Rhyme ordered Ben to examine the second map, the one Lucy had found in the gristmill. “Let’s see if there’s any trace in the folds. It’s too big for magazine subscription cards. Open it over a newspaper.”

More sand poured out. Rhyme noticed immediately that it was in fact ocean sand, the sort that would be found on the Outer Banks—the grains were clear, not opaque, as would have been the case with inland sand.

“Run a sample through the chromatograph. Let’s see if there’s any other trace that’ll be helpful.”

Ben started the noisy machine.

As they waited for the results he spread the map out on the table. Bell, Ben and Rhyme examined it carefully. It depicted the eastern shore of the U.S. from Norfolk, Virginia, and the Hampton Roads shipping lanes all the way down to South Carolina. They looked over every inch but Garrett hadn’t circled or marked any location.

Of course not, Rhyme thought; it’s never that easy. They used the flashlight on this map too. But found no indented writing.

The chromatograph results flashed up onto the screen. Rhyme glanced at it quickly. “Not much help. Sodium chloride—salt—along with iodine, organic material…. All consistent with seawater. But there’s hardly any other trace. Doesn’t do us much good for tying the sand to a specific location.” Rhyme nodded at the shoes that had been in the box with the map. He asked Ben, “Any other trace in those?”

The young man examined them carefully, even unlacing them—just as Rhyme was about to ask him to do. This boy has good criminalist potential, Rhyme thought. He shouldn’t be wasting his talent on neurotic fish.

The shoes were old Nikes—so common that tracing them to a particular store where Garrett might have bought them was impossible.

“Flecks of dried leaves, looks like. Maple and oak. If I had to guess.”

Rhyme nodded. “Nothing else in the box?”

“Nothing.”

Rhyme looked up at the other evidence charts. His eye paused at the references to camphene.

“Sachs, in the mill, were there old-fashioned lamps on the walls? Or lanterns?”

“No,” Sachs answered. “None.”

“Are you sure,” he persisted gruffly, “or did you just not notice?”