Fatal Voyage (29 page)

 We both ate and thought about that.

 “Midkiff is an archaeologist. He might have been researching the
Eastern Band Cherokee. Maybe Tramper was his guide and historian.”

 Boyd’s attention shifted to my burger. I replenished his potatoes.

 “O. K. I’ll buy that.”

 I took a bite, chewed, swallowed.

 “Why was Parker Davenport there?”

 Boyd looked at me without raising his head from the fries.

 “Davenport grew up near here. He probably knew Tramper.”

 Boyd’s ears flicked forward, back again. He finished the last of his
fries and stared at mine. I flipped him a few.

 “Perhaps Tramper and Davenport had mutual friends on the reservation.
Or maybe Davenport was already building a political base in those days.”

 I threw out another half dozen fries. Boyd reengaged.

 “How about this? Did Davenport and Midkiff know each other back
then?”

 Boyd’s head came up. His eyebrows spun and his tongue dropped.

 “If so, how?”

 He cocked his head and watched as I finished my burger. I tossed him
the rest of my fries, and he ate them as I sipped my Diet Coke.

 “Here’s the big one, Boyd.”

 I gathered wrappers and bunched them with the remains of the tray.

 Seeing no more food, Boyd flopped onto his side, sighed loudly, and
closed his eyes.

 “Midkiff lied to me. Davenport wants my head on a spike. Is there a
link?”

 Boyd had no answer.

 I sat with my back to the oak, absorbing warmth and light. The grass
smelled freshly mown, the leaves dry and sun-baked. At one point Boyd rose, turned four times,
then resettled at my side.

 A short time later a man came over the crest of the hill, leading a
collie on a length of rope. Boyd sat up and barked at the dog but didn’t make an aggressive move.
The late-afternoon sunshine was mellowing woman and beast. Reeling him in, I got to my feet.

 As dusk gathered, we strolled among the gravestones. Though I spotted
no one from the H&F list, and no Dashwoods, I did find markers with familiar names. Thaddeus
Bowman. Victor Livingstone and his daughter, Sarah Masham Livingstone. Enoch Mccready.

 I remembered Luke Bowman’s words, and wondered what had caused the
death of Ruby’s husband in 1986. Instead of answers, I was finding more questions.

 But one mystery was solved. One missing person found. Turning to go, I
stumbled across an unadorned slab in the cemetery’s southernmost corner.

 Its face was inscribed with a simple message.

 Tucker Adams 1871-1943

 RIP.

 LEAVING THE CEMETERY, I DROVE TO HIGH Rldge HOUSE, SETTLED Boyd for the
night, and returned to my room, unaware that it would be my busiest telephone evening since
junior high.

 I’d hardly hit the power switch when Pete called.

 “How’s Big B?”

 “Enjoying the mountain food and fauna. Are you back in Charlotte?”

 “Hung up in the Hoosier state. Is he straining your patience?”

 “Boyd has a unique take on life.”

 “What’s new?” I told him about Primrose.

 “Oh, babe, I’m really sorry. Are you O. K.?”

 “I’ll be fine,” I lied. “There’s more.”

 I summarized the interrogation with Davenport, and listed the
complaints the lieutenant governor planned to file.

 “Sounds like a mainline mind fuck.”

 “Don’t try to impress me with legal jargon.”

 “This has to be politically motivated. Any conjectures as to why?”

 “He doesn’t like my hair.”

 “I do. Did you establish anything more about the foot?” I told him
about the histological age estimate, about the racial classification, and about the formerly and
currently missing Daniel Wahnetah and Jeremiah Mitchell.

 “Mitchell sounds like a winning candidate for the foot.”

 I described the photo of Charlie Wayne Tramper’s funeral and my phone
call to Raleigh.

 “Why would Midkiff lie to you about doing a dig?”

 “He doesn’t like my hair. Should I get an attorney?”

 “You have one.”

 “Thanks, Pete.”

 Next, it was Ryan. He and Mcmahon had finished late and would be
returning to the reassembly site at dawn, so they were overnighting in Asheville.

 “Problems with your phone?”

 “The media are scenting blood in the water, so I’ve had it turned
off.

 Besides, I spent a lot of the day in the library.“

 “Learn anything?”

 “Mountain life is hard on old folks.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I don’t know. Seems like a lot of seniors drown, freeze to death, or
end up in the food chain around here. I’ll take the flatlands, thanks.

 What goes with the investigation?“

 “The chemical guys are picking up weird traces.”

 “Explosives?”

 “Not necessarily. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

 “Have Bertrand and Petricelli been found?”

 “No.”

 Lucy Crowe beeped in at that point, and I clicked over. She had little
to report and no warrant.

 “The DA doesn’t want to second-guess the magistrate without something
more solid.”

 “What the hell do these people want? Miss. Scarlet in the library,
candlestick in hand?”

 “She finds your argument contradictory.”

 “Contradictory?”

 “The VFA profile says something died during the summer. Mitchell
disappeared in February. Madam Prosecutor is convinced the stain is from an animal. Says you
can’t bust in on a citizen for aging meat in his backyard.”

 “And the foot?”

 “Crash victim.”

 “Anything on Primrose’s murder?”

 “Turns out Ralph Stover is no hayseed. The gentleman owned a company in
Ohio, holds patents on a number of microchips. In eighty-six Ralph underwent a metamorphosis
following a cardiac event. He sold out for mega bucks and bought the Riverbank. Been a country
motel owner ever since.”

 “Any police record?”

 “Two DWIs back in the seventies, otherwise the guy’s clean.”

 “Does it make sense to you?”

 “Maybe he watched too many Newhart reruns, dreamt of being an
innkeeper.”

 The next to ring was my friend at Oak Ridge. Laslo Sparkes asked if I’d
be available in the morning. We made a date for nine o’clock. Good.

 Maybe he had some more results from the soil samples.

 The final call came from my department chair. He opened by apologizing
for his abruptness Tuesday night, “My three-year-old put our kitten in the Kenmore to dry it
after a fall into the toilet. My wife had just rescued the poor thing, and everyone was
hysterical. Kids crying. Wife crying, trying to get the cat to breathe.”

 “How awful. Is it all right?”

 “The little guy pulled through, but I don’t think he’s seeing too
well.”

 “He’ll come around.”

 There was a pause. I could hear his breath against the receiver.

 “Well, Tempe, there’s no easy way, so I’m just going to say it. The
chancellor asked me to meet with him today. He’s received a complaint about your behavior during
the crash investigation and has decided to suspend you pending a full inquiry.”

 I remained silent. Nothing I was doing in Bryson City was under the
auspices of the university, though I was on its payroll.

 “With pay, of course. He says he doesn’t believe a word of it but has
no choice in the matter.”

 “Why not?” I already knew the answer.

 “He’s afraid of the negative publicity, feels he has to protect the
university. And apparently the lieutenant governor is on his case directly and being a real
hard-ass about this.”

 “And, as everyone knows, the university is funded by the
legislature.”

 My hand was clenched on the phone.

 “I tried every argument I could think of. He wouldn’t budge.”

 “Thanks, Mike.”

 “You’re welcome back in the department anytime. You could file a
grievance.”

 “No. I’m going to sort this out first.”

 I went through my bedtime ritual with toothpaste, soap, Oil of Olay,
hand cream. Cleansed and lubricated, I turned off the lights, crawled under the blankets, and
screamed as loud as I could. Then I hugged knees to chest and for the second time in two days
began to cry.

 It was time to give up. I’m not a quitter, but I had to face reality. I
was getting nowhere. I’d uncovered nothing persuasive enough to obtain a warrant, discovered
little at the courthouse, struck out with the newspapers. I’d stolen from a library and had
almost committed breaking and entering.

 It wasn’t worth it. I could apologize to the lieutenant governor,
resign from DMORT, and return to my normal life.

 My normal life.

 What was my normal life? Autopsies. Exhumations. Mass fatalities.

 I am constantly asked why I’ve chosen such a morbid vocation. Why I
work with the mutilated and decomposed.

 Through time and introspection, I have come to understand my choices. I
want to serve both the living and the dead. The dead have a right to be identified. To have their
stories drawn to a close and to take their places in our memories. If they died at the hands of
another, they also have a right to have those hands brought to account.

 The living as well deserve our support when the death of another alters
their lives: The parent desperate for news of a missing child. The family hopeful of remains from
Iwo Jima or Chosin or Hue. The villagers bereft at a mass grave in Guatemala or Kurdistan. The
mothers and husbands and lovers and friends dazed at an overlook in the Smoky Mountains. They
have a right to information, explanations, and also a right to have murderous hands brought to
account.

 It is for these victims and the mourners that I tease posthumous tales
from bones. The dead will remain dead, whatever my efforts, but there have to be answers and
accountability. We cannot live in a world that accepts the destruction of life with no
explanations and no consequences.

 Of course, an ethics violation would end my career in forensics. If the
lieutenant governor had his way, I would effectively be barred from pursuing my profession. An
expert witness under an ethical cloud is roadkill on cross-examination. Who would have confidence
in any opinion of mine?

 Anger replaced self-pity. I would not be driven out of forensics by
unfounded accusations and innuendo. I couldn’t give in. I had to prove that I was right. I owed
it to myself. Even more, I owed it to Primrose Hobbs and her mourning son.

 But how?

 What to do?

 I tossed and turned, feeling like that spider in the rain. My world was
under attack by forces stronger than me, and I lacked the power to keep it together.

 Sleep finally came, but there was no relief.

 When agitated, my brain weaves thoughts into psychedelic collages. All
night disjointed images floated in and out of focus.

 I was in the incident morgue, sorting body parts. Ryan ran past. I
called out, asking what had happened to the foot. He didn’t stop. I tried to chase him, but my
feet wouldn’t move. I kept shouting, reached out, but he drew farther and farther away.

 Boyd raced around a cemetery, a dead squirrel hanging from his
mouth.

 Willow Lynette Gist and Jonas Mitchell posed for a wedding picture. In
her hand the Cherokee bride clutched the foot I’d taken from coyotes.

 Judge Henry Arlen Preston held a book out to an old man. The man
started to walk away, but Preston followed, insisting he take the offering. The old man turned
and Preston dropped the book. Boyd snatched it up and ran down a long gravel road. When I caught
up and took the object from him, it was no longer a book but a stone tablet, the name “Tucker
Adams” carved on its face, and 1943, the year they both died, one a prominent citizen, the other
obscure.

 Simon Midkiff sat on a chair in the P & T garage office. Next to
him was a man with long gray braids and a Cherokee headband.

 “Why are you here?” Midkiff asked me.

 “I can’t drive,” I replied. “There was a crash. People were
killed.”

 “Is Birkby dead?” asked gray braids.

 “Yes.”

 “Did they find Edna?”

 “No.”

 “They won’t find me either.”

 Gray braid’s face morphed into that of Ruby Mccready, then into the
bloated features of Primrose Hobbs.

 I screamed and my head jerked from the pillow. My eyes flew to the
clock. Five-thirty.

 Though the room was chilly, my back was slick with perspiration, my
hair plastered to my head. I threw back the covers and ran on tiptoes for a drink of water.
Gazing into the mirror, I rolled the glass across my forehead.

 I returned to the bedroom and flicked on a light. The window was opaque
with predawn blackness. Frost spider webbed the corners of the glass.

 I pulled on sweats and socks, took out a tablet, and settled at the
table. After dividing several sheets into thirds, I began writing down images from my dream.

 Henry Arlen Preston. The coyote foot. The braided old man in Cherokee
headgear. Had that been Charlie Wayne Tramper? I wrote the name, followed by a question mark.
Edna Farrell. Tucker Adams. Birkby.

 Jonas and Willow Mitchell. Ruby Mccready. Simon Midkiff.

 Next, I added what I knew about each character.

 Henry Arlen Preston: Died 1943. Age eighty-nine. Attorney, judge,
writer. Birds. Family man.

 Coyote foot: Elderly male. Native-American ancestry. Height
approximately five foot six. Dead last summer. Found near Arthur/ H&F property. Trans South
passenger?

 Charlie Wayne Tramper: Cherokee. Died 1959. Age seventy-four. Bear
attack. Midkiff and Davenport attended the funeral.

 Edna Farrell: Died 1949. Holiness follower. Drowned. Remains not
recovered.

 Tucker Adams: Born 1871. Disappeared then died, 1943.

 Anthony Alien Birkby: Died 1959. Car crash. C.A. Birkby on list of
H&F officers.

 Jonas Mitchell: African American. Married Willow Lynette Gist. Father
of Jeremiah Mitchell.