Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Boyd nipped Ryan’s calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.

“So what went wrong?” I asked.

“How’s this. They’re flying low over the drop area, close to stall speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can’t steer, loses control. Hello, rock face.”

“Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn’t.”

I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.

“These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?”

“Yes.”

“How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Fireball.”

“Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.” Jansen was with me.

“But this is still all conjecture,” I said.

“Not really,” Jansen said.

I waited.

“Couple of kids made an interesting discovery yesterday morning.”

13

“THREE KIDS WERE RUNNING THEIR DOGS IN A FIELD EAST OF THEcrash site early Monday, spotted what they thought was a ghost flapping around on Grandpa’s old tobacco barn.”

An image. A pilot’s corpse, parachute rising and falling with the wind. Ryan voiced my thought.

“Lord of the Flies,” he said.

“Perfect analogy,” Jansen said. “Having pondered the situation over Nehi and Moon Pies, our little geniuses decided to do some sleuthing. When their beastie turned out to be a parachuted packet of white powder, they voted to stash the booty while considering further action.”

“That action included a broader search,” I guessed.

“They found three more packets of blow in the woods. Knowing about the Cessna, and being Cops and CSI regulars, they figured good fortune had befallen them.”

“They called 911 to inquire about a reward.”

“Phoned around ten this morning. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD contacted the parents, and an open discussion ensued. Bottom line: the kids had four bundles of snort and four parachutes squirreled away in Gramp’s shed.”

“You’re sure it’s cocaine?” I asked.

“The stuff will have to be tested. But, yeah, I’d bet my ass it’s coke.”

“Why would the pilot’s pickup crew leave the stuff behind?”

“Access to the location is by one narrow, winding road. They probably watched the Cessna go down, figured if they lingered they’d meet emergency responders on their way out. Opting for freedom over fortune, they hauled ass.”

That made sense.

“According to our scenario, the last chute opened prematurely,” I said. “Why?”

“Could have been just lousy luck. Or the blowout could have been caused by an airstream.”

“How so?”

“The army airborne has had deaths over the years from parachutes inflating accidentally while the jumper stands in the door. The reserve chute is worn in front, and the whipping airstream sometimes gets inside and rips the pack open, dragging the chute and the jumper out the door prematurely.”

“Opening the doggy door would have caused an airstream to whip around inside the cabin?” Ryan asked.

“It’s possible,” Jansen said.

“But they’d successfully launched four chutes. Why a screwup with the fifth?” I asked.

“Maybe the last bundle was lighter. Maybe the pax didn’t get the chute wrapped fast enough. Maybe the pilot made a sudden maneuver with the plane.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“The snort was packed in one-foot-square bundles. That was a pretty tight fit for the doggy door. Maybe the last bundle got jammed and the chute blew before they could knock it free,” Ryan suggested.

“Wouldn’t that leave one bundle in the plane?” I asked.

“Or under it.” Jansen hesitated a microsecond. “I did find something.”

“Another packet of drugs?” I asked.

“Hardly a packet. Mostly ash and melted plastic.”

“Underneath the wreckage?”

“Yeah.”

“Ash from what?”

“I’m not sure. But the stuff doesn’t whisper nose candy to me.”

“Is a mixed payload common?”

“As a wino with a muscatel buzz.”

When we arrived at the annex Boyd went straight to his bowl.

Ryan won the toss on which I insisted. Bad idea. While he showered I checked my messages.

Harry.

Katy.

A UNCC colleague.

One hang-up.

I tried Lija’s town house. A male voice answered, said my daughter was out, but that she was expected shortly. The voice did not identify itself.

I left a message, clicked off.

“And who the hell are you?” I asked the handset. “The intensely engaging Palmer Cousins?” And why didn’t you say so? Are you living at Lija’s town house, too? I didn’t want to think about it.

Boyd looked up, went back to eating.

I tried my colleague. He had a question about a graduate thesis that I could not answer.

Having inhaled every nasty brown nugget in the bowl, Boyd flopped onto his side.

To call Harry, or not to call Harry?

My sister doesn’t grasp the concept of the short conversation. Besides, Harry can smell sex over a phone line, and I didn’t want to discuss my recent adventures. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, I laid the phone on the table.

Ryan appeared with Birdie pressed to his chest. The cat’s forepaws and chin rested on his shoulder.

When I reached out, Birdie turned his head.

“Aw, come on, Bird.”

Two unblinking eyes swung my way.

“You’re a fraud, Birdie.” I stroked the cat’s head. “You’re not even trying to get away.”

Birdie’s chin went up, and I scratched his throat.

“If he wanted down,” I said to Ryan, “he’d be doing this pushy-paw thing on your chest.”

“I found him on the bed.”

Hearing Ryan’s voice, Boyd scrambled to his feet, tags jangling, toenails scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor.

Birdie rocketed off Ryan’s chest like a shuttle at Canaveral.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” I said. “Paper’s in the den. I won’t be long.”

When I returned, Ryan was at the kitchen table, Observer open to the sports section. He’d finished a Sam Adams and started on a second. Boyd’s chin was on his knee.

When I entered, both looked up.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into mine,” Ryan played Bogey to the dog.

“Thanks, Rick.”

“Your daughter called.”

“Oh?” I was surprised Ryan had answered my phone.

“The thing was lying here, it rang, I answered by reflex. Sorry.”

“Did she say why she was calling?”

“I didn’t realize who it was. I told her you were showering. She said it wasn’t important, gave her name, and hung up.”

So Katy and I both had some ’splaining to do.

Ryan and I drove to the Selwyn Pub, a tiny tavern just a few blocks from Sharon Hall. To the uninitiated, the brick bungalow looks like a private home, small for Myers Park, but not intolerable.

Other than a nondescript sign, the only indication that the place is a bar is the assemblage of cars parked where the lawn should be. When I turned in, Ryan looked puzzled, but said nothing.

Patrons descend on the Selwyn Pub in two shifts. Early evenings it’s free-range professionals knocking back brews before a game, a date, or dinner with June and Wally and the Beaver.

Later, as the developers and lawyers and accountants head out, students from Queens College pour in. Silk, gabardine, and Italian leather yield to denim, cotton, and hemp sandals. The Benzes, Beemers, and SUVs give way to Hondas, Chevys, and cheaper SUVs.