Emma didn't reply.

"I may have cases at my lab in Charlotte."

Emma continued to not reply.

"Or in Montreal."

We rode in silence awhile, listening to the peeping of tree frogs and the hum of the cart. When Emma spoke again her voice was different, softer, yet quietly insistent.

"Someone's probably missing this guy."

I thought of the solitary grave we'd just unearthed.

I thought of my long-ago lecture and the guy in the tub.

I stopped trying to beg off.

We talked again as we loaded the boat and cast off, fell silent when we left the no-wake zone. Once Emma opened throttle, our words were lost to the wind, the motor, and the slap of water on the bow.

My car was at the marina on Isle of Palms, a narrow tongue of real estate lying between Sullivan's and Dewees. So was a coroner's van. It took only minutes to transfer our sad cargo.

Before cutting out into the intracoastal waterway, Emma left me with two words.

"I'll call."

I didn't argue. I was tired and hungry. And cranky. I wanted to go home, shower, and eat the cold shrimp and she-crab soup I'd left in the fridge.

Walking up the dock, I noticed Topher Burgess stepping from the ferry. He was listening to his iPod, and didn't seem to see or hear me.

I watched my student cross to his Jeep. Funny kid, I thought. Smart, though far from a brilliant performer. Accepted by his peers, but always apart.

Like me at that age.

I clicked on the roof light in my Mazda, dug my mobile from my pack, and checked for a signal. Four bars.

Three messages. I recognized none of the numbers.

It was now 8:45.

Disappointed, I replaced the phone, pulled from the lot, cut across the island, and turned right onto Palm Boulevard. Traffic was light, though that wouldn't last. Two weeks and cars would be clogging these roads like silt in a storm drain.