“How's the Walkingstick Chili?”
“Hot. Like me.”
I fought a gag impulse.
“I'll go for it. And a bottle of Carolina Pale.”
“Coming atcha, cowboy.”
Click. Click. Click. Click. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.
I waited until Tammi was out of earshot, which, given the din, was about two steps.
“Nice choice.”
“One should mingle with the locals.”
“You were pretty critical of the locals this morning.”
“One must keep a finger on the pulse of the common man.”
“And woman.” Tap. Tap. “Cowboy.”
Tammi returned with a beer, a Diet Coke, and a million miles of teeth. I smiled her back to the kitchen.
“Anything new since this morning?” I asked when she'd gone.
“Seems Haskell Simington may not be such a hot pick. Turns out he's worth zillions, so a two mill policy on his wife isn't that unusual. Besides being worth megabucks, the guy named their kids as beneficiaries.”
“That's it?”
Ryan waited out another sound check.
“The structures group reported that three quarters of the plane has been trucked down the mountain. They're reassembling in a hangar near Asheville.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Screeeeeeech. Two. Three. Four.
Ryan's eyes drifted to a TV behind my head.
“That's it?”
“That's it. Why the orange paw prints?”
“It's a Clemson home game.”
He looked a question at me.
“Never mind.”
Tammi was back after three downs.
“I gave you extra cheese,” she purred, bending low to give Ryan a spectacular view of cleavage.
“I love cheese.” Ryan gave her another blinding smile, and Tammi held position.
Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.
I glared at Tammi's breasts, and she removed them from my line of vision.
“Will that be all?”
“Ketchup.” I picked up a French fry.
“Any talk about my visit to headquarters this morning?”
When I lifted my burger a cheese umbilicus clung to the plate.
“Special Agent McMahon said you looked good in jeans.”
“I didn't see McMahon there.” The bun was raining soggy clumps onto the cheese connector.
“He saw you. At least from the back.”
“What's the FBI position on my dismissal?”
“I can't speak for the entire Bureau, but I know McMahon isn't fond of your state's second in command.”
“I don't know for certain that Davenport is behind the complaint.”
“Whether he is or not, McMahon has no time for him. He called Davenport a brainless buttwipe.” Ryan spooned chili into his mouth, followed it with beer. “We Irish are poets at heart.”
“That brainless buttwipe can probably have you invited back to Canada.”
“How was your afternoon?”
“I went to the reservation.”
“Did you see Tonto?”
“How did I know you would ask that?”
I reached into my bag and produced the moccasins.
“I wanted you to have something from my native land.”
“To atone for the way you've been treating me lately?”
“I've been treating you as a colleague.”
“A colleague who'd like to suck your toes.”
My stomach did that little flippy thing.
“Open the package.”
He did.
“These are kickin'.”
Resting an ankle on one knee, Ryan replaced a deck shoe with a moccasin. A big-haired deb at the bar stopped peeling the label from her Coors to watch him.
“Made by Sitting Bull himself?”
“Sitting Bull was Sioux. These were probably made by Wang Chou Lee.”
He reversed, and did the other foot. The deb jabbed an elbow at her companion.
“You may not want to wear them here.”
“Certainly I do. They were a gift from a colleague.”
He wrapped the deck shoes in the moccasin bag and went back to his chili.
“Meet any interesting aboriginals?”
I wanted to say no. “Actually, I did.”
He looked up with eyes blue enough to blend in with a village full of Finns.
“Or, I might have.”
I told him about the Volvo incident.
“Jesus, Brennan. How do—”
“I know. How do I get myself into these situations. Do you think I should worry about it?” I was hoping he would say no.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.
Chili.
Beer.
Fragments of conversations.
“The deconstructionists tell us that nothing is real, but I've discovered one or two truisms in life. The first is, when attacked by a Volvo, take it seriously.”
“I'm not sure the guy meant to run me down. Maybe he didn't see me.”
“Did you think so at the time?”
“That's how it felt.”
“Second truism: Volvo first impressions are generally correct.”
We'd finished eating and Ryan was in the men's room when I noticed Lucy Crowe enter and make her way toward the bar. She was in uniform and looked armed and deadly.
I waved but Crowe didn't notice. I stood and waved again, and a voice bellowed, “You're blocking the game. Park it or haul it.”
Ignoring the suggestion, I flapped both arms. Crowe saw me, nodded, and held up an index finger. As I sat, the bartender handed her a glass, then leaned forward to whisper something.
“Hey, sweet cheeks!” A redneck scorned is never pretty. I continued to ignore, he continued to taunt.
“Hey, you with the windmill act.” The redneck was ratcheting up when he spotted the sheriff moving in my direction. Realizing his error, he swigged his beer and reengaged with the game.
Ryan and Crowe reached the booth simultaneously. Noticing Ryan's feet, the sheriff looked at me.
“He's Canadian.”
Ryan let it pass and resumed his seat.
Crowe set her 7UP on the table and joined us.
“Dr. Brennan has a story she wants to share,” said Ryan, pulling out his cigarettes.
I looked icicles at him. I would have preferred a lifetime of tax audits to telling Crowe of the Volvo incident.
She listened without interrupting.
“Did you get the license number?”
“No.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Wearing a cap.”
“What kind of cap?”
“I couldn't tell.” I could feel my cheeks flush with humiliation.
“Was anyone else present?”
“No. I checked. Look, the whole thing may have been an accident. Maybe it was a kid peeling out in Daddy's Volvo.”
“Is that what you think?” The celery eyes were locked on mine.
“No. I don't know.”
I placed my hands on the tabletop, pulled them back, and wiped spilled beer onto my jeans.
“While I was on the reservation I thought of something that might be helpful,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh?”
I described the foot bone research and explained how the measurements could be used to determine racial background.
“So I may be able to sort out your rainbow coalition.”
“I'll talk with Daniel Wahnetah's kin tomorrow.”
She swirled the ice in her 7UP.
“But I unearthed some interesting facts about George Adair.”
“The missing angler?”
A Crowe nod.
“Adair saw his doctor twelve times during the past year. Seven of those visits were for throat problems. The other five were for pain in his feet.”
“Hot dog.�
��
“It gets better. Adair's only gone one week, his grieving widow takes a trip to Las Vegas with the next-door neighbor.”
I waited while she drained her 7UP.
“The neighbor is George Adair's best friend.”
“And fishing buddy?”
“You've got it.”
THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT UNTIL EIGHT, FED BOYD, AND OVERdosed on one of Ruby's mountain breakfasts. My hostess had bonded with the dog, and that day's Scripture lauded the fish of the sea, the fowl of the air, and things that creepeth upon the earth. I wondered if Boyd qualified as a creeper but didn't ask.
Ryan hadn't appeared by the time I left the dining room. Either he was out early, sacking in, or passing up the hotcakes, bacon, and grits. We'd returned from Injun Joe's around eleven the previous night, and he'd proffered his usual invitation. I'd left him on the front porch, swinging without me.
I was climbing to Magnolia when my cell phone rang. It was Primrose, calling from the incident morgue.
“You must have risen with the birds.”
“Have you been outside?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“It's a great gettin'-up morning out there.”
“Did you get the fax?”
“I surely did. Studied the descriptions and diagrams and took every measurement.”
“You're amazing, Primrose.”
I double-stepped the last few stairs, raced to my room, and opened the file on case number 387. After jotting down the new figures, we compared Primrose's data with that which I'd already collected.
“Each of your measurements is within one millimeter of mine,” I said. “You're good.”
“You got that right.”
Confident that inter-observer error would not be a problem, I thanked her, and asked when I could get the chapter. She suggested I meet her at the parking lot gate in twenty minutes. In her opinion, entry into the morgue was not yet an option for me.
Primrose must have been watching, for as soon as I left the highway she emerged through the morgue's back door and began picking her way across the lot, cane in one hand, plastic grocery bag in the other.
Meanwhile, the guard came forward, read my license plate, and checked a clipboard. Then he shook his head, held one hand in a halt gesture, and signaled me to reverse direction with the other. Primrose approached him and said a few words.
The guard continued to signal and shake his head. Primrose leaned close and spoke again, old black woman to young black man. The guard rolled his eyes, then folded his hands across his chest and watched her continue toward my car, a five-star general in boots, fatigues, and granny bun.
Leaning on her cane, she handed the bag through the driver's-side window. Her face was serious a moment, then a smile lighted her eyes, and she patted me on the shoulder.
“Don't you pay this trouble no mind, Tempe. You haven't done any of those things and they'll see that soon.”
“Thanks, Primrose. You're right, but it's hard.”
“Course it is. But I'm keeping you in my prayers.”
Her voice was as soothing as a Brandenburg Concerto.
“In the meantime, you just take one day at a time. One damn day at a time.”
With that she turned and set off toward the morgue.
I'd rarely heard Primrose Hobbs curse.
Back in my room, I pulled out the chapter, flipped to Table IV, plugged in the measurements, and did the math.
The foot classified as American Indian.
I calculated again, using a second function.
Though closer to the cluster for African Americans, the foot still fell with the Native Americans.
George Adair was white, Jeremiah Mitchell was black. So much for the missing fisherman and the man who'd borrowed his neighbor's ax.
Unless he'd wandered back to the reservation, Daniel Wahnetah was looking like a match.
I checked my watch. Ten forty-five. Late enough.
The sheriff was not in. No. They would not phone her at home. No. They would not give out her pager number. Was this an emergency? They would relay the message that I had called.
Damn. Why hadn't I gotten Crowe's pager number?
For the next two hours I engaged in irrelevant activity, directed by the brain for tension relief rather than goal attainment. Behaviorists call it displacement.
Following a laundry session involving panties in the bathroom sink, I sorted and organized the contents of my briefcase, deleted temporary files from my laptop, balanced my checkbook, and rearranged Ruby's glass animal collection. I then phoned my daughter, sister, and estranged husband.
Pete did not answer, and I assumed he was still in Indiana. Katy did not answer, and I made no assumptions. Harry kept me on the phone for forty minutes. She was quitting her job, having trouble with her teeth, and dating a man named Alvin from Denton. Or was it Denton from Alvin?
I was testing the ring options on my phone when a strange baying arose from the yard, like a hound in a Bela Lugosi movie. Peering through the screen, I saw Boyd seated in the middle of his run, head thrown back, a wail rising from his throat.
“Boyd.”
He stopped howling and looked around. Far down the mountain I heard a siren.
“I'm up here.”
The dog stood and cocked his head, then the purple tongue slid out.
“Look up, boy.”
Reverse cock.
“Up!” I clapped my hands.
The chow spun, ran to the end of the pen, sat, and resumed his love song to the ambulance.
The first thing one notices on meeting Boyd is his disproportionately large head. It was becoming clear that the dog's cranial capacity was in no way related to the size of his intellect.
Grabbing jacket and leash, I headed out.
The temperature was still warm, but the sky was slowly filling with dark-centered clouds. Wind flapped my jacket and gusted leaves and pine needles across the gravel road.
This time we did the uphill lap first, Boyd charging ahead, huffing and coughing as the collar tightened across his larynx. He raced from tree to tree, sniffing and squirting, while I gazed into the valley below, each of us enjoying the mountain in our own way.
We'd gone perhaps a half mile when Boyd froze and his head shot up. The fur went stiff along his spine, his mouth half opened, and a growl rose from the back of his throat, a sound quite different from the siren display.
“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 aroun
d, 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.”
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