"Cottonmouths, maybe even a water-lovin' rattler or two." Gullet's voice held not a trace of sympathy.

Miller crossed to the van and returned with waders and two coils of yellow polypropylene rope. Dumping them at our feet, she began shooting scene photos.

With Zamzow hand-signaling, Tybee positioned the cruiser. Then Zamzow tied two lines to the bumper and ran each out to the end of the pier.

Tybee stayed at the wheel. Miller and Zamzow rejoined Gullet and me. No one made a move for the waders.

"This old gal's no water princess," Miller said.

"I'm a nonswimmer." Zamzow's face was the pale green of a Monet landscape.

The Moultries observed from their lawn chairs.

The day was heating up. The tide was turning. Behind us, flies were doing Riverdance on sun-baked fish guts.

Grabbing the waders, I yanked off my sneakers, shoved my feet down the legs, and maneuvered the straps up onto my shoulders. Then I drew a deep breath, bellied over the pier, and dropped to the bank. Miller tossed me gloves and I tucked them under one arm.

The mud was slippery but firm. Stepping gingerly, I worked my way toward the barrel, crabs skittering from my path.

Gloving, I retrieved and pushed the lid into place. My stomach rolled. Up close, the stench was nauseating. After whacking the lid tight with a rock, I yanked off the gloves and signaled for a line.

Zamzow tossed down the first length of rope. I fashioned a noose, slipped it over the unsubmerged end of the barrel, rolled it down about eighteen inches, and tightened the knot.

Bracing against the barrel, I maneuvered toward its submerged end. As I moved, flecks of rust broke free and dropped to the mud.

At the water's edge I stopped and did a quick scan. Not a coiled body in sight.

Deep breath. Go.

The incline was steeper than I'd anticipated. One step and the creek covered my shins. Another and it was over my knees.

Slogging forward, I rounded the barrel. The water was now waist high, my legs lost to the murky gloom.

I signaled, and Zamzow tossed another rope. Forming another lasso, I placed the knot on top of the barrel, drew a deep breath, and squatted.

The water felt cold against my face. Eyes squeezed, I tried wriggling the noose up under the submerged end of the barrel. Again and again it slipped. Again and again I came up for air, squatted, and struggled some more, clawing at the mud, forcing the line between the barrel and the bank. The effort made my battered arm ache.

The fourth time I surfaced, Gullet's voice boomed out: "Freeze!"

Clawing wet hair from my face, I looked up. Gullet's eyes were pointed at the opposite bank.

"What?" I panted.

"Stop. Moving." Low and even.

Instead of listening, I turned and followed Gullet's sight line.

My heart slammed into my throat.

19.

MONDO GATOR. SIX, MAYBE SEVEN FEET. I COULD SEE MUD-caked scales, a yellow-white throat, jagged teeth jutting up from a powerful jaw.

A jaw that was pointed directly at me.

As I watched, the gator slipped from the bank and disappeared below the surface.

Heart banging, limbs pumping, I churned shoreward.

Gullet jumped from the pier and slip-slid across the mud. Balancing on the barrel with one hand, he extended the other. I grabbed on and pulled with all my strength. Pain jolted my bottle-battered elbow.

The oil-slick mud sent me slithering through Gullet's grasp. I fell back and muddy water closed over me. The waders filled and grew heavy.

Adrenaline fired through my system. Throwing one shoulder, I rolled and groped, enveloped in darkness.

Where was the barrel?

Dear God. Where was the gator?

Desperate, I frog-kicked, found the bank with my hands. Planting both feet, I surfaced. Gullet whistled and pointed to a rope he'd tossed into the water.

Miller was shouting, "Haul ass, darlin'! Haul ass!"

A Moultrie brother stood beside Miller. He had something in his hands. He and Zamzow were looking off to my left.

The engorged waders made movement a struggle, last night's nightmare in real time. Muscles straining, I slogged toward the rope, aware of the reptile behind me.

Was it behind me?

Something splashed to my left. I braced for teeth on my flesh.

"Pull!" Miller shouted.

Reaching the rope, I crooked one knee against the bank, hauled, and lunged upward. I felt Gullet's hands. I felt terra firma.

For a moment I stood doubled over, legs trembling, muddy water pouring from the waders. When I looked up Miller raised both thumbs and beamed.

"Didn't think gators liked salt water," I panted.

"This un ain't picky." Grinning, Moultrie scooped a chicken neck from his bait bucket and tossed it upstream.

Inverted V's rippled outward as the gator swam toward the poultry.

We waited twenty minutes on the pier, drinking coffee and watching the gator maintain a holding pattern ten yards up the creek, submerged save for its vertebrae and snout tip. It was unclear if the animal was looking back at us, protecting its dinner, or dozing.

"Tide's not getting any lower." Gullet tossed his dregs down onto the mud. "Who wants to wrestle Ramon?"

Oswald Moultrie had provided us with the gator's name, and the fact that he was a regular in the creek.

"Might as well be me. I'm already wet." Wet hardly covered it. Mud smeared every inch of my body.

"No need to prove you ain't afraid of gators," Miller said "I'm not afraid of gators," I said. True enough. I'm afraid of snakes. I kept that to myself.

"Got some heat now." Zamzow brandished a Remington shotgun that he'd retrieved from the trunk of his cruiser. "Critter starts moving this way, I'll park a bullet in his brain."

"No need to kill him," Gullet observed. "Shoot into his path and he'll turn back."

I handed Miller my Styrofoam cup. "Tell Moultrie to keep the Bojangles ready."

As before, I dropped from the pier, crossed the mud, then sidestepped around the barrel into the creek.

The sheriff was right. The tide was coming in. The water had crept to a point just below the barrel's brim.

This time we had a plan. I would go underwater and maneuver the lasso under the bottom rim of the barrel. That accomplished, I would hold the up-side while Gullet and Zamzow heaved on two auxiliary lines attached to the down-side.

Though not without mishap, the plan worked. After three tries the second rope looped the barrel. Panting and dripping, I tightened both nooses and tugged, testing. The lines seemed secure.

I signaled to Gullet. Gullet signaled to Miller. Miller called to Tybee. Beyond the pier, the cruiser's engine turned over.

Slowly, the ropes grew taut. The barrel shifted, rocked back into place.

Gullet waved. Miller shouted. The cruiser's engine raced again. Holding my breath, I crouched down like a baseball catcher and pushed on the bottom of the barrel with my shoulders. Nothing budged.

Lungs burning, I pushed again and felt movement.

I surfaced to the sounds of sucking and scraping. The barrel was oozing from the water onto the mud.

With Gullet and me pushing and Zamzow guiding, the barrel crept up the bank, filthy water pouring from gashes in its sides.

One eon and we'd gotten above the high tide line. Another and we'd moved from mud to solid ground. When we finally crested the bank, Miller was waiting with her camera and a hand trolley.

Wordlessly, Leland Moultrie indicated a spigot beside his veranda. Thanking him, I moved to the house, stripped off the waders, bent at the waist, and ran water through my hair and over my face. Oswald Moultrie appeared from inside and offered me a towel. I almost hugged him.

When I returned from my cleanup, Miller was still snapping photos. I watched fluid ooze from the barrel, wondering about the person inside. Had he or she been dead decades? Years? One full moon? Was the body bloated and discolored from its time in the sea? Had scavengers slithered, crawled, or swum through fissures in the metal, long ago stripping the flesh from the bones?

If a full autopsy was impossible, would Emma ask that I examine the bones?

Did the queen like bad hats?

A sudden thought. Could the body in the barrel be one of Cruikshank's MPs?

A terrible thought. Could it be Helene Flynn?

A clapper rail called from some hidden perch. Its rattle snapped me back to the present.

Miller was snugging her trolley to the barrel. Gullet pushed, raising one side, and the prongs slid beneath. With Tybee and Zamzow spotting, Miller wheeled her cargo off to the coroner's van.

That was it. I'd done my part. Miller and the deputies could load the damn thing.

The clean, dry deputies.

Leaning on Tybee's cruiser, I laced on my sneakers. Then I crossed to Gullet's Explorer, dug out my pack, and dragged a comb through my hair.

I caught my image in the rearview. Mascara had been a really bad idea.

Tybee and Zamzow stayed behind to shoot video and walk the area, and to continue interrogating the Moultries. Gullet and I followed Miller to the MUSC morgue, a plastic sheet separating us from the Explorer's seats.

While I showered and changed into scrubs, Miller offloaded the barrel. Fifteen minutes after arriving, I rejoined her at the intake area just inside the rolling metal doors.

"Where's Gullet?" I asked.

"Got a call."

"From his couturier?"

Miller laughed. "Could be. Sheriff's mindful of his appearance, and that don't mean mud up his gumpy. I suspect he may also be detailing that SUV of his. You're to let him know what we find."

"You phone Emma?"

Miller nodded. "Coroner says open her up. Allocation's my call. Either you or one of our pathologists wins the cigar."

"You sticking around?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Miller logged the case and prepared an ID marker, CCC-2006020299. I positioned the card while she shot close-ups of the barrel and chain.

"Chain's in good shape." Miller was squinting through her viewfinder. "Barrel's a bucket of rust."

"The two could be made of different metals."

"Or could be a new chain wrapping an old barrel."