Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“What is it, boy?”

Ignoring my question, the dog lunged, ripping the leash from my grip, and charged into the woods.

“Boyd!”

I stamped my foot and rubbed my palm.

“Damn!”

I could hear him through the trees, barking like he was on scrap yard sentry duty.

“Boyd, come back here!”

The barking continued.

Cursing at least one creature that creepeth, I left the road and followed the noise. I found him ten yards in, dashing back and forth, yapping at the base of a white oak.

“Boyd!”

He continued running, barking, and snapping at the oak.

“BOYD!”

He skidded to a stop and looked in my direction.

Dogs have fixed facial musculature, making them incapable of expression. They cannot smile, frown, grimace, or sneer. Nevertheless, Boyd's eyebrows made a movement that clearly communicated his disbelief.

Are you crazy?

“Boyd, sit!” I pointed a finger and held it on him.

He looked at the oak, back at me, then sat. Never lowering the finger, I picked my way to him and regained the leash.

“Come on, dog breath,” I said, patting his head, then tugging him toward the road.

Boyd twisted and yipped at the oak, then turned back and did the eyebrow thing.

“What is it?”

Rrrrup. Rup. Rup.

“O.K. Show me.”

I gave him some leash, and he dragged me toward the tree. Two feet from it, he barked and whipped around, eyes shining with excitement. I parted the vegetation with a boot.

A dead squirrel lay among the sow thistle, orbits empty, brown tissue sheathing its bones like a dark, leathery shroud.

I looked at the dog.

“Is this what's got your fur in a twist?”

He dropped on front paws, rump in the air, then rose and took two hops backward.

“It's dead, Boyd.”

The head cocked, and the eyebrow hairs rotated.

“Let's go, mighty tracker.”

The rest of the walk was uneventful. Boyd found no more corpses, and we clocked a much better time on the downhill run. Rounding the last curve I was surprised to see a cruiser parked under the trees at High Ridge House, a Swain County Sheriff 's Department shield on its side.

Lucy Crowe stood on the front steps, a Dr Pepper in one hand, Smokey hat in the other. Boyd went right to her, tail wagging, tongue drooping like a purple eel. The sheriff set her hat on the railing and ruffled the dog's fur. He nuzzled and licked her hand, then curled on the porch, chin on forepaws, and closed his eyes. Boyd the Deadly.

“Nice dog,” said Crowe, wiping a hand on the seat of her pants.

“I'm minding him for a few days.”

“Dogs are good company.”

“Um.”

Obviously, she'd never spent time with Boyd.

“I had a talk with the Wahnetah family. Daniel still hasn't returned.”

I waited while she sipped her soda.

“They say he stood about five-seven.”

“Did he complain about his feet?”

“Apparently he never complained about anything. Didn't talk much at all, liked to be alone. But here's an interesting sidebar. One of Daniel's campsites was out at Running Goat Branch.”

“Where's Running Goat Branch?”

“Spit and a half from your walled enclosure.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

“Was he there when he went missing?”

“The family wasn't sure, but that was the first place they checked.”

“I've got another sidebar,” I said, my excitement growing.

I told her about the discriminant function classification placing the foot bones closest to those of Native Americans.

“Now can you get a warrant?” I asked.

“Based on what?”

I ticked off points by raising fingers.

“An elderly Native American went missing in your county. I have a body part fitting that profile. This body part was recovered in proximity to a location frequented by your missing person.”

She cocked an eyebrow, then did her own ticking.

“A body part that might or might not be related to an aviation disaster. An old man who might or might not be dead. A property that might or might not be implicated in either situation.”

The hunch of an anthropologist who might or might not be the spawn of Satan. I didn't say it.

“Let's at least go to his camp and look around,” I pushed.

She thought a moment, then looked at her watch.

“That I can do.”

“Give me five minutes.” I gestured at Boyd.

She nodded.

“Come on, boy.”

The head came up and the eyebrows puckered.

A ping in my mind. The dead squirrel. My line of work makes me unusually sensitive to the smell of putrefaction, yet I hadn't detected a trace. Boyd went ballistic at ten yards.

“Could the dog ride along?” I asked. “He's not cadaver-trained, but he's pretty good at sniffing out carrion.”

“He sits in back.”

I opened the door and whistled. Boyd bounded over and leaped in.

Eleven days had passed since the Air TransSouth crash. All remains had been taken to the morgue, and the last of the wreckage was being hauled down the mountain. The recovery operation was winding down, and the change was evident.

The county road was now open, though a sheriff 's deputy protected the entrance to the Forest Service road. The families and press were gone, and only a handful of vehicles occupied the overlook holding area.

Crowe cut the engine where the road ended, about a half mile beyond the cutoff to the crash site. A large granite outcropping lay to the right. Clipping a radio to her belt, she crossed the gravel track and walked the uphill side, carefully studying the tree line.

I leashed Boyd and followed, keeping him as close to me as I could. After a full five minutes the sheriff cut left and disappeared up the embankment into the trees. I gave Boyd his head, and was dragged along in her wake.

The land climbed steeply, leveled off, then shot downward into a valley. As we moved farther and farther from the road, the trees closed around us, and everything started to look the same. But the landmarks given by the Wahnetah family made sense to the sheriff. She found the path they'd described, and from it a small dirt road. I couldn't tell if it was the same logging trail that passed by the wreckage field or another similar to it.

It took Crowe forty minutes to locate Daniel's cabin, set among beech and pine at the edge of a small creek. I probably would have walked right past it.

The camp looked as though it had been thrown up in an afternoon. The shack was wood, the floor dirt, the roof corrugated tin, extended in front to provide shelter for a makeshift bench beside the door. A wooden table and another bench sat to the left front of the shanty, a tree stump to the right. Out back I could see a pile of bottles, cans, tires, and other refuse.

“How do you suppose the tires got here?” I asked.

Crowe shrugged.

Gingerly, I cracked the door and stuck my head inside. In the gloom I could make out a cot, an aluminum lawn chair, and a collapsible table holding a rusty camp stove and a collection of plastic dishes and cups. Fishing gear, a bucket, a shovel, and a lantern hung from nails. Kerosene cans lined the floor. That was it.

“Would the old man leave his fishing gear if he planned to move on?”

Another shrug.

Lacking a real plan, Crowe and I decided to split up. She searched the creek bank while I walked the surrounding woods. My canine companion sniffed and peed contentedly.

Returning to the shack, I secured Boyd to a table leg, swung the door wide, and propped it with a rock. Inside, the air smelled of mildew, kerosene, and muscatel. Millipedes skittered as I shifted objects, and at one point a daddy longlegs high-stepped up my arm. I found nothing to indicate where Daniel Wahnetah had gone or when he'd left. Or why.