Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.

Boyd.

After popping two Bayers, I collected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel, then the wall at the courtyard house. Just what had his former owner trained him to find?

Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.

The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hill, overlooking Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valley on the other. The drive took seven minutes. Boyd did not understand the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I pulled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.

Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking back divots with his hind feet. Finally, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and yipped.

Sylvia Hotchkins

Entered this world January 12, 1945. Left this world April 20, 1968.

Taken too early in the spring of her life.

Sixty-eight was a rough year for all of us, Sylvia.

Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large oak shading Sylvia's grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the tray in my hands.

When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.

“Sit.”

He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose, separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettucetomato garnish sequentially. Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.

“Sit.”

He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them delicately off the surface so they wouldn't sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and slipped a straw into my drink.

“Now here's the deal.”

Boyd glanced up, went back to the fries.

“Why would Simon Midkiff have gone to the funeral of a seventy-four-year-old Cherokee killed by a bear in 1959?”

We both ate and thought about that.

“Midkiff is an archaeologist. He might have been researching the Eastern Band Cherokee. Maybe Tramper was his guide and historian.”

Boyd's attention shifted to my burger. I replenished his potatoes.

“O.K. I'll buy that.”

I took a bite, chewed, swallowed.

“Why was Parker Davenport there?”

Boyd looked at me without raising his head from the fries.

“Davenport grew up near here. He probably knew Tramper.”

Boyd's ears flicked forward, back again. He finished the last of his fries and stared at mine. I flipped him a few.

“Perhaps Tramper and Davenport had mutual friends on the reservation. Or maybe Davenport was already building a political base in those days.”

I threw out another half dozen fries. Boyd reengaged.

“How about this? Did Davenport and Midkiff know each other back then?”

Boyd's head came up. His eyebrows spun and his tongue dropped.

“If so, how?”

He cocked his head and watched as I finished my burger. I tossed him the rest of my fries, and he ate them as I sipped my Diet Coke.

“Here's the big one, Boyd.”

I gathered wrappers and bunched them with the remains of the tray. Seeing no more food, Boyd flopped onto his side, sighed loudly, and closed his eyes.

“Midkiff lied to me. Davenport wants my head on a spike. Is there a link?”

Boyd had no answer.

I sat with my back to the oak, absorbing warmth and light. The grass smelled freshly mown, the leaves dry and sun-baked. At one point Boyd rose, turned four times, then resettled at my side.

A short time later a man came over the crest of the hill, leading a collie on a length of rope. Boyd sat up and barked at the dog but didn't make an aggressive move. The late-afternoon sunshine was mellowing woman and beast. Reeling him in, I got to my feet.

As dusk gathered, we strolled among the gravestones. Though I spotted no one from the H&F list, and no Dashwoods, I did find markers with familiar names. Thaddeus Bowman. Victor Livingstone and his daughter, Sarah Masham Livingstone. Enoch McCready.

I remembered Luke Bowman's words, and wondered what had caused the death of Ruby's husband in 1986. Instead of answers, I was finding more questions.

But one mystery was solved. One missing person found. Turning to go, I stumbled across an unadorned slab in the cemetery's southernmost corner. Its face was inscribed with a simple message.

Tucker Adams

1871–1943

R.I.P.

LEAVING THE CEMETERY, I DROVE TOHIGH RIDGE HOUSE, SETTLED Boyd for the night, and returned to my room, unaware that it would be my busiest telephone evening since junior high.

I'd hardly hit the power switch when Pete called.

“How's Big B?”

“Enjoying the mountain food and fauna. Are you back in Charlotte?”

“Hung up in the Hoosier state. Is he straining your patience?”

“Boyd has a unique take on life.”

“What's new?”

I told him about Primrose.

“Oh, babe, I'm really sorry. Are you O.K.?”

“I'll be fine,” I lied. “There's more.”

I summarized the interrogation with Davenport, and listed the complaints the lieutenant governor planned to file.

“Sounds like a mainline mind fuck.”

“Don't try to impress me with legal jargon.”

“This has to be politically motivated. Any conjectures as to why?”

“He doesn't like my hair.”

“I do. Did you establish anything more about the foot?”

I told him about the histological age estimate, about the racial classification, and about the formerly and currently missing Daniel Wahnetah and Jeremiah Mitchell.

“Mitchell sounds like a winning candidate for the foot.”

I described the photo of Charlie Wayne Tramper's funeral and my phone call to Raleigh.

“Why would Midkiff lie to you about doing a dig?”

“He doesn't like my hair. Should I get an attorney?”

“You have one.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Next, it was Ryan. He and McMahon had finished late and would be returning to the reassembly site at dawn, so they were overnighting in Asheville.

“Problems with your phone?”

“The media are scenting blood in the water, so I've had it turned off. Besides, I spent a lot of the day in the library.”

“Learn anything?”

“Mountain life is hard on old folks.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. Seems like a lot of seniors drown, freeze to death, or end up in the food chain around here. I'll take the flatlands, thanks. What goes with the investigation?”

“The chemical guys are picking up weird traces.”

“Explosives?”

“Not necessarily. I'll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Have Bertrand and Petricelli been found?”

“No.”

Lucy Crowe beeped in at that point, and I clicked over. She had little to report and no warrant.

“The DA doesn't want to second-guess the magistrate without something more solid.”

“What the hell do these people want? Miss Scarlet in the library, candlestick in hand?”

“She finds your argument contradictory.”

“Contradictory?”

“The VFA profile says something died during the summer. Mitchell disappeared in February. Madam Prosecutor is convinced the stain is from an animal. Says you can't bust in on a citizen for aging meat in his backyard.”

“And the foot?”

“Crash victim.”

“Anything on Primrose's murder?”