But that afternoon he heard only the slam of the screen door behind him and the drone of the cicadas in the trees. With the afternoon waning, the insects had redoubled their song against the twilight, as if to fight off nightfall by desperately celebrating the brief resurrection from their thirteen-year sleep.

Renty Tucker watched him disappear into the shimmering haze, muttering beneath his breath. "Melissa," he said. "Oh, my Melissa."

Wednesday.

IN THE PREDAWN HOURS COLUMBIA IS a somnambulist's dream. It seems that every car in the city but Jacob's is still parked for the night, still sleeping in carport or garage, leaving him to enjoy complete sovereignty over the roads. Most of the traffic lights are blinking yellow, and he wrings the BMW's engine through the intersections, pushing the tachometer up high as he rows through the gears. As he leaves the suburbs he realizes that he has even beaten the paperboys up this morning; today's edition of The State has not yet made its rounds. In a half hour or so, the rolled papers will begin slapping down on driveways with news of the city, tidings of the world beyond. But for now there is only the growl of his engine and the silence that trails in its wake.

He punches the engine up to 70 on Devine Street, where the curtains of live oak and c.r.a.pe myrtle give way to the four-lane leading to Five Points. Coasting down the hill to the big intersection, he begins to see signs of life in the college town's main bar district. Here the neon still glows an hour after closing time, and there are indications of recent inhabitance: the glint of empty beer bottles left on the sidewalks, the stray car abandoned in favor of a cab ride home. With the top down and the cool air rushing over his face, he can almost smell the decadent odor of stale beer coming up from the storm gutters. He shakes his head and takes a gulp of his coffee, thinking back to the days when the ER shift would finally end and they would stumble out into the dawning day, sorely missing the carefree undergraduate years when they kept a similar schedule-but drank spirits instead of the tainted coffee of the interns' break room. He takes the right onto Hardin and heads up the hill to Rosedale.

Rosedale, it seems, never really sleeps. Though most of the streetlights here have been broken, Jacob can make out dark figures on the corners and on the steps of the old shotgun bungalows even at this hour. In the darkness they look spectral, their movements languid as a dream. But at Mary's house the front porch light is on, the bare bulb shedding forty watts of light on the hulking form of Big Junior in the metal glider chair next to the front door, his outline blurred by the screening Frank has put up between the porch posts. While Jacob idles at the curb, Big Junior rises from the glider, as though by stages, and shuts the screen door behind him softly. When he settles into the pa.s.senger seat the car lists toward the curb. Jacob is glad he has opted to put the top down. Big Junior nearly fills the front seat by himself.

"Morning, my man," he says as he pulls the door closed and offers a hand. Jacob takes it and smells the sweetish taint of gin on his breath. It seems to come from his pores as well. "You got you a sweet ride," Big Junior says.

"It's not mine, actually. It's a lease."

"How about that?" he says as Jacob noses the car out into the street. "Mary says you don't commit to nothing. Where we heading?"

"The school. We've got what you might call a sensitive a.s.signment."

Big Junior laughs and the car sways. "Man, I like to hear you talk. What you mean by sensitive?"

Jacob looks straight ahead. "We've got to dig up some bones in the bas.e.m.e.nt of Johnston Hall."

"Say what?"

"Don't worry. Old bones, from way back. They're buried shallow, just scattered across the floor, maybe a foot down. You won't even have to touch them. You just dig and I'll sift them out of the dirt. I've got a box of plastic bags in the back. I want to bag them up and haul them out later."

With considerable shifting, Big Junior produces a pint bottle from his hip pocket and takes a drink. "d.a.m.n," he says. "Mary don't never put me up for any good work." He drinks again. "Wish I had me some Dr Pepper, man."

Jacob almost laughs. "That's it? I was afraid I'd be turning this car around. I thought I'd have to at least talk you into it."

Big Junior shakes his head sadly. "I know about that bas.e.m.e.nt. Half of Rosedale knows. And we know you all know about it. Why you think we don't come up to the hospital unless we're about dying?" He looks out the windshield as if there were nothing beyond it to see. "Used to work with a guy liked to fight. Knives. Every time he was about to sc.r.a.p, he'd tell everybody around him, 'Don't let 'em take me to Memorial.' Said it like it was a joke, but I knowed he wasn't kidding." Big Junior looks at Jacob intently. "n.o.body wants some doctor experimenting on them."

"It's a free hospital, Junior. And n.o.body does any experimenting on anybody."

"Tell that to them bones. Bet it was a free hospital they walked into."

Because he cannot think of anything to say, Jacob asks for a drink. Big Junior pa.s.ses him the bottle and he upends it. The liquor is oily and bitter and he sputters as he swallows it.

"Jesus Christ."

Big Junior laughs. "That's Gilby's, boy. Made in Augusta, right on the Savannah River."

"It tastes like the Savannah. Is it downstream from the nuclear plant?"

"h.e.l.l if I know."

"You ought to. You might wake up one of these nights and see your liver glowing in the dark."

"And then I'd be out of work," he says soberly, capping the bottle.

"Right," Jacob says. They are nearing the college now. Ahead, he can make out the lighted cupola of Memorial Charity Hospital, all-hours beacon to the city's injured drunks and battered wives. He has never thought before that any of them would be reluctant to seek its shelter. "So are you good for this? I can make it an even hundred for the job."

After a moment Big Junior begins nodding. "All right," he says. "But where your shovel, man? Can't even fit a suitcase in this car."

"It's at the school. Got a real pretty one just waiting for us."

NEARING FIVE A.M. now and only two of the garbage bags are full; Jacob is beginning to think that this job is hopeless. In half an hour they have covered only a few yards of the bas.e.m.e.nt, sifting through the loose clay, sandy and striped with old lime in layers above each new set of bones. Big Junior seems to be moving slower by the minute. Once he nearly fell over when they uncovered a skull with its dome neatly sawed off. Jacob is sympathetic. Before they started, he had allowed himself one more drink, and now, with another belt of Big Junior's gin in his system, this task is seeming more surreal by the minute.

Jacob has a tibia in his hands when they hear sounds of movement outside, drifting in through the grated cas.e.m.e.nts just above ground level. Quickly he stuffs the bone into the black garbage bag by his side and motions for Big Junior to be still. He hears the great front doors swing open, followed by the chirp of the security system he disabled when they entered. He curses himself for not rearming the alarm as footsteps sound on the boards above. Big Junior looks like he is ready to swoon for certain this time.

On his hands and knees, Jacob stares up the steps as the first-floor door swings open on its creaking hinges.

A pair of oversized hiking boots appears on the stairs, followed by white legs and k.n.o.bby knees capped by tan Bermuda shorts. Above a Sam Browne belt, the visitor wears a khaki shirt as well. When the man's face comes into view, it is owlish behind huge spectacles resting above a red mustache that would have been more appropriate for the previous century. All he is missing, Jacob thinks, is a safari hat and a b.u.t.terfly net.

The man claps his hands together as he surveys the bas.e.m.e.nt. He seems delighted by what he sees, the gold shovel in particular. "What a splendid welcome," he says. He takes the remaining stairs two at a time and crosses the dirt floor toward Jacob, talking all the way.

"I worked all night to get a team together, and let me tell you, traveling in the wee hours, taking the back roads from Clemson wasn't even necessary. We made excellent time on the roads." He sticks out a hand, and Jacob slowly rises to shake it. "David Sanburn," he says as he pumps Jacob's hand. "Forensic anthropology, Clemson University."

He wears the thickest eyegla.s.ses Jacob has ever seen. Behind the c.o.ke-bottle lenses his eyes are refracted, so that when he speaks it seems he is addressing not Jacob but a point a few inches above his left shoulder.

"Professor Claybaugh, I presume?"

Jacob smiles bitterly. "No. I guess Adam is sleeping in. I'm Jacob Thacker, the college's public relations officer."

Sanburn takes another look at the gold shovel and the plastic bags, as if truly seeing them for the first time.

"And I'm sorry to tell you, Doctor Sanburn, but the party's over already. There's nothing here to merit your interest."

Sanburn takes off his gla.s.ses and begins to wipe them on the tail of his shirt. Without them, his eyes look tired and sad. "I had hoped there would be minimal friction in this matter, but perhaps I can head off some unpleasantness by telling you that Professor Claybaugh gave an entirely different account. So different, in fact, that I took the measure of notifying the South Carolina Historical Society last night, immediately after his phone call. Their offices are here in Columbia. There will be a delegation here at nine o'clock to determine whether the site is as extensive as Doctor Claybaugh indicated."

"Not possible. This is a working building, and under construction to boot. There won't be any visitors."

Sanburn smiles as he puts his gla.s.ses back on. "An office building, yes. But this building and its grounds are also a designated historical site. Which means that a discovery of archaeological significance places it under the aegis of the Historical Society until such discovery can be properly researched and catalogued."

Jacob begins to speak, but Sanburn raises a hand to silence him. "I mean you or the school no disrespect, sir. I am merely citing state law on the preservation of sites of cultural importance. We will work as quickly as we can, as I can see there is a construction schedule to be maintained." He looks over the bas.e.m.e.nt. "Salvage archaeology. Far short of ideal conditions, but we must do what we can."

"I'm guessing there's no legal avenue to stop you."

Sanburn shakes his head. "I could refer you to a number of precedent cases, all of which dragged out in the courts and resulted in great expense for the plaintiffs. The interests of science prevailed in each case." Jacob would like to say a thing or two about science, but the man never seems to pause long enough for him to break in. "Medical College of West Virginia, 1980. Boston University, 1988. And Ann Arbor just last year. But that was only a disposal pit. Nothing of this magnitude. Disarticulated remains, clandestine medical practices in those cases, as here, but nowhere near the scope this looks to be."

"You seem almost happy about it."

"I'm happy whenever fugitive history gets a proper hearing."

Jacob snorts. "You're happy, all right. So you can write your article or what have you."

"Article?" Sanborn gives a dry laugh. "This is not the material for an article, my friend, but for a book."

"Good for your career, no doubt."

"That's incidental."

"The h.e.l.l it is. Nothing is incidental."

Sanburn seems to think this over. "Perhaps I misspoke. Ultimately, I suppose, nothing is incidental. I stand corrected."

There is more activity upstairs. Jacob hears the front doors opening again, and soon the steps are full of people, mostly graduate students he guesses, coming down with shovels and picks, boxes and wooden stakes. Sanburn begins giving them their various a.s.signments as efficiently as if he has spent days down here, dispersing them in groups to begin their work. A camera starts to flash, strobelike in the near darkness.

Jacob picks up the shovel, its gilded blade nicked and sc.r.a.ped down to the humble steel, and motions for Big Junior to follow him out. Sanburn interrupts his shouted instructions to thank him for his cooperation, and his a.s.sistants all turn their attention to the departing white man with his hulking black companion and gold shovel. Curious sensation: Jacob feels his cheeks burning as he files past all the quizzical faces with the shovel clutched tight in his fist. Unbidden, a phrase from the past has come into his mind: First, do no harm.

Upstairs, he hurls the shovel into a supply closet with a clang, knowing that neither he nor McMichaels will be wanting to see another shovel for a long, long time.

JACOB FIDGETS THROUGH the entire Wednesday staff meeting. He has cleaned himself up tolerably well, with a shower and shave and a charcoal suit fresh from the cleaners, and he tries to keep his hands clenched so that no one will notice the half-moons of dirt under his fingernails. But his head is still cloudy with fatigue and the lingering effects of the cheap gin, and the meeting seems to crawl through its agenda at a glacial pace. In practice he could have seen a half-dozen patients in as much time. These strange gatherings, a mix of all types from the college's spectrum of officials, have always amused him-the striking conglomerate of research scientists like Kirstin Reithoffer seated next to business officers, grabby development people trying to explain the subtleties of an "ask" to surgeons-but not today. Although he and the dean seem to be the only ones aware of it, things have changed; this meeting to discuss the school's weekly forward momentum is more pro forma than any of the others could imagine.

For the past hour McMichaels has fiddled with a gla.s.s paperweight, a gift from a local Kiwanis group, that he seems to find fascinating. Toying with it behind the huge mahogany desk, he looks like a superannuated child, just waiting for the meeting to grind to a halt. "Anything else?" he asks, squinting at the refraction of light through the milky gla.s.s.

Jacob glances down at his planner. Its agenda seems like the material of a fairy tale to him now, none of it significant. "The alumni magazine," he says. "We still haven't selected anyone for the cover."

"You send me a memo on that, Jake?"

"Sure. Week or so ago."

"Elizabeth." McMichaels sighs, as though his secretary's name alone were explanation for the sheaves of papers he has misplaced over the years. He sets the paperweight down on the desktop gently. "What about Branson Hodges? When was his last contribution?"

In the back of the room, Bennett rifles through a stack of papers. "Uh, '84, sir. Alumni annual fund."

The dean snorts. "Tightwad. Yup, put Hodges on the cover. Cla.s.s of '82. He's got the biggest plastic surgery practice in Savannah. And still single. He's capable of a big d.a.m.ned gift. Put Hodges on the cover and see what he coughs up. Are we through here?"

Jacob checks his notepad. "That does it."

The dean nods all around, and the suits and white coats leave the table. "Good. I'm due on the fairway in fifteen minutes." He shucks his arms out of his suit jacket and hangs it on the coat tree behind his desk. "Jake, make sure your photographer gets a good shot of old Hodges. Lighting, touchup, whatever they do." He mimes a golf swing and winks at Jacob as the imaginary club comes to rest, perfect form, behind his back. "I want him to look good. Make the son of a b.i.t.c.h look just like Paul Newman."

Jacob nods and the dean casts an eye toward the door as it closes after the last faculty member.

"Jake," he says quietly, "what the h.e.l.l happened this morning?"

"We got bushwhacked, Jim. Apparently Adam Claybaugh put in a call to Clemson yesterday. This Sanburn is connected all the way up. I've been on the phone all morning with the Historical Society. Looks like our hands are tied because the building's on the historical register. Best I could do was get him to commit to a two-week time frame. And no press, at least not yet. The Legal Department is drawing up the papers today."

McMichaels shakes his head sadly. "Claybaugh, you say?"

Jacob nods.

"That Anatomy Department is going to be the death of me." His brow knits as though he were working out a complex problem. Then he shakes his head again. "Can't touch him, d.a.m.n it. He's tenured."

Jacob is shocked by the implication. "You'd fire Adam?"

McMichaels's eyes are burning fiercely when he speaks. "You're f.u.c.king-A right I would. This is a disaster for the school," he hisses. Then his face softens. "Claybaugh is a PhD anyway, Jake. He's not one of the brotherhood."

There is a long silence before Jacob speaks. "I'm not sure there isn't a way to spin this positively, sir. We've got a pretty big surplus in the capital fund. What if we set some of that aside? I could get to work on it. Maybe the key is to face this head-on. We could arrange a symposium on it, something commemorative. Get the ball in our court."

McMichaels looks at him incredulously. "Are you back on the Xanax? All the black community will think of is Tuskegee. Syphilis, for G.o.d's sake." When he sees the change in Jacob's face, he puts a hand on his shoulder. "Ah, Jake. I'm afraid the strain is getting to me."

The hand squeezes Jacob's shoulder, then drops. McMichaels moves across the room to open a closet and pulls out a bag stuffed with golf clubs. Its strap creaks on his shoulder as he turns to leave.

"Someone's going to have to take a fall if this goes public, Jake. You'd better be thinking about Claybaugh. That's a viable option. There aren't many others left."

JACOB HAD TOLD himself that a midday drive would clear his head, that a few miles on the road with the top down might help him sort out whether what McMichaels had said was truly as ominous as he feared. But before he had even crossed the Gervais Street bridge over the Congaree, he realized it was no accident that his break from routine had taken him away from campus and headed west.

And now, twenty miles into the piney Midlands on the Old Chapin Road, he takes the cutoff to Lake Murray without a second thought, though he has not driven this stretch in half a dozen years. The lake comes into view on his left, through the trees, stretching across the horizon vast and green under the hazy sky. A half mile out, a motorboat churns the water, towing a skier, but otherwise the lake's surface is placid, as though in surrender to the August heat. When he pulls into the gravel lot of his aunt Pauline's store and shuts off the engine, the only sound is the lapping of water against the clay banks.

The store is built shotgun-style, long and narrow like the mill house he grew up in, only larger. It stands on brick pilings a yard above the ground, its white-painted clapboards weathered and flaking. When he climbs the steps to the porch and reaches for one of the two screen doors, he can already hear the chirring of crickets inside.

The door slaps shut behind him and he takes it all in, all of it as he remembers: the long shelves along the walls built from two-by-fours and plywood, stocked with all manner of country sundries, from paper towels to boxes of ammunition. In the back sits an old ice cream freezer that has been covered with window screen, where the crickets are singing, and next to it a water tank topped with Styrofoam minnow buckets, a net for fishing out the minnows hung on its side. And there, behind a little cash register set on a gla.s.s case stocked with spinner baits and plastic worms, sits Aunt Pauline, a cigarette burning in one hand while she tots up figures in a spiral notebook with the other. She looks up from the notebook, squinting over her readers, and smiles at Jacob.

"We're fresh out of night crawlers, doc."

He smiles back at her. "Do I look like a worm fisherman to you, Pauline?"

She takes a long drag off her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray next to the register. "No, honey, you look like big money. Come over here and give me a hug, you weasel. I haven't seen you in ages."

He goes to her, wraps his arms around her skinny shoulders, inhales her scent of smoke and coffee and cheap perfume. Then she holds him at arm's length and looks him over.

"Yes, sir. Your daddy would be proud. You cleaned up real good."

"I'm sorry I haven't been around. I stay too busy for my own good."

"Appreciated the Christmas card last year. That's one good-looking girl you been going with."

Jacob smiles. "Kaye's Jewish. So it's not supposed to be a Christmas card. They're called holiday cards now. You know, to be more inclusive."

"Well, G.o.dd.a.m.n," Pauline says. "Times change."

"I guess they do."

She drops her eyes long enough for Jacob to look at her face. Pauline is nearing seventy and looks every year of it. Though her eyes are still bright, her cheeks are wrinkled beneath them, and fifty-odd years of sun and alcohol and nicotine have weathered her skin to the hue of a tobacco leaf. No wonder Pauline and his mother never got along: she must exhale smoke in her sleep.

But she is moving before he can think on it further, pulling up a stool for him next to hers at the counter and motioning for him to take it, asking questions about his job and life all the while. Before he sits, he pulls the folded paper out of his back pocket and straightens it on the gla.s.s countertop. Pauline's eyes settle on it for a quick moment, then cut away as she lights another cigarette.

Jacob stares down at the photocopied picture of the lecture room, at Professor Johnston and his slave, at the nurse.

"This is from the school's archives," he says. "It's probably from the 1860s. I can't get it out of my head that the woman looks like Dad."