Though the snapshot was old, and a network of cracks marred its surface, the color and focus were relatively good. It was a group shot, taken in a camping or picnic area. In the foreground a crowd of men and women mil ed around wooden tables jammed together to form a U. The earth was littered with empty cans and bottles, the tables heaped with backpacks, coolers, bundles, and paper bags. Loblol y pines rose in the background, truncated by the picture's upper border.

One large bag lay upright against a table leg, its print square to the camera lens. The logo caught my attention.

" -- ggly Wiggly."

I flipped to the back of the print. Nothing.

I rehung the sweater, dug out a magnifying glass, and sat down to examine the image. Within seconds I found confirmation on a gorilbid(XXXX) oaf in denim vest and fingerless leather gloves. An arm wider than a state highway reached across his chest, displaying swastika, lightning bolts, and the poetic acronym "ET.W." While Kong's upper limb obliterated part of his T-shirt, the bottom words were ful y legible.

"Myrtle Beach."

Barely breathing, I began a close inspection of the persons pictured. Slowly I worked the lens across the image, checking each face as it took form.

Within seconds I found her. Half hidden in a sea of caps and bushy heads, a frail figure leaned against a tree, little twig arms wrapped around her waist.

Her head was tipped, and a ray of sunlight flashed off one of the huge lenses dwarfing her features.

Savannah Claire Osprey

While I couldn't read her expression I could sense the tension in her body. From what, I wondered. Excitement? Fear? Selfconsciousness?

I moved on.

The man to Savannah's right looked like a character from The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald. He had shoulder-length hair and a beard that hung to mid-chest. Cormac was caught with chin raised, a can of Mil er pressed to his lips.

The companion on her other side was very tal , with short hair and scraggly beard and mustache. His face was obscured in shadow, making his bel y the most conspicuous trait. It had the tone of a used Ace bandage, hanging in fleshy rol s over a large, oval belt buckle. On it I could see letters. I raised and lowered the lens trying to make out the message, but too much was obscured by paunch.

Frustrated, I slid the lens up the torso and studied the face, hoping something would click. No go. I dropped back to the buckle and brought my face close to the glass.

A random synaptic firing, and there it was. Back to the face. Could it be?

No, This man was much larger.

But maybe. I couldn't tel . I'd gotten there too late. Too much damage.

Yet, there was a resemblance.

Had George Dorsey known something after al ?

Heart pounding, I reached for the phone.

Chapter 29