or the first day in almost a week, there was no need to go to the MCME. I'd done what I could with the privy remains, the Cessna passenger, and the bears. Slidell could get the feathers personally if he needed them quickly.

Over grilled cheese sandwiches at Pike's Soda Shop, Ryan and I discussed the wisdom of leaving for the beach. We decided it was better to hold off for a few days than to be yanked back to Charlotte.

We also discussed my suspicions concerning the illegal trade in wildlife. Ryan agreed my theory posed a possibility given the feathers found with the cocaine, and the large number of black bears buried at the farm. Neither he nor I had any idea how the bears figured in, nor what the link was among the farm, Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree, the privy victim, and the Cessna's owner, pilot, and passenger, though there was clearly a cocaine connection to Tyree.

After an hors d'oeuvre run to Dean & DeLuca's at Phillips Place, we returned to the annex. While Ryan changed into running gear, I phoned Mrs. Flowers.

Wally Cagle, the forensic anthropologist who'd done the headless, handless skeleton from Lancaster County, had called. She gave me the number.

Next I checked my voice mail messages.

Katy.

Harry.

Harry's son, Kit, warning that his mother would be calling.

Harry.

Harry.

Pierre LaManche, the chef de service for the medicolegal section at the crime lab in Montreal. An informant had led police to a woman buried seven years in a sandpit. The case was not urgent, but he wanted me to know that an anthropological analysis was required.

My arrangement with the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale was that I would rotate through the lab on a monthly basis, doing all cases for which my expertise had been requested, and that I would return immediately should a critical investigation, disaster, or subpoena demand my presence. I wondered if the sandpit case could wait until my planned return to Montreal at the end of the summer.

Two hang-ups.

Knowing the Harry-Kit-Harry-Harry sequence meant my sister and twenty-something nephew were arguing, I put that conversation off.

As I disconnected, man and his best friend entered the kitchen, Boyd trailing like a shark on a blood scent. Ryan wore running shorts, a sweatband, and a T that suggested PERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.

'Nice shirt,' I said.

'Half the proceeds went toward saving the Karner Blue.'

'What's a Karner Blue?'

'Butterfly.' Ryan unpegged the leash. The chow went berserk. 'It's in trouble and the salesperson was deeply concerned.'

Smiling, I waved the two off and dialed my daughter.

She requested hors d'ouevres for the evening's soiree. I told her I had purchased stuffed mushrooms and cheese sticks.

She asked if I was bringing the French Foreign Legion. I told her I'd be accompanied.

I called Montreal. LaManche had departed the lab for an afternoon of administrative meetings. I left a message about my scheduled return date.

I hadn't seen Harry since the family beach trip in early July. Knowing this would be a long one, I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and dialed my sister's number.

The fight concerned my sister's latest boyfriend, a massage therapist from Galveston. Thirty minutes later I understood the issue.

Kit didn't like him. Harry did.

I was dialing Wally Cagle when a series of beeps indicated another caller was trying to reach me. I clicked over.

'Checked your e-mail, Dr. Brennan?' The voice was high and warbly, like an electronic doll's.

Tiny hairs rose on the nape of my neck.

'Who is this?'

'I know where you are. I know all about you.'

Annoyance alternated with anger. And fear. I searched for a snappy response, found none, repeated myself.

'Who is this?'

'The face in the glass.'

My eyes flew to the window.

'The dust bunny under your bed.' Singsong. 'The beastie in the closet.'

Unconsciously, I drifted to the wall and pressed my back to it.

'Welcome.' The child-voice mimicked AOL. 'You've got mail.'

The line went dead.

I stood rigid, clutching the phone.

This case? Some other case? A random nut?

I jumped when the ringer sounded in my hand. The caller-ID window indicated a private number.

My finger sought the 'connect' button. Slowly, I raised the receiver to my ear.

'Hello?' A man's voice.

I waited, breath still frozen in my throat.

'Ye-ho? Someone there?'

High-pitched Boston accent.

Walter Cagle.

Slow exhale.

'Hey, Wally.'

'That you, Tempe?'

'It's me.'

'You all right, princess?' Wally called most women he liked 'princess.' Some were offended. Some weren't. I saved my ire for bigger issues.

'I'm fine.'

'You sound edgy.'

'I've just had an odd call.'

'Not bad news, I hope.'

'Probably just a crank.' Dear God, what if it wasn't?

'Guy wanted to see you in hip waders and a Dale Evans bra?'

'Something like that.'

A tap at the window. My eyes whipped back up.

A chickadee was perched on the bird feeder. As it dipped for seed, the feeder rocked gently against the glass.

I closed my eyes and steadied my voice.

'Listen, I'm glad you called. Did Detective Slidell fill you in on what's going on?'

'He said you needed information on an old case.'

'A partial skeleton, found near Lancaster about three years back.'

'I remember it. No skull. No hand bones. Coroner should have my report on file.'

'That coroner is dead. The current coroner has nothing but the original police report, which is useless.'

'Doesn't surprise me.' Deep sigh. 'Guy struck me as one notch above simpleminded. A teensy notch.'

'Do you mind discussing your findings?'

'Of course not, princess. Case went nowhere, as I recall.'

'We think we may have found the head and hands up here in Mecklenburg County.'

'No kidding.'

The line was silent a moment. I could picture Wally crossing his legs, kicking one foot, composing his thoughts.

'I'm down in Beaufort, but I called my lab, had a graduate student read me the highlights from my report. It was a complete skeleton lacking the head, mandible, first three cervical vertebrae, and all hand bones.'

Pause.

'Well preserved, devoid of soft tissue and odor, some bleaching. Extensive animal damage. Time since death at least one year, probably longer.'

Wally was summarizing in speech as he might have on paper. Or perhaps he was reading from notes he'd jotted during the call with his student.

'Male. Thirty years old, plus or minus five years. Age based on ribs and pubic symphyses. Or at least on what was left of them.'

Pause.

'Caucasoid.'

Pause.

'Height seventy-three inches, plus or minus. Can't remember that exactly. Muscle attachments slight.'

'Any evidence of trauma?' I asked.

'Just postmortem. Animal damage. Cut marks on the third cervical vertebra suggestive of decapitation by a sharp instrument with a nonserrated blade. That's about it.'

'Did you have any feel for the case at the time?'

'A tall white boy pissed somebody off. That somebody killed him and whacked off his head and hands. That in accord with what you're seeing?'

'Pretty much.'

I looked out my window. The trees around my patio shimmered in the heat. My heartbeat had returned to normal. Concentrating on Cagle's narrative, I'd nearly forgotten the prior call.

'I had a tough time determining sex with this skull. Didn't fall on either side of the line,' I said.

'I had the same problem,' Cagle said. 'Sheriff's deputies recovered no clothes or personal effects. Dogs and raccoons used the body as carryout for a goodly period of time. Pelvis was badly chewed, so were the ends of the long bones. Had to calculate stature from one relatively complete fibula. Except for that height estimate, I saw zilch with regard to sex.'

'There are tall women,' I said.

'Look at professional basketball,' Cagle agreed. 'Anyway, I thought I had a tall male, but wasn't one hundred percent sure. So when I sent a femoral sample off for DNA profiling, I requested an amelogenin test.'

'And?'

'Two bands.'

'Male.' I said it more to myself than to Cagle.

'X and a Y, holding hands.'

'The state lab agreed to do a blind DNA?'

'Of course not. The sheriff's query turned up a missing person as a possible match. DNA said otherwise.'

'What happened to the skeleton?'

'I shipped it back to Lancaster when I mailed my report. Coroner sent me a receipt.'

'Do you remember his name?'

'Snow. Murray P. Snow. Probably held the bones a week then torched them.'

'Did you take pictures?' I asked.

'They're on file in my lab at the university.'

I thought a moment.

'Is there any way you could scan the images and transmit them to me electronically?'

'No problem, princess. I'll be back in Columbia by late this afternoon. I'll do it toot sweet, and fax you a copy of the report.'

I thanked him, disconnected, and went straight to my computer. Though Cagle's call had distracted me for a time, I was anxious to see what kind of e-mail stalker wanted to be my chat buddy.

What kind of psychopath knew my home phone number.

The flag on my inbox was straight up. A cheery voice told me I had mail.

Barely breathing, I double-clicked the icon.

Forty-three e-mails.

I scrolled downward.

And my heartbeat ratcheted up.

Twenty-four messages had been sent by someone using the screen name Grim Reaper. Each file carried an attachment. Each subject line held the same message in bold caps: BACK OFF!

I recoiled from the monitor.

Breathe in.

Out.

In.

My hand shook as I double-clicked one of the Grim Reaper subject bars.

The message window was blank. The attachment was a numbered graphics file, 1.jpg. Download time was estimated at less than a minute.

I hit 'download.'

AOL asked if I knew the sender.

Good point.

I went to the member directory. No profile on Grim Reaper.

Back to the e-mail.

A moment of hesitation.

I had to know.

I clicked 'yes,' told the download manager to save.

Slowly, an image unfolded down the screen. My face, a hash-marked circle superimposed.

My subconscious knew instantly as my conscious mind moved toward comprehension.

My left hand flew to my mouth.

I was viewing myself through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

For a moment I could only stare.

Seriously frightened now, I closed that e-mail and opened another.

2.jpg.

Myself, leaving a Starbucks. This time the scope was trained on my back.

3.jpg.

Myself, leaving the MCME facility, bull's-eye on my forehead.

Morbidly fascinated, I had to see more.

8.jpg.

A picture of Ryan and me leaving the McEniry

Building at UNCC.

12.jpg.

Boyd, exiting my kitchen door.

18.jpg.

Myself, entering Pike's Soda Shop.

Breathing hard and starting to sweat, I opened another.

22.jpg.

The sweat went cold on my skin and I shivered.

Katy sat reading on what I guessed to be Lija's front porch swing. She was wearing shorts and a tank top I'd purchased at the Gap. One bare foot was lazily pushing against the railing.

A rifle was aimed at her head.