HORTER WAS A FLYBOY," GULLET SAID.

"Still is." Tybee dug out another paper. "Owns a Cessna 207, tail number N3378Z."

"Drug-runner favorite," Gullet said.

"Yes, sir," Tybee agreed. "Single-engine. Can fly low and land in a field. But the 207's a poor choice for long-haul stealth flights. Can't go from here to Puerto Vallarta without refueling. And there's another problem. Every plane that flies in the United States has to be registered, and Shorter's tail number would be traceable straight to him. But drug runners often steal planes or purchase them from prior owners, paint over the tail numbers, then stencil on bogus ones."

"Find the plane. If you spot Shorter, stay with him and call me."

"Yes, sir."

Gullet turned to go. I had one last question for Tybee.

"Where does Shorter live?"

"Seabrook."

I felt a buzz of excitement. "Where on Seabrook?"

Tybee typed a few keystrokes and a list came up on the screen.

"Pelican Grove Villas."

The buzz became a rush. I whipped around to Gullet.

"Daniels lives at Pelican Grove Villas."

Gullet stopped, hand on the doorknob.

"Same complex?"

"Yes! Yes! That can't be coincidence. Marshall must be on the level. It's got to be Daniels!"

Something shifted in Gullet's expression. He gave a tight nod. "I'll bring him in."

"I want to go with you," I said.

Gullet regarded me, stone-jawed. "I'll let you know when we've got him."

With that he was gone.

===OO=OOO=OO===

There was nothing to do but go home. And wait.

After walking Boyd, I zapped a frozen dinner and turned on the news. An appropriately concerned anchorwoman was reporting on a fire in a public housing block. Her air became subtly but fittingly shocked when she launched into coverage of the Marshall story. Footage showed the clinic, a younger Marshall, a clip of Herron leading a stadium in prayer, Marshall and Tuckerman leaving the courthouse.

I hardly heard. I kept going over every fact I knew. Kept checking my watch. Each time only minutes had passed.

Was it Daniels? It had to be Daniels. Had Gullet found him? What was taking so long?

I watered Anne's cactus collection. Collected a load of wash. Emptied the dishwasher.

My thoughts were in collision, but there was no one with whom to discuss my doubts, weigh the probability of Daniels versus Marshall. I needed to talk to Ryan, to get his perspective. I thought of calling, decided he should be free to focus on Lily. Birdie was occupied with a catnip frog. Though keenly interested, Boyd was a lousy conversationalist.

Pete called around six thirty, bored and cranky. I told him I'd come by and fill him in on the events of the past four days.

Pete was reading Friday's Post and Courier when I arrived. Crumpling the paper, he complained about the food, itchy dressings, his first physical therapy session.

"Aren't we a black hole of need," I said, kissing the top of Pete's head.

"It's called venting. But you're not really listening."

"No," I admitted.

"Tell me what's happened."

I laid it all out. The makeshift OR. The organ theft. The wire noose. The shells. Unique Montague. Willie Helms. The other MP's. Rodriguez. The Abrigo Aislado de los Santos in Puerto Vallarta.

I told Pete that Rodriguez and Marshall were med school classmates, and that both had been sanctioned, Marshall for drug abuse, Rodriguez for sexual misconduct, and that Marshall had actually done a short stretch. I added that Marshall had sold his boat immediately after Ryan and I questioned him at the clinic, and ended by describing Marshall's arrest and subsequent release on bond.

"You should be proud of yourself," Pete said.

For a minute I was persuaded again. But, no, it had to be Daniels.

"I think I may have talked Gullet into arresting the wrong man."

"Don't believe everything you think."

I slapped Pete's wrist. He cringed in exaggerated pain. I checked my watch.

"No one talks Gullet into anything," Pete said.

"Maybe not, but I pushed him hard. And now Gullet's taking heat."

"From whom?"

"The press. Herron. The rev's powerful friends." I worried my right cuticle with my left thumbnail. "What if we're wrong? Gullet will have a lot to explain in the next election."

"The evidence sounds pretty convincing to me."

"It's all circumstantial."

"Sufficient circumstantial evidence can carry the burden of proof if the jury believes it." Pete reached over and separated my hands. I checked my watch. Where the hell was Gullet?

"If Marshall's not guilty, is there another candidate?" Pete asked.

I laid out what I'd learned about Corey Daniels.

Boat. Familiarity with Dewees Island. Surgical scrub nurse. Presence in El Paso during a period of grisly murders, some of which may have been linked to organ trafficking. Calls made from Marshall's phone when Marshall wasn't at the clinic. Residence in the same complex as a pilot of tarnished reputation. A pilot who was contacted immediately before and after the disappearance of Jimmie Ray Teal. Contacted from a pay phone just yards from the clinic.

"Maybe Marshall and Daniels are in it together," Pete said when I'd finished.

"Possible. But I keep thinking about my conversation with Marshall. I dislike the man, but some of his points make sense. Leaving shells lying around his office doesn't fit his personality. He's alibied out for the night Cruikshank's home was phoned from his line. The history of the boat sale can easily be checked. If they're in it together, why finger Daniels unless Marshall is trying to do a plea deal and get to the DA first?"

"Is either Marshall or Daniels stockpiling money?"

"Gullet says no evidence of that, though one can easily hide cash. Daniels lives way beyond what I'd expect a nurse could afford." I described the Hunney Child and the Seabrook condo, and explained Daniels's family connections.

"The Reynolds aluminum clan."

"Exactly. But that could mean nothing."

My eyes flicked to my watch. Five minutes had passed since my previous time check.

"It took some convincing, but Gullet's gone to pick Daniels up." I went back to picking. The cuticle was now a bright angry red. "But the case against Daniels is also circumstantial. I'm hoping some searches and some phone records will turn up gold."

"What about the eyelash?"

"DNA takes time."

"Capitaine Comical gone back to the tundra?"

"Yes."

"Miss him?"

"Yes." I'd caught a trace of Ryan's scent on my pillow that morning and felt a loneliness more intense than I'd anticipated. An emptiness. A sense of impending closure?

"How's Emma?" Pete pulled my hands apart and held on to one.

I shook my head.

Ten minutes later my mobile sounded. Gullet's number glowed on the screen. Heart thumping, I clicked on.

"Daniels wasn't at Bohicket or at his condo. Boat's in the slip. Sent out an APB on his vehicle."

"Any progress on Shorter?"

"No sign of him, but the plane's kept at a private airstrip out Clement's Ferry Road. Small operation. No tower, but they sell fuel. Watchman says Shorter flies a group of businessmen up to Charlotte every Saturday morning, comes Friday evenings to do routine maintenance. Tybee will be waiting when Shorter shows up."

"What's Marshall doing?"

There was a pause. In the background I could hear Gullet's radio sputter.

"Zamzow lost him."

"Lost him?" I couldn't believe it. "How could he lose him?"

"Eighteen-wheeler jackknifed not far in front of his position. Involved two cars. I diverted him to that."

"Jesus Christ!"

"It's temporary. Tuckerman's called a press conference for ten tomorrow morning. Marshall will be putting on a puppy face for his public, and we'll resume our tail then."

When we'd disconnected, I looked at the patient. Mercifully, Pete was dozing.

Glancing back at my phone, I noticed the little icon indicating voice mail waiting. I listened to the message.

Emma, 4:27 P.M. "Call me. I have news."

While talking to Tybee, I'd left my purse in Gullet's office. Emma must have phoned then.

I hit E on my speed dial. Emma's machine answered after four rings.

"Damn!"

I was about to disconnect when Emma's live voice cut in over her recorded voice.

"Hang on."

The message ended, and a long beep sounded. I heard a click, then a change in sound quality.

"Where are you?" Emma asked.

"At the hospital."

"Staff catches you on a cell phone they'll break out the rubber hoses. How's Pete?"

"Sleeping," I said, just above a whisper.

"You and Gullet have been busy."

"Emma, I think we've made a mistake."

"Oh?"

I got up, closed the door, and gave Emma a condensed version of everything I'd told Pete. She listened without interrupting.

"Don't know if my news will resolve anything. Got DNA results today. It's Marshall's eyelash."

"You're right. That could go either way. But it narrows the possibilities. Either Marshall disposed of the body, or participated in the disposal, or was being set up even at the time the body was buried. But why a setup back then? That kind of contingency planning seems something of a stretch. And an eyelash, for God's sake? Sounds like a TV plot where the cops find one skin cell in an acre of shag carpet. What are the chances an eyelash will be found?"

"Who's your pick?"

"Daniels. He's dim enough to think something like that would work."

"Mine, too. Keep me in the loop."

"I will."

I set the phone on vibrate mode. Minutes crept by. I was gnawing a cuticle when it signaled.

Gullet.

"IOP PD just spotted Daniels's vehicle at the Dewees marina."

"He's gone to see his aunt? If so, why? And why not take his own boat?"

Gullet ignored the questions. Rightly so. They were irrelevant.

"I'm checking with Dewees to see if Daniels is out there. Posted deputies on his condo and at Bohicket. We'll get him."

"Please call when you do. The guy gives me the creeps."

Pete was snoring. Time to go.

I was clearing the newspaper from Pete's bed, trying not to rustle, when my eyes fell on the grainy black-and-white of Aubrey Herron. Herron was caught in a posture of supplication, face tipped, eyes closed, arm stretched above his head.

Left arm.

The thought struck like a tsunami. Unbidden. Unforeseen. Shocking.

"Damn," I whispered, fingers clenching in distress. "Damn, damn, damn."

The paper trembled as visions screamed through my mind.

A trio of sixth cervical vertebrae, all fractured on the left.

A wire noose with a side loop for applying deadly force.

Corey Daniels beyond one-way glass. A hand shooting through hair. A finger working a desktop. An arm draping a chair back. A scar circling a wrist.

Lester Marshall leafing through pages in a patient chart. Jotting words on a legal pad.

Kaleidoscope images fused into realization.

Daniels spoke of permanent damage from a motorcycle accident. He had strength only in his right hand.

Marshall rummaged Montague's file with his left hand. He wrote with his left hand.

Daniels was right-handed. Marshall was left-handed.

A Spanish windlass is slipped over a victim's head from behind.

On Montague, Helms, and Cruikshank, the force had been applied to the left side of the neck. They had been strangled by a lefty.

I'd sent Gullet after Daniels.

The killer couldn't be Daniels.

Where was Marshall now?