“Not knowing Cagle’s medical susceptibility, our hero had to step up to something more powerful. Something that would do in even a healthy man. Ever hear of tetrodotoxin?”

“It’s a neurotoxin, cal ed TTX for short, found in fugu.”

Ryan looked at me like I’d spoken Romanian.

“Fugu is Japanese puffer fish,” I explained. “Gram for gram, TTX is about ten thousand times more lethal than cyanide. Diners die from it every year in Asia. The terrifying thing about TTX is that it paralyzes the body but leaves the brain ful y aware of what’s happening.”

“But Cagle survived.”

“Is he talking yet?”

“No.”

“So we don’t know how Park administered the stuff.”

Ryan shook his head.

“How do you know Park used TTX?” I asked.

“Tetrodotoxin looks like heroin. In addition to the Ma Huang, Park’s pharmacopoeia included a packet of white crystal ine powder. Woolsey had it tested.” A seagul circled, landed, bobbed at us like one of those breakfast table water toys.

“Why the snakes?” I asked.

“Your death had to look accidental.” Ryan mimicked a TV newscaster. “While hiking in heavy forest in Lancaster County, an anthropologist was tragical y nailed by a rattler today.” Ryan’s voice returned to normal. “Except Park was the one who got nailed.” I shuddered, remembering the sound of Park’s head cracking on the cement. According to the police report, Park had suffered fatal skul fractures both from a fal ing object and from striking his head against the concrete floor.

Spotting a gul floating toward shore, Boyd charged across the beach. The bird took off. Boyd fol owed its flight path, then returned and shook himself, bombarding us with sand and salt water.

“Heineken?” I asked, covering my face with my arms.

“S’il vous plaît.”

I opened the cooler and dug out a beer for Ryan, bottled water for Boyd, and a Diet Coke for myself.

“Why do you suppose Park sent me the Grim Reaper e-mails?” I asked, handing Ryan his beer. Boyd raised his snout and I dripped water into his mouth.

“Wanted you to back off from the privy skul .”

“Think about your own reasoning, Ryan. The e-mails started on a Wednesday. How could Park have known who I was or what we’d found at that point?”

“Rinaldi sent out his query about the headless skeleton on Tuesday. It probably went to Lancaster and included the coroner. We’l find out eventual y.

Slidel ’s convinced Tyree wil rol over.”

“Slidel ,” I snorted.

“Skinny isn’t so bad,” Ryan said.

I didn’t reply.

“He saved your life.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

Boyd flopped onto his side in the shade of my sand chair. Ryan went back to his Terry Pratchett. I went back to myEmagazine.

I couldn’t concentrate. My thoughts kept hopping to Skinny Slidel . Final y, I gave up.

“How did Slidel know where I was?”