Though he wasn't in the dream, I made out a slip for Jeremiah Mitchell. African AmericanCherokee. Born 1929. Loner. Disappeared last February.

Ruby McCready: Alive and well. Husband Enoch dead, 1986.

Simon Midkiff: Doctorate from Oxford, 1955. Duke, 1955 to 1961. University of Tennessee, 1961 to 1968. Attended Tramper funeral in 1959. Knew Davenport (or was at least at the same funeral). Lied about working for Department of Cultural Resources.

When I'd finished I spread the slips on the table and studied them. Then I began arranging them according to different criteria, starting with gender. The piles were very lopsided, the smaller containing only Edna Farrell, Willow Lynette Gist, and Ruby McCready. I created a slip for Martha Rose Gist. Nothing seemed to connect the women.

Next I tried race. Charlie Wayne Tramper and the Gist-Mitchell lineage went into one pile, along with the coyote foot. I began a chart and drew a line between Jeremiah Mitchell and the foot.

Age. Again I was struck by the number of old people. Though Henry Arlen Preston had managed to die in bed, appropriate, perhaps, for a distinguished judge, few others on the list had had that luxury. Tucker Adams, seventy-two. Charlie Wayne Tramper, seventy-four. Jeremiah Mitchell, seventy-two. I made out a slip for the missing fisherman, George Adair, sixty-seven. All were old.

The window was moving from black to pewter. I decided to sort by birth dates. Nothing. I tried death dates.

Judge Henry Arlen Preston passed away in 1943. According to his tombstone, Tucker Adams also died in 1943. I remembered the feature article on Preston, the brief inside report on Adams's disappearance less than a week later. I placed their slips together.

A. A. Birkby died in 1959. Charlie Wayne Tramper died in 1959. When was the wreck in which Birkby died? May. The same month Charlie Wayne went missing.

Oh?

I paired the slips.

Edna Farrell died in 1949. Hadn't someone drowned just the day before?

Sheldon Brodie, professor of biology at Appalachian State University. Brodie's body was found. Farrell's wasn't.

I made a slip for Brodie and set it with the one for Edna Farrell.

I stared at the three sets of paired slips. Was it a pattern? Someone is killed or dies, within days another death occurs? Were people dying in pairs?

I started a list of questions.

Edna Farrell's age?

Earlier drowning. Strawberry pie. Age? Date?

Tucker Adams's cause of death?

Jeremiah Mitchell, February. George Adair, September. Others?

The room was the color of the rising sun, and I could hear bird sounds through the closed window. A rectangle of light fell across the table, illuminating my questions and scribbled notes.

I stared at the paired slips, feeling there was something else. Something important. Something my subconscious had not had time to place in the collage.

Laslo was devouring biscuits and gravy when I arrived at the Everett Street Diner. I ordered pecan pancakes, juice, and coffee. While we ate, he told me about the conference he was going to attend at UNC-Asheville. I told him about Crowe's inability to obtain a search warrant.

"So the good old boys are skeptical," he said, nodding to the waitress that he had finished.

"And girls. The DA is a woman."

"Then this may not help."

He pulled a paper from his briefcase and handed it to me. As I read, the waitress refilled our cups. I looked up when I'd finished.

"Basically the report agrees with what you told me on Monday at your lab."

"Yes. Except for the part about the caproic and heptanoic acid concentrations."

"The conclusion that they look unusually high."

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

"Elevated levels of the longer-chained VFAs usually mean the corpse has been exposed to cold, or that it underwent a period of decreased insect and bacterial activity."

"Does that alter your estimate of time since death?"

"I still think decomposition began in late summer."

"Then what's the significance?"

"I'm not sure."

"Is this a common finding?"

"Not really."

"Great. That will convert the disbelievers."

"Maybe this will be more helpful."

This time he took a small plastic vial from his briefcase.

"I found this when filtering the rest of your soil sample."

The container held a tiny white chip, no larger than a grain of rice. I unscrewed the cap, slid the object onto my palm, and studied it closely.

"It's a fragment of tooth root," I said.

"That's what I thought, so I didn't treat it with anything, just brushed off the dirt."

"Holy shit."

"That's what I thought."

"Did you take a peek under the scope?"

"Yep."

"How does the pulp chamber look?"

"Chock-full."

Laslo and I signed evidence transfer forms and I packed the vial and report into my briefcase.

"Could I ask you one last favor?"

"Absolutely."

"If my car is ready, could you help me return the one I'm driving, then take me to the shop where mine is being fixed?"

"No problem."

When I called P & T an automotive miracle had occurred: The repairs were complete. Laslo followed me to High Ridge House, delivered me to P & T, then went on to his conference. After a brief discussion of pumps and hoses with one of the letters, I paid the bill and slid behind the wheel.

Before leaving P & T, I turned on my phone, scrolled through my programmed numbers, and hit "dial."

"Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Crime Laboratory."

"Ron Gillman, please."

"Who's calling, please?"

"Tempe Brennan."

He came on in seconds.

"The infamous Dr. Brennan."

"You've heard."

"Oh yes. Will we be printing and booking you here?"

"Very funny."

"I suppose it's not. I won't even ask if there's anything to it. Are you getting things cleared up?"

"I'm trying. I may need a favor."

"Shoot."

"I have a tooth fragment I want profiled for DNA. Then I want that profile compared to one you've done on a bone sample from the Air TransSouth crash. Can you do that?"

"I don't see why not."

"How soon?"

"Is this urgent?"

"Very."

"I'll put it on a fast track. When can you get the new sample to me?"

I looked at my watch.

"Two o'clock."

"I'll call over to the DNA section right now, smooth the way. See you at two."

I turned the key and swung into traffic. There were a couple more things I needed to do before leaving Bryson City.

THIS TIME THE LILAC DRAGON WAS BY HERSELF.

"Just need to check a couple of details on microfilm," I said, beaming my most winning smile.

Her face did a menage a trois of emotions. Surprised. Suspicious. Stern.

"It would be very, very helpful if I could take several reels at a time. You were so kind about that yesterday."

Her face softened somewhat. Sighing loudly, she went to the cabinet, removed six boxes, and placed them on the counter.

"Thank you so much," I purred.

Crossing toward the overflow room, I heard a stool squeak, and knew she was craning in my direction.

"Cellular phones are strictly prohibited in the library!" she hissed to my retreating back.

Unlike my prior visit, I whipped through the spools, taking notes on specific items.

In less than an hour I had what I needed.

Tommy Albright was not in, but a drawly female voice promised to deliver my message. The pathologist rang back before I'd hit the outskirts of Bryson City.

"In 1959 a Cherokee named Charlie Wayne Tramper died in a bear attack. Would a file that old still exist?"

"Maybe, maybe not. That was before we centralized. What do you need to know?"

"You remember the case?" I couldn't believe it.