HE CHARGE NURSE TOLD ME THAT PETE WAS AWAKE AND TALKING, and that his vitals were stable. The doctor would see him this morning and decide how long he needed to stay. I thanked her and asked her to be sure to tell Pete I'd called.

I phrased my e-mail message to Katy very carefully. "Your father will be in the hospital for a few days. He received a gunshot wound from a home intruder at Anne's house on Isle of Palms. Do not panic. He is recovering nicely. He is at the Medical University of South Carolina hospital in Charleston. He will be released before you could get there, and will tell you all about it when you next see him. Love, Mom."

Then I turned to my MPs. The chronology went back five years. I was finishing when Ryan came into the kitchen. After pouring coffee, he joined me at the table. One cocked brow told me I wasn't looking my best.

"Don't say it, Ryan."

"You owe a fellow named Jerry a whole lot of scotch."

"And Jerry would be?"

"Buddy at Quantico. NCIC search turned up zip for Dominic Rodriguez. But Jerry found him by other means." A smile played Ryan's lips. "Jerry's devious."

"Don't toy with me, Ryan." Grabbing my hair, I yanked it up into a knot.

"Likes Glenlivet."

"Noted."

"Rodriguez is a Mexican national. Born in Guadalajara." Titillating pause as Ryan took a long, appreciative sip. "Currently employed as chief of wellness therapy at Abrigo Aislado de los Santos in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico."

"Get out! Why did Rodriguez leave San Diego?"

"Jerry soldiers on, even as we speak. Now. Lester Marshall."

I waited out more coffee intake.

"Name lit up the marquee."

"You're kidding." My heart was plowing in my chest. "What did Marshall do?"

"Good doctor got a little liberal with pharmaceuticals."

"Self-prescribing?"

"And overprescribing for patients. Making a handsome living writing scrips for controlled substances. Colleague dropped a dime. Marshall got his license suspended, but apparently wasn't all that contrite. After a second complaint and investigation, Marshall's license was revoked. Tulsa prosecutors weren't amused, brought criminal charges. Marshall did eighteen months, vamoosed."

"Where was Marshall between Tulsa and Charleston?"

"Jerry's checking. Got your dates lined up?"

I showed Ryan my list. He did some mental math.

"The Abrigo Aislado de los Santos opened its puertas in ninety-two. Marshall stopped practicing medicine in Oklahoma in eighty-nine, left the state in ninety-one after doing his time in stir, resurfaced here in ninety-five." Ryan tapped my list. "If this drinking buddy that Gullet's deputy interviewed is correct, Helms disappeared after nine-eleven, 2001, these others after that. Either Marshall and Rodriguez took a long time to gear up, or a number of cold cases need reopening. Heard from Gullet?"

I shook my head. The topknot failed.

"Wonder if the bass were biting." Ryan tucked a few strands behind my ears.

I picked up my cell phone. This time Gullet's receptionist put me through. I wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Marshall is killing people to steal their organs."

"That's a mighty serious accusation." Flat. "Heard about the shooting. May I inquire how the counselor is faring?"

"Recovering nicely, thank you for asking."

"IOP PD calling the plays?"

"Yes."

"How they reading it?"

"They're inclined to view the incident as accidental."

"Hmm."

I didn't know what that meant, but I wasn't in the mood to pursue the discussion.

"The marks on Helms's and Montague's bones are consistent with cuts from a scalpel blade."

After getting another "hmm," I told Gullet what I'd found on Cruikshank's computer. When I stopped speaking, he made a noise I took to mean "go on." I outlined what we'd discovered about Marshall and Rodriguez.

"You're talking Helms and Montague," Gullet monotoned.

"So far. An MP named Jimmie Ray Teal was also a patient at the GMC clinic. Who knows how many others? I think someone killed Cruikshank to shut him up before he could go to the authorities. Probably Helene Flynn for the same reason."

"Uh-huh."

"A schizophrenic named Lonnie Aikman disappeared in 2004. A journalist reran a story about him back in March. Aikman's mother was found dead in her car this past Tuesday. Someone may have killed her so Jimmie Ray wouldn't trace back to GMC."

"One buried, one in the ocean, one hanging from a tree, one dead in a vehicle. Not exactly a signature."

"Whoever is masterminding this is smart. Probably varied his MO so the murders wouldn't link up if the bodies were found. But one thing is sure. We have three garrotings."

"Where's this Mexican clinic?"

"Abrigo Aislado de los Santos, in Puerto Vallarta."

I heard Gullet's desk chair swivel. Then, "What is it you want done?"

"I need any information you can gather on the ownership or leasing of private planes in this area, especially any use by GMC or Marshall. And a list of all locally registered private aircraft, if that's possible."

"I'll put a deputy on it."

"And insight into who might be comfortable using Dewees as a body dump."

"I pulled a list of homeowners when you found Helms. Only a handful stay on the island full-time. Most properties are second homes, many purchased for use as tourist rentals. It'll take time to check rental records going back through 2001. Private owners who do their own renting often don't keep much by way of records."

"Do it. Where does Marshall live?" Hang on.

Ryan's cell rang while I was holding. He answered. I heard a lot of "yeah" and "uh-huh" as he took notes.

"Marshall's got a place on Kiawah Island." Gullet was back on the line. "Vanderhorst Plantation."

"Pretty high end for a pill pusher working part-time at a charity clinic. Does he own a boat?"

"I'll look into it." Gullet delivered the admonition I was expecting. "Now don't you and your one still active boy pal go pestering Marshall again. If you're right about any of this, no sense provoking him into a sprint."

"If?" I'd been up all night and my Southern gentility, never my strongest point, was eroding. "Marshall's a sleaze. Two patients and a former clinic employee have disappeared. God knows where Flynn's body is!"

"You tell me Rodriguez has no criminal record. He's Mexican and he's left California to practice in Mexico. No one has shown me any connection to South Carolina. I have no basis to ask Mexican authorities to make inquiries. You know as well as I do probing a man based on his heritage is considered harassment. Ethnic profiling."

"There could be a hundred reasons Rodriguez—"

Flapping a hand for attention, Ryan slid me his tablet. I read the notes.

"Rodriguez isn't in the NCIC database because he hasn't committed a crime in the United States. Rodriguez lost his license in California for having sex with patients."

I threw Ryan a questioning look. He nodded confirmation.

"How does that add up to a crime in South Carolina?"

I couldn't believe this deadass was still unconvinced. "Do I have to dump a five-gallon Hefty full of kidneys on your desk?"

Ryan mouthed, "Good one."

"I have found, miss, that in law enforcement, runaway conjecture is a poor substitute for evidence. You might give that some thought. I'm coming to collect that computer." Gullet's tone actually conveyed sentiment now. Distaste. "Sit tight."

"Let me guess," I said, returning Ryan's tablet. "From the multitalented Jerry."

"Jerry's the bomb."

"Gullet's on his way. He's listening, but not persuaded. Thinks I'm a hysteric."

"What will it take?"

"A guilt-riddled recipient baring his soul on Jerry Springer."

Two hours later we had something better, thanks to the enigmatic but assiduous Jerry. I hit Gullet as he walked through the door.

"James Gartland, Indianapolis, Indiana. End-stage renal disease. Three years on dialysis. Traveled to Puerto Vallarta in 2002. Paid a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a kidney and a sojourn at the Abrigo Aislado de los Santos.

"Vivian Foss, Orlando, Florida. End-stage renal disease. Eighteen months on dialysis. Flew to Puerto Vallarta in 2004. Vivian's spa getaway cost a hundred and fifty grand." I thrust Jerry's information at Gullet. "The lucky recipients will not be crazy about testifying, but God bless subpoenas."

Gullet took a long time reading what Ryan had written during his third conversation with Jerry.

"This contact is FBI?"

"Yes," Ryan said.

"He spoke with Gartland and Foss personally?"

"Yes."

"How'd he get the names?"

"Persuaded a very nice Spanish-speaking agent in Quantico to speak to a very nice Mexican lady at the Abrigo."

"Money talks?"

"Si."

"Why'd these people open up?"

"Jerry's a very charismatic guy," Ryan said.

Gullet kept staring at the tablet. I guessed he was organizing facts in his head. When he looked up, his face was a sculpture in stone.

"Feds thinking of jumpin' in on this?"

"Right now it's just Jerry doing me a favor. This plays out the way we're thinking, I'm sure the Bureau will be nose to the glass."

"Still, Gartland and Foss without more don't demonstrate a crime."

I threw up my hands.

"However." Gullet inhaled then exhaled through his nose. Hitched his belt. "Marshall keeps a twenty-three-foot Bayliner at the Bohicket Marina. According to the dock manager, the boat went out Saturday, hasn't come back."

"Ryan and I talked to Marshall on Saturday," I said.

"You mention any of this?" Gullet waved Ryan's tablet.

I shook my head. "But I asked about Unique Montague and Helene Flynn."

Gullet checked his watch. Ryan and I checked ours. It was 9:47.

"Let's see if we can locate the gentleman and speak some more. The clinic may not be my jurisdiction, but two bodies are."

===OO=OOO=OO===

Ryan and I followed Gullet to the clinic. On the way we barely spoke. I was wired, yet exhausted from my night without sleep. I could only guess what was going on inside Ryan.

Two deputies met us outside on Nassau. The crime unit arrived as Gullet was instructing his backup team. A search warrant had been granted. Once it was served, the CSU would toss the clinic from top to bottom. On the way in from Isle of Palms, Gullet had reconsidered and phoned Mexico. I hoped that a similar scene was playing out at the spa in Puerto Vallarta.

My heart pounded in my chest. What if I'd made a mistake? No. I couldn't be wrong. It had to be Marshall. The man was evil and a predator for profit.

One uniform circled the block to cover the rear of the clinic. Ryan and I trailed Gullet and the other uniform through the front door. Berry was at her desk. Her eyes widened as she took in the sheriff and his deputy, hardened when she spotted Ryan and me.

Gullet strode to the desk. The uniform lingered at the entrance. Ryan and I stepped to either side of the room.

Three patients waited in the vinyl chairs, an elderly black woman, a punk in sweats, and a man who looked like a high school tennis coach. The old woman watched us through large, square glasses. The punk and the coach headed for the door. Gullet's deputy stepped aside to let them pass.

"Where's Dr. Marshall?" Gullet asked Berry, all business.

"Examining a patient." Hostile.

Gullet moved toward the corridor down which Marshall had led us three days earlier. Berry charged from her desk and spread her arms across the entrance, a pit bull defending her patch.

"You can't go back there." Still hostile, but now a note of fear.

Gullet kept going. We all followed.

"What do you want?" Berry backed down the hall, arms spread-eagle, still trying to block our progress. "This is a clinic. People are sick."

"Please clear the way, miss." Gullet's voice was Southern steel.

I was so pumped I almost pushed Berry aside myself. I wanted Marshall in the sheriff's presence quickly, before he could dial his Mexican counterpart.

Then the doctor appeared, exiting his office, chart in one hand. "What's the commotion, Miss Berry?"

Berry's arms dropped, but the glare held. She started to speak. Marshall cut her off with the flick of a manicured hand.

"Sheriff Gullet," said Marshall, looking perfectly composed in his white lab coat and impeccably coiffed hair, Marcus Welby calming an unruly patient. He nodded in my direction. "Dr. Brennan. The name is Brennan, is it not?"

My heart was racing. I wanted to get the goods on this bastard and see him pay for what he'd done.

"Dr. Lester Marshall, I have a warrant to search these premises for information concerning patients who have vanished under suspicious circumstances." Gullet's voice was typically deadpan.

Marshall's lips curled into a reptilian smile.

"Now why would such disappearances concern me, Sheriff?"

The words were out before I could stop them. "You know there's stuff in here that may tell us why and how they died."

"Is this a joke?" Marshall spoke to Gullet. "If so, I assure you, I am not amused."

"Sir, I am going to ask you to step aside while we conduct our search." Gullet's tone remained expressionless. "I'd prefer to make this as painless as possible for both of us."

"What should I do?" Berry asked, her voice pitched higher now.

Marshall ignored her. "What is this insanity, Sheriff? I'm a doctor. I help the poor and the sick. I don't victimize them. You are making a mistake." Marshall spoke to Gullet, his icy calm in stark contrast to the rising agitation of his receptionist.

"Sir." Gullet never took his eyes from Marshall.

Marshall handed the chart in his hand to Gullet. "You will regret this, Sheriff."

"Tell me what to do!" Berry barked.

"Please see to the patient in exam room two, Ms. Berry."

Berry held a moment, eyes darting from Gullet, to Marshall, to me. Then she lumbered up the hall and disappeared through one of the doors.

Gullet motioned Marshall to the waiting area. "We'll just stand easy until the warrant arrives."

Marshall's eyes locked on to mine. In them I saw unconcealed hatred.

As the deputy led Marshall past me to a vinyl chair, I caught a whiff of the pricey aftershave, noticed again the creamy silk, the soft glow of the tasseled leather. My fingers curled into fists of anger. I felt repulsed by the arrogance, by the pompous indifference of the bastard.

Then I spotted it. Marshall's right temple. A vein pulsed like an engorged snake.

Marshall was terrified.