Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

Ruby's ceramic figurine of Orphan Annie lay at the bottom of the tub, her face smashed, her limbs shattered. Sandy dangled from the showerhead, a makeshift noose tight around his neck.

Again, my mind flew, my hands trembled. This message had nothing to do with money. Someone clearly didn't care for me.

Suddenly, I remembered the Volvo. Was that episode a threat? Was this intrusion another? I fought the impulse to run down the hall to Ryan's room.

I considered the lockless doors and thought about bringing Boyd inside. Then who would be threatened?

An hour later, lying in bed and somewhat more logical, I reflected on the strength of my reaction to the invasion of my space. Had it been anger or fear that had sent me over the edge? At whom should I be angry? What should I fear?

Sleep did not come easily.

WHEN I CAME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT MORNING, RYAN WAS questioning Ruby about my intruder. Byron McMahon sat across from him, dividing his attention between the interrogation and a trio of fried eggs.

Ruby had one comment.

“Satan's minions are among us.”

I was annoyed by her nonchalance toward the rifling of my possessions, but let it go.

“Was anything taken?” asked McMahon. Good. The FBI was on my case.

“I don't think so.”

“Been irritating someone?”

“I suspect my dog has. Dogs bark.” I described what had been done to Annie and Sandy.

Ryan looked at me oddly but said nothing.

“This place isn't exactly Los Alamos. Anyone could walk in and out of here.” McMahon forked up fried potatoes. “What else have you been up to lately? I haven't seen you around.”

I told him about the foot and the courtyard house, ending with the VFA profile I'd gotten the day before. I did not tell him about my current status in the crash investigation, but left that gap for him to fill. As I spoke, his grin slowly dissolved.

“So Crowe is going for a warrant?” he asked, cop cool.

I was about to answer when my cell phone sounded the William Tell Overture. The men looked at each other as I clicked it on.

The call was from Laslo Sparkes at Oak Ridge. I listened, thanked him, and rang off.

“Rossini calling?” Ryan asked.

“I was testing the ring options and forgot to change it back.” I jabbed my egg and yolk spurted onto the table. “I wouldn't have pegged you as an opera buff.”

“Zinger.” McMahon reached for a slice of toast.

“It was the anthropologist at Oak Ridge.”

“Let me guess. He's profiled the soup, and the missing body is D. B. Cooper.”

Ryan was on a roll. Ignoring him, I directed my response to McMahon.

“He found something while filtering the remaining soil.”

“What's that?”

“He didn't say. Just that the item might be useful. He's going to stop by Bryson City sometime later in the week on his way to Asheville.”

Ruby returned, cleared plates, left.

“So you're off to the courthouse?” Ryan.

“Yes.” Terse.

“Sounds like detecting.”

“Somebody's got to do it.”

“It can't hurt to know who owns that property.” McMahon drained his cup. “After today's briefing I have to shoot down to Charlotte to interview some asswipe claiming to have information about a militia group up here in Swain. Otherwise, I'd tag along.”

He drew a card from his wallet and placed it in front of me.

“If they're uncooperative at the courthouse, wave this. Sometimes the acronym induces a mood swing.”

“Thanks.” I pocketed the card.

McMahon excused himself, leaving Ryan and me and three empty mugs.

“Who do you think tossed your room?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

“They were looking for your shower gel.”

“I wouldn't belittle this. How about I poke around, ask a few questions?”

“You know that'd be a journey into pointlessness. These things are never solved.”

“It would let folks know that someone is curious.”

“I'll talk with Crowe.”

I rose to leave and he took my arm.

“Do you want backup at the courthouse?”

“In case of an armed attack by the recorder of deeds?”

He looked away, back at me.

“Would you like company at the courthouse?”

“Aren't you going to the NTSB briefing?”

“McMahon can fill me in. But there's one condition.”

I waited.

“Change your phone.”

“Hi-Ho, Silver,” I said.

The Swain County Administration Building and Courthouse replaced its predecessor in 1982. It is a rectangular concrete building, with a low-angled roof of red galvanized metal, that sits on the bank of the Tuckasegee River. Though lacking the charm of the old domed courthouse at Everett and Main, the structure is bright, clean, and efficient.

The tax office is located on the ground floor, immediately off a tiled octagonal lobby. When Ryan and I entered, four women looked up from computers, two behind a counter directly ahead, two behind a counter to our left.

I explained what we wanted. Woman number three pointed to a door at the back of the room.

“Land Records Department,” she said.

Eight eyes traveled with us across the floor.

“Must be where they archive the classified stuff,” Ryan whispered as I opened the door.

We entered to find another counter, this one guarded by a tall, thin woman with an angular face. It brought to mind my father's old picture of Stan Musial.

“May I help you?”

“We'd like to look at the county tax index map.”

The woman put a hand to her mouth, as though the question startled her.

“The tax map?”

I began to suspect my request was a first. Taking Byron McMahon's card from my pocket, I walked to the counter and handed it to her.

Madam Musial eyeballed the card. “Is this, like, the actual FBI?”

When she looked up, I nodded.

“Byron?”

“It's a family name.” I smiled winningly.

“Do you have a gun?”

“Not here.” Not anywhere, but that would tarnish the image.

“Does this have to do with the airplane crash?”

I leaned close. She smelled of mint and overperfumed shampoo. “What we're looking for could be critical to the investigation.”

Behind me, I heard Ryan's feet shift.

“My name is Dorothy.” She handed back the card. “I'll get it.”

Dorothy went to a map case, pulled out a drawer approximately two inches high, withdrew a large sheet, and spread it on the counter.

Ryan and I bent over the map. Using township boundaries, roads, and other markers, we pinpointed the section containing the courtyard house. Dorothy observed from her side of the divide, vigilant as an Egyptologist displaying a papyrus.

“Now we'd like section map six-two-one, please.”

Dorothy smiled to indicate she was part of the sting, went to another case, and returned with the document.

Earlier in my career as an anthropologist, when I had done some archaeology, I'd spent hours with U.S. Geological Survey maps and knew how to interpret symbols and features. The experience came in handy. Using elevations, creeks, and roads, Ryan and I were able to zero in on the house.

“Section map six twenty-one, parcel four.”

Keeping my finger on the spot, I looked up. Dorothy's face was inches from mine.

“How long will it take to pull up the tax records for this property?”

“About a minute.”

I must have looked surprised.

“Swain County is not a pumpkin patch. We are computerized.”

Dorothy went to a rear corner in her “secure” area and lifted a plastic cover from a monitor and keyboard. Ryan and I waited as she fastidiously folded the plastic, placed it on an overhead shelf, and booted the computer. When the program was up and running she keyed in a number of commands. Seconds passed. Finally, she entered the tax number and the screen filled with information.