Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

The partial head, a white male in his late teens, became number 432A, and was also forwarded for dental analysis. The jaw fragment belonged to someone older than number 432A, probably a female, and went on to the dentists as number 432C. The state of bone development suggested that the unrelated arm came from an adult over twenty. I calculated upper and lower limits for stature, but was unable to determine gender since all hand and arm bone measurements fell into the overlap range for males and females. I sent the arm to the fingerprint section as case number 432D.

It was twelve-fifteen when I looked at my watch. I had to hurry.

* * *

I spotted Ryan through a small window in the morgue's back door. He was sitting on the steps, one long leg outstretched, the other raised to support an elbow as he spoke into a cell phone. Opening the door, I could hear that his words were English, his tone agitated, and I suspected the business was other than official.

“Well, that's the way it's going to be.”

He turned a shoulder when he saw me, and his answers grew terse.

“Do what you want, Danielle.”

I waited until he had disconnected, then joined him on the porch.

“Sorry I'm late.”

“No problemo.”

He flipped the cover and slid the phone into his pocket, his movements stiff and jerky.

“Problems on the home front?”

“What's your pleasure for lunch? Fish or fowl?”

“Nice dodge,” I said, smiling. “And about as subtle as a full court press.”

“The home front is not your concern. Subtle enough?”

Though my mouth opened, no words emerged.

“It's just a personal disagreement.”

“Have a lovers' spat with the Archbishop of Canterbury for all I care, just don't treat me to the performance.” Heat flamed my cheeks.

“Since when are you curious about my love life?”

“I couldn't care less about your love life,” I snapped.

“Thus the inquisition.”

“What?”

“Let's forget it.” Ryan reached out, but I stepped back.

“You did ask me to meet you here.”

“Look, this investigation has us both on edge.”

“But I don't take cheap shots at you.”

“What I don't need is more browbeating,” he said, lowering the shades from the top of his head.

“Browbeating?” I exploded.

Ryan repeated his question. “Fish or fowl?”

“Go fowl your own fish.”

I whirled and lunged for the doorknob, my face burning with anger. Or was it humiliation? Or hurt?

Inside, I slammed then leaned against the door. From the lot I heard an engine, then the squeal of brakes as a truck arrived with twenty more cases. Rolling my head, I saw Ryan kick a heel at the ground, then cross to his rental car.

Why had he made me so furious? I'd spent a lot of time thinking of the man during his months undercover. But distancing myself from Ryan had become so routine, I'd never considered the possibility that someone else might enter his life. Was that now the case? While I wanted to know, I sure as hell wasn't going to ask.

I turned back to find Larke Tyrell regarding me intently.

“You need some R and R.”

“I'm taking two hours this afternoon.” I'd requested the break so Ryan and I could search the area where I'd found the foot. Now I'd have to do it alone.

“Sandwich?” Larke tilted his chin toward the staff lounge.

“Sure.”

Minutes later we were seated at one of the folding tables.

“Squashed subs and pulverized chips,” he said.

“My usual order.”

“How's LaManche?” Larke had selected what looked like tuna on wheat.

“Back to his usual cantankerous self.”

Being the director of the medico-legal unit, Pierre LaManche was Larke Tyrell's counterpart at the lab in Montreal. My two bosses had known each other for years through membership in the National Association of Medical Examiners and the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. LaManche had suffered a heart attack the previous spring but was fully recovered and back to work.

“Mighty glad to hear that.”

As we peeled cellophane and popped sodas, I remembered the ME's first appearance at the site.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He watched me carefully, his eyes chestnut in the sunlight angling down from an overhead window.

“Jesus, Larke, I'm fine, so quit with the stress assessment. Lieutenant-Detective Ryan just happens to be a horse's ass.”

“Noted. You sleeping O.K.?”

“Like Custer after Little Bighorn.” I avoided the impulse to roll my eyes.

“What's your question?”

“When you and the lieutenant governor arrived last week, where did the chopper land?”

I upended my chip bag and poured fragments into my hand.

“There's a house a spit west of the crash site. The pilot liked the lay of the land so that's where he put us down.”

“There's a landing strip?”

“Hell, no, just a small clearing. I thought Davenport was gonna soil his Calvin Kleins, he was so scared.” Larke chuckled. “It was like a scene out of M*A*S*H. Triggs kept insisting we head back out, and the pilot kept saying, ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ then put that bird exactly where he wanted.”

I palmed the chips into my mouth.

“Then we just worked our way toward the site. I'd say it was maybe a quarter mile.”

“It's a house?”

“An old cabin or something. I didn't pay much attention.”

“Did you see a road?”

He shook his head. “Why the questions?”

I told him about the foot.

“I didn't notice a cemetery, but there's no harm poking around out there. You sure these were coyotes?”

“No.”

“Be safe; take a radio and a can of Mace.”

“Do coyotes hunt during the day?”

“Coyotes hunt whenever they feel like it.”

Great.

North Carolina's official tree is the longleaf pine, its official flower the dogwood. The shad boat, the saltwater bass, and the Eastern box turtle have been similarly honored. The state boasts wild ponies on the Shackleford Banks and the nation's highest suspension bridge at Grandfather Mountain. The Old North State flows from the peaks of the southern Appalachians in the west, across the hills of the piedmont, to the marshlands, beaches, and barrier islands along its eastern shore. It is Mount Mitchell and the Outer Banks. Blowing Rock and Cape Fear. Linville Gorge and Bald Head Island.

North Carolina's geography splits its residents along ideological lines. The high-country crowd plays recreational roulette mountain biking, hang gliding, whitewater kayaking, rock climbing, and, in winter, downhill skiing and snowboarding. The less reckless go in for golf, antiques, bluegrass music, and the viewing of foliage.

Fans of the low country favor salt air, warm sand, ocean fishing, and Atlantic breakers. Temperatures are mild. The locals have never owned mittens or snow tires. Except for the occasional shark or renegade gator, the fauna is nonthreatening. Golf, of course, also permeates the low country.

While I am awed by the beauty of foaming rivers, cascading falls, and towering trees, my allegiance has always been to the sea. I prefer ecozones where shorts and sundresses suffice, and only one layer is needed. Give me a swimsuit catalog and forget Eddie Bauer. All things considered, I'd rather be at the beach.

These thoughts drifted through my mind as I circled the debris field. The day was clear but breezy, the smell of decay less apparent. Though victim recovery was well along, and fewer bodies littered the ground, the big picture looked relatively unchanged. Bio-suited figures still wandered about and crawled through the wreckage, though some now wore caps marked FBI.

I found Larke's opening and cut into the woods. Though the high-altitude sunlight was warm, the temperature dropped appreciably when I moved into shadow. I followed the trail I'd taken the week before, now and then stopping to listen. Branches tapped and scraped, and dead leaves tumbled across the ground with soft ticking sounds. Overhead, a woodpecker drummed a staccato tattoo, paused, repeated itself.