Fatal Voyage (6 page)

 “Thirty-seven.” Ryan was right there in the middle of my thoughts.

 “Jesus.”

 We reached the county road and headed uphill.

 “Whom was he escorting?”

 “A guy named Remi Petricelli, known to his friends as Pepper.”

 I knew the name. Petricelli was a bigwig in the Quebec Hells Angels,
reputed to have ties to organized crime. The Canadian and American governments had been
investigating him for years.

 “What was Pepper doing in Georgia?”

 “About two months ago a small-time trafficker named Jacques Fontana
ended up charcoal in a Subaru Outback. When every road led to his door, Pepper decided to sample
the hospitality of his brothers in Dixie. Long story short, Pepper was spotted in a bar in
Atlanta, the locals nailed him, and last week Georgia agreed to extradite. Bertrand was hauling
his ass back to Quebec.”

 We’d arrived at my car. Across at the overlook, a spotlighted man held
a mike while an assistant powdered his face.

 “Which brings more players to the table,” Ryan went on, his voice
leaden.

 “Meaning?”

 “Pepper had juice. If he’d decided to deal, a lot of his friends would
be in deep-dish shit.”

 “I’m not following.”

 “Some powerful people probably wanted Pepper dead.”

 “Enough to kill eighty-seven other people?”

 “Without a hitch in their breathing.”

 “But that plane was full of kids.”

 “These guys aren’t the Jesuits.”

 I was too shocked to respond.

 Seeing my face, Ryan switched tacks. “Hungry?”

 “I need to sleep.”

 “You need to eat.”

 “I’ll stop for a burger,” I lied.

 Ryan stepped back. I unlocked my door and drove off, too tired and
heartsick to say good night.

 Since every room in the area had been grabbed by the press and NTSB, I
was booked into a small B & B on the outskirts of Bryson City. It took several wrong turns
and two inquiries to find it.

 True to its name, High Ridge House sat atop a summit at the end of a
long, narrow lane. It was a two-story white farmhouse with intricate woodwork on the doors and
windows, and on the beams, banisters, and railings of a wide veranda wrapping around the front
and sides. In the porch light I could see wooden rockers, wicker planters, ferns. Very
Victorian.

 I added my car to a half dozen others in a postage-stamp lot to the
left of the house, and followed a flagstone path flanked by metal lawn chairs. Bells jangled as I
opened the front door. Inside, the house smelled of wood polish, Pine-Sol, and simmering
lamb.

 Irish stew is perhaps my favorite dish. As usual, it brought Gran to
mind. Twice in two days? Maybe the old girl was looking down.

 In moments a woman appeared. She was middle-aged, about five feet tall,
with no makeup and thick gray hair pulled into an odd sausage roll on the top of her head. She
wore a long denim skirt and a red sweatshirt with Praise the Lord scrolled across her chest.

 Before I could speak, the woman embraced me. Surprised, I stood angled
down with hands out, trying not to strike her with my overnighter or laptop.

 After a decade the woman stepped back and gazed at me with the
intensity of a player receiving serve at Wimbledon.

 “Dr. Brennan.”

 “Tempe.”

 “It’s the Lord’s work you’re doing for these poor dead children.”

 I nodded.

 “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. He tells
us that in the Book of Psalms.”

 Oh, boy.

 “I’m Ruby Mccready, and I’m honored to have you at High Ridge House. I
intend to look after each and every one of you.”

 I wondered who else was quartered there, but said nothing. I would find
out soon enough.

 “Thank you, Ruby.”

 “Let me take that.” She reached for my bag. “I’ll show you to your
room.”

 My hostess led me past a parlor and dining room, up a carved wooden
staircase, and down a corridor with closed doors on either side, each bearing a small
hand-painted plaque. We made a ninety-degree turn at the far end of the hall and stopped in front
of a single door. Its nameplate said Magnolia.

 “Since you’re the only lady, I put you in Magnolia.” Though we were
alone, Ruby’s voice had become a whisper, her tone conspiratorial. “It’s the only one with its
own W C. I reckoned you’d appreciate the privacy.”

 W C? Where in the world did they still refer to bathrooms as water
closets?

 Ruby followed me in, placed my satchel on the bed, and began fluffing
pillows and lowering shades like a bellman at the Ritz.

 The fabric and wallpaper explained the floral appellation. The window
was draped, the tables skirted, and ruffles adorned every edge in the room. The maple rocker and
bed were stacked with pillows, and a million figurines filled a glass-fronted cabinet. On top sat
ceramic renderings of Little Orphan Annie and her dog, Sandy, Shirley Temple dressed as Heidi,
and a collie I assumed to be Lassie.

 My taste in home furnishings tends toward the simple. Though I have
never cared for the starkness of modern, give me Shaker or Hepplewhite and I am happy. Surround
me with clutter and I start to get itchy.

 “It’s lovely,” I said.

 “I’ll leave you to yourself now. Dinner’s at six, so you missed that,
but I left stew to simmerin‘. Would you like a bowl?”

 “No, thank you. I’m going to turn in.”

 “Have you eaten dinner?”

 “I’m not very hungry.”

 “Look at you, you’re thin as the broth at a homeless shelter. You can’t
go with nothin‘ on your stomach.”

 Why was everyone so concerned with my diet?

 “I’ll bring up a tray.”

 “Thank you, Ruby.”

 “I don’t need thankin‘. One last thing. We’ve got no locks here at High
Ridge House, so you come and go as you like.”

 Though I’d showered at the site, I unpacked my few things and took a
long, hot bath. Like rape victims, those who clean up after mass fatalities often over bathe
driven by a need to purge mind and body.

 I came out of the bathroom to stew, brown bread, and a mug of milk. My
cell phone rang as I was poking at a turnip. Fearing the messaging service would kick in, I
lunged for my purse, dumped its contents onto the bed, and fished through hair spray, wallet,
passport, organizer, sunglasses, keys, and makeup. I finally found the phone and clicked on,
praying the caller was Katy.

 It was. My daughter’s voice triggered such emotion in me, I had to
struggle to keep my voice steady.

 Though evasive about her whereabouts, she sounded happy and healthy. I
gave her the number at High Ridge House. She told me she was with a friend and would return to
Charlottesville on Sunday night. I didn’t request, nor did she offer, the gender specifics of her
pal.

 The soap and water, combined with the long-awaited call from my
daughter, had done the trick. Almost giddy with relief, I was suddenly famished. I devoured
Ruby’s stew, set my travel alarm, and fell into bed.

 Maybe the House of Chintz wouldn’t be so bad.

 The next morning I rose at six, put on clean khakis, brushed my teeth,
dabbed on blush, and drew my hair up under a Charlotte Hornets’ cap.

 Good enough. I headed downstairs, intending to ask Ruby about laundry
arrangements.

 Andrew Ryan occupied a bench at a long pine table in the dining room.
I

 took a chair opposite, returned Ruby’s cheery

 “Good morning,” and waited while she poured coffee. When the kitchen
door swung closed behind her, I spoke.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “Is that all you ever say to me?”

 I waited.

 “The sheriff recommended this place.”

 “Above all others.”

“It’s nice,” he said, gesturing around the room. “Loving.” He raised his
mug to a message above our heads: Jesus Is Love had been burned into knotty pine and varnished
for posterity.

 “How did you know I was here?”

 “Cynicism causes wrinkles.”

“It doesn’t. Who told you?”

 “Crowe.”

 “What’s wrong with the Comfort Inn?”

 “Full.”

 “Who else is here?”

 “There are a couple of NTSB boys upstairs and a special agent from the
FBI. What makes them special?”

 I ignored that.

 “I’m looking forward to guy-bonding in the bathroom. Two others are on
the main floor, and I hear there are some journalists squeezed into a bonus room in the
basement.”

 “How did you get a room here?”

 The Viking blues went little-boy innocent. “Must have been lucky
timing.

 Or maybe Crowe has pull.“

 “Don’t even think about using my bathroom.”

 “Cynicism.”

 Ruby arrived with ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast. Though my
normal routine is cereal and coffee, I dug in like a recruit at boot camp.

 Ryan and I ate in silence while I did some mental sorting. His presence
annoyed me, but why? Was it his supreme self-confidence? His custodial attitude? His invasion of
my turf? The fact that less than a year ago he’d prioritized the job over me and disappeared from
my life? Or the fact that he’d reappeared exactly when I’d needed help?

 As I reached for toast I realized he’d said nothing about his stint
undercover. Fair enough. Let him bring it up.

 “Jam, please.”

 He passed it.

 Ryan had gotten me out of a nasty spot.

 I spread blackberry preserves thicker than lava.

 The wolves weren’t Ryan’s fault. Nor was the crash.

 Ruby poured refills.

 And the man has just lost his partner, for God’s sake.

 Compassion overrode irritation.

 “Thanks for your help with the wolf thing.”

 “They weren’t wolves.”

 “What?” Irritation boomeranged back.

 “They weren’t wolves.”

 “I suppose it was a pack of cocker spaniels.”

 “There are no wolves in North Carolina.”

 “Crowe’s deputy talked about wolves.”

 “The guy probably wouldn’t know a wombat from a caribou.”

 “Wolves have been reintroduced into North Carolina.” I was sure I’d
read that somewhere.

 “Those are red wolves and they’re on a reserve down east, not in the
mountains.”

 “I suppose you’re an expert on North Carolina wildlife.”

 “How did they hold their tails?”

 “What?”

 “Did the animals hold their tails up or down?”

 I had to think.

 “Down.”

 “A wolf holds its tail straight out. A coyote keeps its tail low,
raises it to horizontal when threatening.”

 I pictured the animal sniffing, then raising its tail and locking me
into its gaze.

 “You’re telling me those were coyotes?”

 “Or wild dogs.”

 “There are coyotes in Appalachia?”

 “There are coyotes all over North America.”

 “So what?” I made a mental vow to check.

 “So nothing. I just thought you might want to know.”

 “It was still terrifying.”

 “Damn right. But it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever been
through.”

 Ryan was right. Though frightening, the coyote incident was not my
worst experience. But the days that followed were contenders. I spent every waking moment up to
my elbows in shattered flesh, separating commingled remains and re associating body parts. As
part of a team of pathologists, dentists, and other anthropologists, I determined age, sex, race,
and height, analyzed X rays, compared ante-mortem and postmortem skeletal features, and
interpreted injury patterns. It was a gruesome task, made even grimmer by the youth of most of
those being analyzed.

 For many, the stress was too much. Some hung in, running on the rim
until tremors, tears, or unbearable nightmares finally won out. These were the ones who would
require extensive counseling. Others simply packed up and slipped back home.

 But for most, the mind adjusted and the unthinkable became the
ordinary.

 We mentally detached and did what needed doing. Each night as I lay in
bed, lonely and exhausted, I was comforted by the day’s progress. I thought of the families, and
assured myself that the system was working.

 We would grant them closure of sorts.

 Then specimen number 387 arrived at my station.

I’D FORGOTTEN THE FOOT UNTIL A BODY TRACKER BROUGHT IT TO ME.

 Ryan and I had rarely crossed paths since our first breakfast. I’d been
up and gone each day before seven, returning to High Ridge House long after dark to shower and
collapse into bed. We’d exchanged only “Good morning” or “Have a good one,” and we’d yet to
discuss his time undercover or his role in the crash investigation. Because a Quebec law officer
had been on the plane, the Canadian government had asked that Ryan be involved. All I knew was
that the request had been granted.

 Blocking thoughts of Ryan and coyotes, I emptied the body bag onto my
table. In recent days I’d processed dozens of severed limbs and appendages, and the foot no
longer seemed macabre. In fact, the frequency of lower leg and ankle trauma was so high it had
been discussed at that morning’s meeting. The pathologists and anthropologists agreed that the
injury pattern was disturbing.

 There is little one can say from eyeballing a foot. This one had
thickened yellow nails, a large bunion, and lateral displacement of the big toe, indicating an
older adult. The size suggested female gender.

 Though the skin was the color of toast, I knew this meant nothing since
even short-term exposure can bleach or darken flesh.

 I popped the X rays onto a light box. Unlike many of the films I’d
viewed, these revealed no foreign objects embedded in the foot. I noted that on a form in the
disaster victim packet.

 The cortical bone was thin, and I could see remodeling at many of the
phalangeal joints.

 O.K. The lady was old. Arthritis and bone loss fit with the bunion.

 Then I got my first surprise. The X ray showed tiny white clouds
floating among the toe bones, and scooped-out lesions at the margins of the first and second
metatarso-phalangeal joints. I recognized the symptoms immediately.