Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“Stop!”

I screamed and threw the rock, catching the closest animal near its eye. He yelped and twisted, scampering backward. The others froze for a moment, then resumed circling.

Placing my back to the fallen tree, I twisted a branch from side to side, trying to detach it.

The circle was getting smaller. I could hear their panting, smell their bodies. One of the group took a step inside the circle, then another, flicking its tail up, down. It stood staring, soundless.

The branch broke, and at the sound the wolf jumped back, then stood again and stared.

Grasping my branch like a baseball bat, I screamed, “Beat it, you scavengers. Get out of here,” and lunged at the lead wolf, swinging my club.

The wolf easily jumped out of the way, retreated a few feet, then resumed circling and snarling. As I was readying my lungs for the loudest yell that had ever escaped them, someone beat me to it.

“Scram, you goddamn fur balls. Yo! Haul ass!”

Then one missile followed by another landed near the lead wolf.

The wolf scented, snarled, then spun and loped off into the underbrush. The others hesitated, then moved off behind him.

Hands trembling, I dropped the branch and braced myself against the fallen sourwood.

A figure in Tyvek and mask ran toward me and heaved another rock in the direction of the disappearing wolves. Then a hand went up and removed the mask. Though barely visible in the twilight gloom, I recognized the face.

But it couldn't be. This was too improbable to be real.

“NICE SWING. YOU LOOKED LIKE SAMMY SOSA.”

“The goddamn thing was getting ready to go for my throat!” It was almost a shriek.

“They don't attack live people. They were only trying to drive you away from their dinner.”

“Did one of them explain that to you personally?”

Andrew Ryan plucked a leaf from my hair.

But Ryan was underground somewhere in Quebec.

“What in hell are you doing here?” Slightly calmer.

“Is that a thank-you, Goldilocks? Maybe Riding Hood would be more appropriate, given the circumstances.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, brushing bangs off my forehead. Though I was grateful for the intervention, I preferred not to cast it as a rescue.

“Nice do.”

He reached for my hair again, and I parried the move. As usual when our paths crossed, I was not looking my best.

“I'm scraping up quarts of brain matter, and a wolf pack was just sizing me up as a candidate for joining the dismembered, and you find fault with my styling gel?”

“Is there a reason you're out here by yourself?”

His paternalism irritated me. “Is there a reason you're here at all?”

The lines in his face tensed. Such nice lines, each placed exactly where it ought to be.

“Bertrand was on the plane.”

“Jean?”

The passenger list. Bertrand. It was a common name, so I'd never thought of Ryan's partner.

“He was escorting a prisoner.” Ryan drew air through his nostrils, exhaled. “They were connecting to an Air Canada flight at Dulles.”

“Oh, God. Oh, my God. I am so sorry.”

We stood mute, unsure what to say, until the silence was pierced by an eerie, quavering sound, followed by a series of high-pitched yips. Were our friends challenging us to a rematch?

“We'd better get back,” Ryan said.

“No argument here.”

Ryan unzipped his jumpsuit, took a flashlight from his belt, flicked the switch, and raised it to shoulder level.

“After you.”

“Wait. Let me have the light.”

He handed it to me, and I crossed to the spot where I'd first seen the wolf.

Ryan followed.

“If you're hunting mushrooms, this is not a good time.”

He stopped when he saw what lay on the ground.

The foot looked macabre in the yellow beam, its flesh ending in a crushed mass just above the ankle. Shadows danced in and out of the grooves and pits left by carnivore teeth.

Pulling fresh gloves from my pocket, I snapped one on and picked up the foot. Then I marked the spot with another glove and secured it with a rock.

“Shouldn't it be mapped?”

“We can't tell where the pack found this. Besides, if we leave the thing here it's puppy chow.”

“You're the boss.”

I followed Ryan out of the woods, holding the foot as far from my body as possible.

When we got back to the command center, Ryan went into the NTSB trailer and I took my find to the temporary morgue. After hearing my explanation of its provenance and why I'd collected it, the intake team assigned it a number, bagged it, and sent it to one of the refrigerated trucks. I rejoined the recovery operation.

* * *

Two hours later Earl found me and delivered a note: Report to the morgue. 7 A.M. LT.

He produced an address and told me I was done for the day. No amount of argument would change his mind.

I went to decontamination, showered under scalding water for as long as I could take it, and put on fresh clothes. I left the trailer with Christmas-bow skin, but at least the smell was gone.

Clomping down the steps, as exhausted as I'd ever been, I noticed Ryan leaning against a bubble-top cruiser ten feet up the access road, talking with Lucy Crowe.

“You look beat,” said Crowe when I drew near.

“I'm good,” I said. “Earl pulled me in.”

“How's it going out there?”

“It's going.”

I felt like a midget talking to them. Both Ryan and Crowe topped six feet, though she had him beat in shoulder breadth. He looked like a point guard; she was a power forward.

Not in a mood to chat, I asked Crowe for directions and excused myself.

“Hold it, Brennan.” I allowed Ryan to catch up, then gave him a “don't bring it up” look. I did not want to discuss wolves.

As we walked, I thought of Jean Bertrand, with his designer jackets, matching ties, and earnest face. Bertrand always gave the impression he was trying too hard, listening too closely, afraid to miss an important clue or nuance. I could hear him, flipping from French to English in his own personal brand of Franglais, laughing at his own jokes, unaware that others weren't.

I remembered the first time I'd met Bertrand. Shortly after arriving in Montreal, I'd gone to a Christmas party hosted by the SQ homicide unit. Bertrand was there, mildly drunk, and newly partnered with Andrew Ryan. The hotshot detective was already something of a legend, and Bertrand's veneration flowed undisguised. By evening's end the hero worship had grown embarrassing for everyone. Especially Ryan.

“How old was he?” I voiced the question without thinking.

“Thirty-seven.” Ryan was right there in the middle of my thoughts. “Jesus.”

We reached the county road and headed uphill.

“Whom was he escorting?”

“A guy named Rémi Petricelli, known to his friends as Pepper.”

I knew the name. Petricelli was a bigwig in the Quebec Hells Angels, reputed to have ties to organized crime. The Canadian and American governments had been investigating him for years.

“What was Pepper doing in Georgia?”

“About two months ago a small-time trafficker named Jacques Fontana ended up charcoal in a Subaru Outback. When every road led to his door, Pepper decided to sample the hospitality of his brothers in Dixie. Long story short, Pepper was spotted in a bar in Atlanta, the locals nailed him, and last week Georgia agreed to extradite. Bertrand was hauling his ass back to Quebec.”

We'd arrived at my car. Across at the overlook, a spotlighted man held a mike while an assistant powdered his face.