Fatal Voyage (10 page)

 “He insists he saw a white streak shoot from behind Bowman’s house,
followed by an explosion.”

 “Is the FBI taking him seriously?”

 Mcmahon shrugged. “The time tallies. The location would be right with
regard to the flight path.”

 “What snakes?” Ryan persisted.

 “Any word on the voice tapes?” I segued to another subject, not wanting
further commentary on the spiritual fervor of our mountain neighbors.

 “The calls were made by a white American male with no distinguishable
accent.”

 “That narrows the field to how many million?”

 I caught movement in Mcmahon’s eyes, as though he were seriously
considering the question.

 “A few.”

 Mcmahon drained his beer, crumpled the can, and added it to his
collection. Rising, he wished us both a good evening, and headed for the door. The bell jangled,
and moments later a light went on in an upstairs window.

 Save for the creak of Ruby’s planters, the porch was totally quiet.
Ryan lit a cigarette, then, “Did you do coyote patrol?”

 “Yes.”

 “And?”

 “No coyotes. No exposed coffins.”

 “Did you find anything interesting?”

 “A house.”

 “Who lives there?”

 “Hansel and Gretel and the cannibal witch.” I stood. “How the hell
should I know?”

 “Was anyone home?”

 “No one rushed out to offer me tea.”

 “Is the place abandoned?”

 I slung my pack over one shoulder and considered the question.

 “I’m not sure. There were gardens once, but those have gone to
hell.

 The house is so well built it’s hard to know if it’s being maintained
or if it’s just impervious to damage.“

 He waited.

 “There is one peculiar thing. From the front, the place is just another
unpainted mountain lodge. But around back it has a walled enclosure and a courtyard.”

 Ryan’s face went apricot, receded into the darkness.

 “Tell me about these snake handlers. You have snake handlers in North
Carolina?”

 I was about to decline when the bell tinkled again. I looked, expecting
to see Mcmahon, but no one appeared.

 “Another time.”

 Opening the outer screen, I found the heavy wooden door ajar. Once
inside, I pushed it tight and tested the handle, hoping Ryan would do the same. Then I trudged to
Magnolia, intent on a shower and bed. I was barely in the room when someone tapped softly.

 Thinking it was Ryan, I set my face in the hard stare and cracked the
door.

 Ruby stood in the hall, her features looking solemn and deeply
creased.

 She wore a gray flannel robe, pink socks, and brown slippers shaped
like paws. Her hands were clasped at chest level, fingers tightly interlaced.

 “I’m about to turn in.” I smiled.

 She gazed at me gravely.

 “I’ve had dinner,” I added.

 One hand rose, as if to pluck something from the air. It trembled
slightly.

 “What is it, Ruby?”

 “The devil assumes many forms.”

 “Yes.” I wanted desperately to bathe and sleep. “But I’m sure you’re
way ahead of him.”

 I reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped back and the hands
found each other again.

 “They fly with Lucifer in the face of divinity. They blaspheme.”

 “Who does?”

 “They’ve grasped the keys of Hades and of death. Just like it says in
Revelations.”

 “Ruby, please speak to me in plain English.”

 Her eyes were wide, the nodes in the corners pink and shiny with
moisture.

 “You’re from foreign parts so you can’t be knowing.”

 “Knowing what?” Irritation curled the edges of my voice. I was not in a
mood for parables.

 “There’s evil here.”

 The beer?

 “Detective Ryan an ”

 “Wicked men scoff at the Almighty.”

 This was going nowhere.

 “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

 I grasped the doorknob, but a hand flew out and clutched my arm.

 Calluses scratched the sleeve of my nylon jacket.

 “The Lord God has sent a sign.”

 She drew even closer.

 “Death!”

 Gently prying loose the bony fingers, I squeezed Ruby’s hand and
stepped back. I watched her through the gap as the door swung shut, her small body frozen, the
sausage curl crawling her skull like a dull, gray serpent.

 THE NEXT DAY HONORED SOMEONE. CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, I think. By
midmorning it had turned into a nightmare.

 I drove to the morgue through mist so thick it obliterated the
mountains, and worked until ten-thirty. When I broke for coffee, Larke Tyrell was in the staff
room. He waited while I filled a cup with industrial sludge and added white powder.

 “There’s something we need to talk about.”

 “Sure.”

 “Not here.” He looked at me a long time. The look meant something, and
I felt a prick of anxiety.

 “What is it, Larke?”

 “Come on.”

 Taking my arm, he propelled me out the back door.

 “Tempe, I don’t know how to say this.” He swirled his coffee, and
iridescent clouds slid across the surface.

 “Just say it.” I kept my voice low and level.

 “There’s been a complaint.”

 I waited.

 “I feel terrible about this.” He studied his cup a few more seconds,
then raised his eyes to mine. “It’s about you.”

 “Me?” I was incredulous.

 He nodded.

 “What did I do?”

 “The complaint cites unprofessional behavior of a nature sufficient to
compromise the investigation.”

 “Such as?”

 “Entering the site without authority and mishandling evidence.”

 I stared at him in disbelief.

 “And trespass.”

 “Trespass?” A cold fist was closing around my gut.

 “Did you poke around that property we talked about?”

 “It wasn’t trespass. I wanted to talk to the owners.”

 “Did you try to break in?”

 “Of course not!”

 I flashed on myself prying a shutter with a rusty bar.

 “And I had authorization to enter the crash site last week.”

 “Whose?”

 “Earl Bliss sent me there. You know that.”

 “See, here’s the problem, Tempe.” Larke rubbed a hand across his
chin.

 “At that point DMORT hadn’t been requested.”

 I was stunned.

 “In what way did I mishandle evidence?”

 “I hate to even ask this.” The hand went back to the chin. “Tempe ”

 “Just ask.”

 “Did you pick up remains that hadn’t been logged?”

 The foot.

 “I told you about that.” Stay calm. “I made a judgment call.” He said
nothing.

 “Had I left that foot, it would now be coyote dung. Talk to Andrew
Ryan.

 He was there.“

 “I’ll do that.”

 Larke reached out and squeezed my arm.

 “We’ll sort this out.”

 “You’re taking this seriously?”

 “I have no choice.”

 “Why is that?”

 “You know the press are snapping at my backside. They’re gonna jump on
this like a hound with a one-eyed hare.”

 “Who made this complaint?” I blinked back tears.

 “I can’t tell you that.”

 He dropped his hand and stared off at the mist. It was lifting now,
revealing the landscape in a slow, upward peel. When he turned back, there was an odd expression
on his face.

 “But I will tell you that powerful people are involved.”

 “The Dalai Lama? The Joint Chiefs of Staff?” Anger hardened my
voice.

 “Don’t be mad at me, Tempe. This investigation is big news. If problems
develop, no one’s going to want to own them.”

 “So I’m being set up in case a scapegoat is needed.”

 “It’s nothing like that. I just have to go through proper
procedures.”

 I took a deep breath.

 “What happens now?”

 He looked straight at me and his voice softened.

 “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 “When?”

 “Now.”

 It was my turn to stare into the mist.

 High Ridge House was deserted in the middle of the day. I left a note
for Ruby, thanking her and apologizing for my abrupt departure and for my coolness the night
before. Then I gathered my belongings, tossed them into my Mazda, and drove off so fast the tires
threw up a gravel spray.

 All the way home to Charlotte I stopped and started hard, screeching
from lights then weaving from lane to lane once I reached the highway.

 For three hours I crawled up bumpers and rode the horn. I talked to
myself, trying out words. Vile. Despicable. Vicious. Other drivers avoided my eyes and gave me
lots of space.

 I was irate and depressed at the same time. The injustice of an
anonymous accusation. The helplessness. For a week I’d been working under brutal conditions,
seeing, smelling, and feeling death. I’d dropped everything, devoted myself to the effort, then
been dismissed like a servant suspected of stealing. No hearing. No opportunity for explanation.
No thank-you. Pack and go.

 Besides the professional humiliation, there was the personal
letdown.

 Though we’d been friends for years, and Larke knew I was scrupulous
about professional ethics, he hadn’t defended me. Larke was not a cowardly man. I had expected
more of him.

 The wild driving served its purpose. By the outskirts of Charlotte my
cascading fury had congealed into cold resolve. I’d done nothing inappropriate and I would clear
my name. I would find out what this grievance was, quash it, and finish my work. And I would
confront the accuser.

 My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one
to hold me and tell me I’d be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was.
Ryan had told me it was none of my business.

 Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were
far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.

 Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid
coming off a tantrum. I’d accomplished nothing and felt drained.

 Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone
messages.

 Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry,
calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and
Ted were leaving for London?

 Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I
decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.

 Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though
it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a
makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy’s soccer years. The house is painted,
the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond
normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no
obligation to protect area real estate values.

 I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me
of that.

 A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the
drive.

 When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low “rrup!”

 “Is he here?” I asked, slamming the door.

 The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its
mouth.

 I circled to the front and rang. No response.

 I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn’t use
it.

 Though we’d been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still
stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an
intimacy I didn’t want to imply.

 But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I
wanted my cat.

 I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.

 “Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?” said Pete,
surveying me from top to bottom.

 I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I’d donned for the morgue at
six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.

 “I thought you’d be at work.”

 I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a
quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I’d die of humiliation.

 “Why aren’t you at work?”

 He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close,
as if imparting secure information. “Rendezvous with the plumber.”

 I didn’t want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It
would call in an expert.

 “I came for Birdie.”

 “I think he’s free.” Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my
great-aunt’s chandelier.

 “How about a drink?”

 I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many
of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.

 “You know what I mean.”

 “A Diet Coke would be nice.”

 While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up
the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.

 Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms,
reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We’d nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to
adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I’d watch the
honeysuckle come and go through the “window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those
had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and attainable.

 Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppie-casual. The
jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He
looked good.

 “Where’s Bird?” I asked.

 “He’s been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in.”

 He handed me a mug with Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! scrolled around the
glass. “To that we must drink again!” in Latvian.

 “Boyd’s the dog?”

 A nod.