Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

Fact: The foot and its dossier were now missing. Possibility: Primrose Hobbs had kept the material. Possibility: Primrose Hobbs had returned the material, which was then taken by someone else.

Fact: The remains of Jean Bertrand and Pepper Petricelli had not been identified. Possibility: Neither man was on the plane. Possibility: Both the detective and his prisoner were on board, their bodies pulverized by the explosion.

Fact: Jean Bertrand was now a suspect.

Fact: A witness claimed to have seen Pepper Petricelli in upstate New York. Possibility: Bertrand had been turned. Possibility: Bertrand had been burned.

Fact: I had been accused of stealing evidence. Possibility: I was no longer trusted because of my relationship with Andrew Ryan, Bertrand's SQ partner. Possibility: I was being set up as a scapegoat to prevent me from participating in the investigation. But which investigation, the plane crash or the courtyard house? Possibility: I was at risk. Somebody had tried to run me down and had trashed my room.

A tickle of fear. I held my breath, listening. Silence.

Fact: Primrose Hobbs had been murdered. Possibility: Her death was a random act of violence. More likely: Her death was related to the missing foot.

Fact: Edward Arthur obtained the property at Running Goat Branch in 1933 through his marriage to Sarah Livingstone. He rented it as a campground, then built a lodge, then sold the land in 1949 to a man named Prentice Dashwood, but title was taken in the name of H&F Investment Group, LLP. Arthur had not erected any stone walls or a courtyard. Who was Prentice Dashwood?

I turned on the lamp, retrieved McMahon's Delaware fax, and scurried back to bed, my lips chattering. Huddled under the covers, I reread the names.

W. G. Davis, F. M. Payne, C. A. Birkby, F. L. Warren, P. H. Rollins, M. P. Veckhoff.

The only name that was remotely familiar was that of Veckhoff. A Charlottean named Pat Veckhoff had served in the North Carolina senate for sixteen years. He had died suddenly the previous winter. I wondered if there was a link to the M. P. Veckhoff on the list.

Returning the room to darkness, I lay back and searched for connections among the things I knew. It was hopeless. Images of Primrose kept disrupting my concentration.

Primrose at her computer, glasses on the end of her nose. Primrose in the parking lot. Primrose at the scene of a commuter plane crash, 1997, Kinston, North Carolina. Primrose across a card table, playing bid whit. Primrose in Charlotte. The Presbyterian Hospital cafeteria. I was eating vegetarian pizza made with canned peas and asparagus. I remembered hating the pizza, but not why I had met Primrose there.

Primrose lying in a body bag.

Why, dear God?

Was she carefully chosen, researched, stalked, then overpowered as part of an elaborate plan? Or was she selected by chance? Some psycho's sick impulse. The first blue Honda. The fourth woman to exit the mall. The next black. Was death part of the plan, or did things go badly wrong, spinning out of control to one irreversible moment?

Violence against women is not a recent phenomenon. The bones of my sisters litter history and prehistory. The mass grave at Cahokia. The sacred cenote at Chichén Itzá. The Iron Age girl in the bog, hair shorn, blindfolded and leashed.

Women are conditioned to be wary. Walk faster at the sound of footsteps. Peek through the hole before opening the door. Stand by the controls in the empty elevator. Fear the dark. Was Primrose simply another marcher in a random parade of female victims?

Who was I kidding? I knew the reason. Had no doubt.

Primrose Hobbs had been killed because she fulfilled a request. My request. She had accepted a fax, taken measurements, and provided data. She had helped me, and in doing that she had threatened someone.

I'd gotten her involved, and that someone had butchered her for it. The guilt and sorrow formed a physical weight pressing on my chest.

But how had Primrose posed a threat? Had she uncovered something that I did not know? Had she realized the significance of that discovery, or had she been unaware of its importance? Had she been silenced for what she knew, or for what someone feared she would figure out?

And what about me? Was I also a threat to some homicidal madman?

My thoughts were interrupted by a soft wailing from below. Throwing back the covers, I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipped into my deck shoes. Then I tiptoed through the silent house and out the back door.

Boyd was sitting beside his doghouse, nose pointed at the night sky. On seeing me, he sprang to his feet and waggled the entire back half of his body. Then he dashed to the fence and went bipedal. Leaning on forepaws, he stretched his neck and gave a series of yips.

I reached over and scratched his ears. Boyd lapped my hand, giddy with excitement.

When I entered the pen and leashed him, the dog went hyperactive, spinning and kicking up dirt.

“Be cool.” I pointed a finger at his snout. “This is against the rules.”

He looked at me, tongue dangling, eyebrows dancing. I led him across the yard and into the house.

Moments later we lay in the dark, Boyd on the carpet beside my bed. I heard him sigh as he settled chin on forepaws.

I fell asleep with my hand on his head.

THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE EARLY, FEELING COLD AND EMPTY but unsure why. It came to me in a thick, dreadful wave.

Primrose was dead.

The combined agonies of loss and guilt were almost paralyzing, and I lay still a long time, wanting nothing to do with the world.

Then Boyd nuzzled my hip. I rolled over and scratched his ear.

“You're right, boy. Self-pity does no one any good.”

I rose, threw on clothes, and sneaked Boyd out to his run. During my absence a note appeared on the door to Magnolia. Ryan would be spending another day with McMahon and wouldn't need his car. The keys I'd left on his bureau were now on mine.

When I turned on my phone, I had five messages. Four journalists and P & T. I called the repair shop, dumped the rest.

The job was taking longer than anticipated. The car should be ready by tomorrow.

We'd gone from “could” to “should.” I was encouraged.

But what now?

An idea rose from deep in my past. The favorite refuge of a worried or restless little girl. It couldn't hurt, and I might uncover something useful.

And for a few hours, at least I would be anonymous and inaccessible.

Following toast and Frosted Flakes, I drove to the Marianna Black Public Library, a one-story redbrick box at the corner of Everett and Academy. Cardboard skeletons flanked the entrance, each with a book held in its hands.

A tall, spindly black man displaying several gold teeth occupied a counter at the main entrance. An older woman worked beside him, securing a chain of orange pumpkins above their heads. Both turned when I entered.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning.” The man showed a mile of precious metal. His lilac-haired companion eyed me suspiciously.

“I'd like to look at back issues of the local paper.” I smiled disarmingly.

“The Smoky Mountain Times ?” asked Mrs. Librarian, laying down her staple gun.

“Yes.”

“How far back?”

“Do you have material from the thirties and forties?”

Her frown deepened. “The collection begins in 1895. It was the Bryson City Times back then. A weekly. The older publications are on microfilm, of course. You can't view the originals.”

“Microfilm will be fine.”

Mr. Librarian began opening and stacking books. I noticed that his nails were buffed, his clothes immaculate.