielded to tangled scrub. Ten more and the scrub dissolved into a small dirt clearing.

No developer's dream had reworked this place. No condos. No tennis courts. No Dickie Dupree.

A small clapboard house occupied the center of the clearing, surrounded by the usual piled tires, auto parts, broken lawn furniture, and rusted appliances. The house was single story, raised above the ground on crumbling brick pilings. The front door was open, but I could see nothing through the outer screening.

A steel cable ran between two uprights on the clearing's right side. A leash hung from the cable, a choke-chain collar clipped to its lower end.

An unpainted wooden shed stood at the clearing's left. Barely. I assumed this was home to the unfortunate rabbits.

I watched Emma draw a long, deep breath. I knew she hated what she was about to do. She got out. I followed. The air was hot and heavy with moisture and the smell of rotting vegetation.

I waited at the foot of the steps while Emma climbed to the porch. I kept my eyes roving, alert for a pit bull or rottweiler. I'm a dog lover, but a realist. Rural canines and strangers spell stitches and shots.

Emma knocked.

A large black bird cawed and darted low over the shed. I watched it spiral upward, then disappear into the loblolly pines behind the clearing.

Emma called out and knocked again.

I heard a male voice, then the thrup of rusty hinges.

I glanced back toward the house.

And saw the very last person I expected to see.