Fatal Voyage tb-4

by Reichs, Kathy

  I passed it to Ryan, feeling deflated.

  “‘H&F Investment Group, LLP,’” he read aloud. “The mailing address is a PO box in New York.”

  He looked at me.

  “Who the hell is the H&F Investment Group?”

  I shrugged.

  “What's LLP?”

  “Limited liability partnership,” I said.

  “You could try the deed room.”

  We both turned to Dorothy. A touch of pink had sprouted on each cheek.

  “You could look up the date that H&F bought the property, and the name of the previous owner.”

  “They'd have that?”

  She nodded.

  We found the register of deeds around the corner from the tax office. The records room was situated behind the obligatory counter, through a set of slatted swinging doors. Shelves lining the walls and filling free-standing cases held deed books spanning hundreds of years. Recent ones were square and red, their numbers stated in plain gold lettering. Older volumes were ornately decorated, like leatherbound volumes of first editions.

  It was like a treasure hunt, with each deed sending us backward in time. We learned the following:

  The H&F Investment Group was an LLP registered in Delaware. Ownership of tax parcel number four transferred to the partnership in 1949 from one Edward E. Arthur. The description of the property was charming, but a bit loose by modern standards. I read it aloud to Ryan.

  “‘The property begins at a Spanish oak on a knob, the corner of state grant 11807, and runs north ninety poles to the Bellingford line, then up the ridge as it meanders with Bellingford's line to a chestnut in the line of the S. Q. Barker tract—’”

  “Where did Arthur get it?”

  I skipped the rest of the survey and read on.

  “Do you want to hear the ‘party of the first part’ bits?”

  “No.”

  “‘. . . having the same land conveyed by deed from Victor T. Livingstone and wife J. E. Clampett, dated March 26, 1933, and recorded in Deed Book number 52, page 315, Records of Swain County, North Carolina.’”

  I went to the shelf and pulled the older volume.

  Arthur had obtained the property from one Victor T. Livingstone in 1933. Livingstone must have purchased it from God, since there were no records before that time.

  “At least we know how the happy homeowners got in and out.”

  The Livingstone and Arthur deeds both described an entrance road.

  “Or get in and out.” I was still not convinced the property was abandoned. “While we were there Crowe found a track leading from the house to a logging trail. The turnoff at the trail is obscured by a makeshift gate completely overgrown with kudzu. When she showed me the entrance I couldn't believe it. You could walk or drive past it a million times without ever seeing it.”

  Ryan said nothing.

  “Now what?”

  “Now we wait for Crowe's warrant.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  Ryan grinned, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “In the meantime we talk to the attorney general of the great state of Delaware, find out what we can about the H&F Investment Group.”

  Boyd and I were sharing a club sandwich and fries on the porch at High Ridge House when Lucy Crowe's squad car appeared on the road below. I watched her wind upward toward the driveway. Boyd continued to watch the sandwich.

  “Spending quality time?” Crowe asked when she'd reached the stairs.

  “He says I've been neglecting him.”

  I held out a slice of ham. Boyd tipped his head and took it gently with his front teeth. Then he lowered his snout, dropped the ham on the porch, licked it twice, and wolfed it down. In seconds his chin was back on my knee.

  “They're just like kids.”

  “Mmm. Did you get the warrant?”

  Boyd's eyes moved as my hand moved, alert for lunch meat or fries.

  “I had a real heart-to-heart with the magistrate.”

  “And?”

  She sighed and removed her hat.

  “He says it's not enough.”

  “Evidence of a body?” I was shocked. “Daniel Wahnetah could be decomposing in that courtyard even as we speak.”

  “Are you familiar with the term junk science? I am. It was thrown at me at least a dozen times this morning. I think old Frank is going to start his own support group. Junk Science Victims Anonymous.”

  “Is the guy an idiot?”

  “He's never going to Sweden to collect a prize, but he's usually reasonable.”

  Boyd raised his head and blew air through his nose. I put my hand down and he sniffed, then gave it a lick.

  “You're neglecting him, again.”

  I offered a slice of egg. Boyd dropped it, licked it, sniffed, licked again, then left it on the porch.

  “I don't care for egg in club sandwiches, either,” Crowe said to Boyd. The dog moved his ear slightly, to indicate that he'd heard, but kept his eyes on my plate.

  “It gets worse,” Crowe went on.

  Why not?

  “There have been additional complaints.”

  “About me?”

  She nodded.

  “By whom?”

  “The magistrate wouldn't share that information. But if you go anywhere near the site, the morgue, or any crash-related record, item, or family member, I am to arrest you for obstruction of justice. That includes this courtyard property.”

  “What the hell is going on?” My stomach tightened in anger.

  Crowe shrugged. “I'm not sure. But you're out of that investigation.”

  “Am I allowed to go to the public library?” I spat.

  The sheriff rubbed the back of her neck and rested a boot on the bottom step. Beneath her jacket I could see the bulge of a gun.

  “There's something very wrong here, Sheriff.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “My room was ransacked yesterday.”

  “Theories?”

  I told her about the figurines in the bathtub.

  “Not exactly a Hallmark greeting.”

  “It's probably that Boyd's annoying someone.” I said it hopefully, but didn't really believe my own words.

  Boyd's ears shot forward at the sound of his name. I gave him a slice of bacon.

  “Is he a barker?”

  “Not really. I asked Ruby if he makes noise when I'm away. She said he howls a bit, but nothing extraordinary.”

  “What does Ruby say about it?”

  “Satan's minions.”

  “Maybe you have something that someone wants.”

  “Nothing was taken, though all my files were thrown around. The whole room was trashed.”

  “Did you keep notes on this foot?”

  “I'd taken them with me to Oak Ridge.”

  She looked at me a full five seconds, then nodded her nod.

  “Makes that Volvo episode a little more suspect. You watch yourself.”

  Oh yes.

  Crowe leaned over and brushed off the toe of her boot, then looked at her watch.

  “I'll see if I can get the DA to push harder.”

  At that moment Ryan's rental car appeared in the valley. The driver's-side window was open and his silhouette looked dark against the car's interior. We watched him climb the mountain and turn into the drive. Moments later he strode up the path, his face looking drawn and tense.

  “What is it?”

  I heard Crowe's hat brush the top of her thigh.

  Ryan hesitated a beat, then, “There's still no sign of Jean's body.”

  I could read naked misery in his demeanor. And more. Selfimposed guilt. The conviction that his absence from the partnership had caused Bertrand to be on that plane. Detectives without partners are limited in what they can investigate. That makes them available for courier duty.

  “They'll find him,” I said softly.

  Ryan let his eyes rove the horizon, his back rigid, his neck muscles tight as twisted ropes. After a ful
l minute, he shook out and lit a cigarette, cupping the flame in both hands.

  “How did your afternoon go?” He flicked the match.

  I told him about Crowe's meeting with the magistrate.

  “Your foot may be a dead issue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He blew smoke through his nostrils, then pulled something from his jacket pocket.

  “They also found this.”

  He unfolded a paper and handed it to me.

  I STARED, FIRST IN CONFUSION, THEN IN DAWNING COMPREHENSION.

  Ryan had given me a composite produced on a color printer. There were three images, each showing a fragment of plastic. In the first I could make out the letters b-i-o-h-a-z. In the second, a truncated phrase: -aboratory servic-. A red symbol practically leaped from the third picture. I'd seen dozens at the lab, and recognized it instantly.

  I looked at Ryan.

  “It's a biohazard container.”

  He nodded.

  “Which wasn't on the manifest.”

  “No.”

  “And everyone thinks it held a foot.”

  “Opinion is running in that direction.”

  Boyd nudged my hand, and I absently held out the rest of the sandwich. He looked at me, as though assuring himself there was no mistake, then took the booty and moved off, opting for distance in case it was a misunderstanding, after all.

  “So they're admitting that the foot does not belong to any passenger.”

  “Not exactly. But they're opening up to the possibility.”

  “What does this do to the warrant?” I asked Crowe.

  “It won't help.”

  She pushed back from the step, stood with feet apart, and replaced her hat.

  “But something's reeking under that wall, and I intend to find out what.”

  She gave her Sheriff Crowe head dip, turned, and walked up the path. Moments later we saw her bubble top wending down the mountain.

  I felt Ryan's stare and brought my gaze back to him.

  “Why did the magistrate nix the warrant?”

  “Apparently the guy's a candidate for the Flat Earth Society. On top of that, he'll issue a warrant for obstruction if I so much as shed a skin cell.” My cheeks burned with anger.

  Boyd crossed the porch, snout down, head moving from side to side. Reaching the swing, he sniffed up my leg, then sat and stared at me with his tongue out.

  Ryan drew on his cigarette, flicked it onto the lawn. Boyd's eyes shifted sideways, then back to me.

  “Did you find out about H&F?”

  Ryan had gone to his “office” to phone Delaware.

  “I thought the request might be processed more expeditiously if it came from the FBI, so I asked McMahon to make the call. I'll be at the reassembly site all afternoon but I can ask him tonight.”

  Reassembly. The piecing together of the airplane as it had been before the event. Total reassembly is a tremendous drain on time, money, and manpower, of which the NTSB had precious little. They do not attempt it in every major, do so reluctantly when public clamor demands. They undertook it with TWA 800 because the Brits had done it with Pan Am 102, and they didn't want to be outperformed.

  With fifty dead students, reassembly was a given.

  For the past two weeks trucks had been carrying the wreckage from Air TransSouth 228 across the mountains to a rented hangar at the Asheville airport. Parts were being laid out on grids corresponding to their positions on the Fokker-100. Parts that could not be associated with specific sections of the plane were being sorted according to structure type. Unidentifiable parts were being sorted according to position of recovery at the crash site.

  Eventually, every scrap would be cataloged and subjected to a range of tests, then reassembled around a wood-and-wire frame. Over time an aircraft would take shape, like a slow-motion reverse, with a million fragments drawing together to form a recognizable object.

  I'd visited reassembly sites on other crashes, and could picture the tedious scene. In this case the process would move more quickly since Air TransSouth 228 had not been driven into the ground. The plane had come apart in midair and plummeted to earth in large pieces.

  But I would not see it. I was exiled. My face must have registered my despondency.

  “I can put off the meeting.” Ryan laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “I'm O.K.”

  “What are you going to do this afternon?”

  “I'm going to sit here and finish my lunch with Boyd. Then I'm going to drive into town and buy dog food, razors, and shampoo.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I may have trouble finding the ones with double blades. But I'll persevere.”

  “You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan.”

  “See. I'm fine.”

  I managed a weak smile.

  “Go to your meeting.”

  When he'd gone, I gave Boyd the last of the fries.

  “Any preferred brands?” I asked.

  He didn't answer.

  I suspected Boyd would eat just about anything but boiled eggs.

  I was stuffing wrappers into the carry-out bag when Ruby shot out the front door and grabbed my arm.

  “Quick! Come quick!”

  “What is—”

  She dragged me off the swing and into the house. Boyd danced along, nipping at my jeans. I wasn't sure if it was Ruby's urgency that excited him or his entry onto forbidden turf.

  Ruby pulled me straight to the kitchen, where an ironing board stood with a pair of Levi's draped across it. A wicker basket rested below, heaped to the rim with crumpled laundry. Neatly pressed garments hung from cabinet knobs around the room.

  Ruby pointed to a twelve-inch black-and-white TV on a counter opposite the board. A ribbon at the bottom of the screen announced fast-breaking news. A newscaster spoke above the graphic, his face grim, his voice serene. Though reception was poor, I had no trouble identifying the figure over his left shoulder.

  The room receded around me. I was aware of nothing but the voice and the snowy picture.

  “. . . an inside source revealed that the anthropologist has been dismissed, and that an investigation is under way. Charges have not yet been filed, and it is unclear if the crash investigation has been compromised, or if victim identifications have been affected. When contacted, Dr. Larke Tyrell, North Carolina's chief medical examiner, had no comment. In other news . . .”

  “That's you, isn't it?”

  Ruby brought me back.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Boyd had stopped racing around the kitchen and was sniffing the floor below the sink. His head came up when I spoke.

  “What's he saying?” Ruby's eyes were the size of Frisbees.

  Something snapped, and I rolled over her like a tsunami.

  “It's a mistake! A goddamn mistake!” It was my voice, shrill and harsh, though I hadn't consciously formed the words.

  The room felt hot, the smell of steam and fabric softener cloying. I spun and rushed for the door.

  Boyd flew after me, paws jumbling the carpet runner as we raced down the hall. I burst out the door and across the lawn, the bell jangling in my wake. Ruby must have thought I was possessed by the Archfiend himself.

  When I opened the car Boyd bounded in and centered himself in back, his head protruding through the gap between the seats. I hadn't the will to stop him.

  Sliding behind the wheel, I did some deep breathing, hoping to turn a page in my mind. My heartbeat normalized. I began to feel guilty about my outburst, but couldn't force myself to return to the kitchen to apologize.

  Boyd chose that moment to lick my ear.

  At least the chow doesn't question my integrity, I thought.

  “Let's go.”

  * * *

  During the ride into Bryson City, I answered call after call on my cell phone, each a reporter. After seven “no comments,” I turned it off.

  Boyd shifted between his center spot and the left rear window, reacting with the
same low growl to cars, pedestrians, and other animals. After a time he ceased serving notice on everyone of just who he was, and stared placidly as the sights and sounds of the mountains flashed by.

  I found everything I needed at an Ingles supermarket on the southern edge of town. Herbal Essence and Gillette Good News for me, Kibbles 'n Bits for Boyd. I even sprang for a box of Milk-Bone jumbos.

  Buoyed by finding the razors, I decided on an outing.

  Approximately three miles beyond the Bryson City line, Everett Street becomes a scenic roadway that snakes through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park above the north shore of Lake Fontana. Officially the highway is called Lakeview Drive. To locals it is known as the Road to Nowhere.

  In the 1940s, a two-lane blacktop led from Bryson City along the Tuckasegee and Little Tennessee Rivers to Deal's Gap near the Tennessee state line. Realizing the creation of Lake Fontana would flood the highway, the TVA promised a new north-shore road. Construction began in 1943, and a 1,200-foot tunnel was eventually built. Then everything stopped, leaving Swain County with a road and tunnel to nowhere, and with wounded feelings as to its low rank in the universal order of things.

  “Want to take a ride, boy?”

  Boyd showed enthusiasm by placing his chin on my right shoulder and running his tongue up the side of my face. One thing I admired about him was his agreeable nature.

  The drive was beautiful, the tunnel a perfect monument to federal folly. Boyd enjoyed racing from end to end while I stood in the middle and watched.

  Though the outing cheered me, the improvement in my mood was short-lived. Just after leaving the park, my engine gave an odd ping. Two miles before the town line it pinged again, chunked repeatedly, then segued into a loud, ratchety, persistent noise.

  Veering onto the shoulder, I cut the motor, draped my arms around the steering wheel, and rested my forehead on them, my temporary lift in spirits replaced by a sense of despondency and anxiety.

  Was this ordinary car trouble, or had someone tampered with my engine?

  Boyd laid his chin on my shoulder, indicating that he, too, found it a disturbing question, and not entirely paranoid.

  We'd been like that a few minutes when Boyd growled without raising his head. I ignored this, assuming he'd spotted a squirrel or a Chevy. Then he shot to his feet and gave three sharp woofs, an impressive sound inside a Mazda.