We waited while markers were placed, photos were taken, and measurements were made. Prelims finished, both techs looked to the ME.

Turning to me, Larabee arm-gestured an invitation.

We stepped to the corpse, me at the hips, Larabee at the shoulders.

Behind us a boat whined approach, then retreat. A series of waves slapped the shore.

“Ready?” Above his mask, the ME’s brows were grimly knitted. The moment of truth. The turning of the body.

I nodded.

Together, we rolled the corpse onto its back.

Everyone there was a veteran, used to murder, mutilation, and all the horror one human can inflict on another. I doubt anyone present had seen this before.

Rinaldi spoke for us all.

“Holy hell.”

THOUGH CONTACT WITH THE GROUND HAD DISCOURAGED MOST flies, a few hardy ladies had managed to maneuver beneath the body. A white circle seethed in the pale, hairless chest. A smaller oval churned on the belly.

“What the hell?” Muffled through red polyester.

Leaning close, I could see that the egg masses weren’t evenly distributed, but appeared to cluster into patterns. With one gloved finger, I nudged outlier eggs back toward thicker bands that seemed to rim and crisscross the circle.

And felt coldness congeal in my chest.

The eggs formed an inverted five-point star.

“It’s a pentagram,” I said.

The others remained silent.

Using the same finger, I proceeded to “clean up” the oval until that pattern was clear: 666.

“That don’t say Old Time Gospel Hour to me.” Slidell’s voice was thick with revulsion.

“How…?” Rinaldi’s question trailed off.

“Flies are like the rest of us,” I said. “Given a choice, they take the easy route. Orifices. Open wounds.”

Slidell knew what I was saying. “The kid was carved up.”

“Yes.”

“Before or after his head was whacked off?” Angry.

“I don’t know.”

“So Lingo’s right.”

“We shouldn’t jump to-”

“You got another theory?”

I didn’t.

“Let’s go.” Stone-jawed, Slidell strode off.

“He means no disrespect.” Rinaldi’s tone was apologetic. “His niece had some problems in high school.” He stopped, considered whether to elaborate. Decided against it. “Anyway, he’s anxious to wrap up the Greenleaf business. We’ve got a line on Kenneth Roseboro, the kid that inherited the house.”

“Wanda Horne’s nephew,” I said.

“Yes.” Again, Rinaldi offered nothing further. “You want a cadaver dog to come sweep the area, maybe try to sniff out the head?”

I nodded.

“I’ll call in a request.”

When I returned from the car with my field kit, Hawkins was shooting video and the CSS team was walking the area. Already the shoreline was dotted with orange markers indicating the presence of potential trace evidence. Cigarette butts. Candy wrappers. Tissues. Most of it would turn out to be useless, but at this stage no one knew what was relevant and what was present due to accidental association.

Opening my kit, I spread out supplies. Beside me, the ME unsheathed a thermometer for insertion into the anus. Or the egg mass. I couldn’t be sure. For two hours we gathered and labeled evidence, Larabee on the corpse, Brennan on the bugs.

First I took close-ups, in case something matured into something else in transit to the entomologist. I’d made that mistake once.

Using a dampened child’s paintbrush, I then scraped up eggs. Half I preserved in diluted alcohol. RIP. The rest I wanted alive for the entomologist to raise to maturity for species identification. That lucky half I placed in vials with beef liver and damp tissue.

Then, I went for maggots. Since the few larvae present appeared to be of the same species and newly hatched, I didn’t worry about separation according to size, merely area of collection: neck, anus, surrounding soil. As with the eggs, one half went into vials with air, food, and perching material. The other half went into hot water, then an alcohol solution.

After netting and packaging adult flies, I gathered representatives of every species present within a yard of the body. My inventory included two black beetles, a long brown crawly thing, and a handful of ants. The yellow jacket got a pass.

Bugs sealed and labeled, I collected soil samples, then made notes about the habitat: freshwater lake, hardwoods and pines, semiacid soil, elevation five hundred to six hundred feet, temperature ranging from midsixties to mideighties Fahrenheit, low humidity, full sunlight.

Finally, I jotted comments concerning the body. Naked. Prone, buttocks raised, arms straight at the sides. Decapitation, no blood or bodily fluids at the scene. Head missing. Incised wounds on chest and belly. Minimal decomp. No aquatic or animal scavenging. Egg masses at neck and anus with internal temperatures of 97 and 98 degrees Fahrenheit, respectively. Unknown cause of death.

It was half past four when I finished. Larabee and Hawkins were leaning on the back of the van, drinking bottled water.

“Thirsty?” Hawkins asked.

I nodded.

Hawkins pulled a six-ouncer from a cooler and tossed it to me.

“Thanks.”

We all drank and stared at the lake. Larabee spoke first.

“Slidell’s convinced we got devil worshippers in our midst.”

“Commissioner Lingo will have a field day.” I couldn’t keep the disdain from my voice.

Hawkins shook his head. “Old Boyce was sounding off less than twenty-four hours after you and Skinny wrapped up in that cellar.”

“Don’t you know? Lingo has a hotline to God.”

Larabee snorted.

“Remember that stabbing off Archdale?” Hawkins tipped his bottle in Larabee’s direction. “Lesbian lady took issue with her partner coyoting around? Body bag’s barely zipped and Lingo’s pontificating on the evils of homosexuality.”

“Not a peep last week when that trucker blew his ex-wife’s boyfriend away. That was a righteous heterosexual murder,” Larabee said. “Biblical motive. If I can’t have her, nobody can.”

“If Lingo gets wind of this one, he’ll roll it into his current soap opera.” Hawkins tossed his empty bottle onto a Winn-Dixie bag beside the cooler. “The Devil Goes Down to Georgia.”

“He’ll be dead-ass wrong,” I said.

“You don’t get satanic vibes from this?” Larabee asked.

“From this one, yes. From that cellar, no.”

I described what I’d found.

“Don’t sound like Baptists to me,” Hawkins said.

I outlined what I’d told Slidell and Rinaldi about syncretic religions. Santería. Voodoo. Palo Mayombe.

“Who’s into animal sacrifice?”

“All of them.”

“Satanists?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your money?” Larabee’s bottle joined Hawkins’s.

“The colored beads, the coins, and the Catholic saint point to Santería. The wooden sticks and the padlocked nganga suggest Palo Mayombe.”

“The human remains?”

I raised my hands, frustrated. “Take your pick. Voodoo. Santería. Palo Mayombe. Satanism. But the cellar had no inverted pentagrams or crosses, no six-six-six symbols, no black candles or incense. Nothing typical of devil worship.”

“Nothing like this kid here.” Larabee tipped his head toward the lake.

“No.”

“You think there’s a link?”

I pictured the mutilated body lying on the shore.

The cauldron skull and leg bones.

I had no answer.

Wending toward the highway, I passed two cars. One pleased me. The other did not.

The SUV held the search dog promised by Rinaldi. I wished the canine better luck than I’d had in locating the missing head.

The Honda Accord was driven by the same woman I’d seen outside the Greenleaf house Tuesday night. What had the Observer photo credit been? Allison Stallings.

“Just friggin’ great.” I palm-smacked the wheel. “Who the hell are you, Allison Stallings?”