“I know nothing about that.”
The insipid brown eyes narrowed.
“Really.”
Davenport picked up the cassette, crossed to a TV/VCR unit, and inserted it. When he hit “play,” a ghostly, gray scene filled the screen, and I knew instantly I was viewing a surveillance tape. I recognized the highway and the entrance to the morgue parking lot.
Within seconds my car entered the frame. A guard waved me away. Primrose appeared, spoke to the guard, tapped her way to the car, and handed me a bag. We exchanged a few words, then she patted my shoulder, and I drove off.
Davenport hit “stop” and rewound the tape. As he returned to his chair, I looked at the other two men. Both were studying me, their faces unreadable.
“Let me summarize,” said Davenport. “Following a highly irregular-sequence of events, the specimen in question, the specimen that you claim to have wrested from coyotes, is now missing.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Davenport picked up another paper.
“Early Sunday morning, a data-entry technician named Primrose Hobbs removed fragmented human tissue bearing morgue number 387 from a refrigerated trailer containing cases in process. She then proceeded to the admitting section and withdrew the disaster victim packet associated with those remains. Later that morning, Miss Hobbs was seen transferring a package to you in the morgue parking lot. That transaction was recorded, and we have just observed it.”
Davenport drilled me with a look.
“Those remains and that packet are now gone, Dr. Brennan, and we believe you have them.”
“I would strongly suggest you speak with Miss Hobbs.” My voice dripped icicles.
“That was, of course, our first endeavor. Unfortunately, Miss Hobbs has not reported to work this week.”
“Where is she?”
“That is unclear.”
“Has she checked out of her motel?”
“Dr. Brennan, I realize that you are a board-certified forensic anthropologist of international stature. I am aware that you have consulted to Dr. Tyrell in the past, as well as to coroners worldwide. I am told that your credentials are unimpeachable. That makes your behavior in this matter all the more puzzling.”
Davenport turned to his companions, as if enlisting support.
“We don't know why you've developed an obsession with this case, but it is clear that your interest has gone far beyond what is professional or ethical.”
“I've done nothing wrong.”
For the first time, Earl spoke.
“Your intentions may be honorable, Tempe, but unauthorized removal of a victim shows very poor judgment.”
He dropped his eyes and flicked a nonexistent particle from his pants.
“And is a felony,” Davenport chimed in.
I spoke to the DMORT commander.
“Earl, you know me. You know I would never do that.”
Before Earl could reply, Davenport exchanged the paper in his hand for a brown envelope, and shook two photos from it. He glanced at the larger, laid it on the desk, then pushed it toward me with one finger.
For a moment I thought it was a joke.
“That is you, Dr. Brennan, is it not?”
Ryan and I were eating hot dogs across from the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Depot.
“And Lieutenant-Detective Andrew Ryan from Quebec.” He pronounced it Qwee-bec.
“What is the relevance of this, Mr. Davenport?” Though my face was burning, I kept my voice frigid.
“Exactly what is your relationship with this man?”
“Detective Ryan and I have worked together for years.”
“But I am correct in assuming that your relationship extends beyond the professional, am I not?”
“I have no intention of answering questions about my private life.”
“I see.”
Davenport pushed the second photo across the desk.
I was too stunned to speak.
“I surmise from your reaction that you know the gentleman pictured with Detective Ryan?”
“Jean Bertrand was Ryan's partner.” Shock waves were passing through every cell in my body.
“Are you aware that this Bertrand is being investigated in conjunction with the Air TransSouth crash?”
“Where is this going?”
“Dr. Brennan, I shouldn't have to spell it out. Your”—he feigned indecision over word selection—“colleague has ties to a principal suspect. You yourself have acted”—again the careful search— “erratically.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” I repeated.
Davenport tilted his head and twisted his mouth, neither smiling nor grimacing. Then he sighed, indicating what a burden this was for all.
“Perhaps, as Mr. Bliss has suggested, your only offense has been one of misjudgment. But in tragedies of this nature, with so much media attention, and so many grieving families, it is of utmost importance that those involved avoid even the appearance of impropriety.”
I waited. Davenport began gathering papers.
“Reports of suspected misconduct are being lodged with the National Disaster Medical System, the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, and the Ethics Committee of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. The chancellor of your university will also be informed.”
Cold fear shot through me.
“Am I suspected of committing a crime?”
“We must consider every possibility, painstakingly and impartially.”
Something snapped. I shot to my feet, fingers tightening into fists.
“There's nothing impartial about this meeting, Mr. Davenport, and you have no intention of treating me fairly. Or Detective Ryan. Something's wrong, very wrong, and I've been set up as some sort of scapegoat.”
Tears burned the backs of my lids. It's the glare, I told myself. Don't you dare cry!
“Who turned this meeting into a publicity circus?”
Red splotches appeared in Davenport's cheeks, looking oddly out of place in the bland complexion.
“I have no idea how the press found out about this meeting. The leak did not come from my office.”
“And the surveillance photo? Where did that order originate?”
Davenport did not answer. The room was deathly quiet.
I uncurled my fingers and drew a deep breath. Then I impaled Davenport with a look.
“I perform my duties scrupulously, ethically, and out of concern for both the living and the dead, Lieutenant Governor Davenport.” I kept my voice level. “I do not deviate from protocol. Dr. Tyrell knows that and Mr. Bliss knows that.”
My eyes moved to Larke, but he looked away. Earl's attention remained focused on his pants. I turned back to Davenport.
“I don't know what's going on, or why it's going on, but I will find out.”
I pointed a finger to emphasize every word.
“I . Will. Find. Out.”
With that, I turned and walked from the room, quietly closing the door behind me. The trooper trailed me down the corridor, into the elevator, and across the motel lobby.
The parking lot was an encore of my arrival. Though my escort defended one flank, I was accosted on all others. Cameras rolled, microphones jabbed, and strobes flashed. Questions were shouted in the round. Pushing forward, head down, arms clasped to my chest, I felt more trapped than I had by the coyote pack.
At Ryan's car, the trooper restrained the onslaught with both arms while I unlocked and opened the door. Then he bullied the crowd back, and I broke free and shot onto the highway.
As I drove, my face cooled and my pulse normalized, but a million questions swirled in my brain. How long had I been under surveillance? Could this explain the ransacking of my room? How far would they go? Why?
Would they be back?
Who were “they”?
My eyes flew to the rearview mirror.
Where in God's name was that foot? Had someone actually taken it? If so, for what purpose?
Where was Primrose Hobbs?
The lieutenant governor's office was not typically included in the disaster inquiry loop. Why was Davenport taking such an interest?
Could I actually be facing criminal charges? Should I obtain counsel?
I was completely absorbed in these questions, driving robotically, seeing and responding to my surroundings, but registering nothing on a conscious level. I don't know how far I'd driven when a loud whoop sent my eyes back to the rearview mirror.
A police cruiser rode my bumper, headlights flashing like a strobotron.
I SLOWED AND PULLED ONTO THE SHOULDER. THE CRUISER FOLlowed.
Traffic whizzed by, normal people on their way to normal places.
I was staring in the rearview mirror when the cruiser's door opened and Lucy Crowe climbed out. My first reaction was relief. Then she put on her hat, squared it carefully, suggesting this was not a social call. I wondered if I should get out too, decided to stay put.
Crowe walked to my car, looking tall and powerful in her sheriff 's livery. I opened the door.
“Mornin',” she said, giving her inverted nod.
I nodded back.
“New car?” She spread her feet and placed hands on her hips.
“Borrowed. Mine took an unscheduled sabbatical.”
Crowe was not asking for a license or posing the usual questions, so I assumed this was not a traffic stop. I wondered if I was about to be arrested.
“Got something you're probably not going to want to hear.”
The radio on her belt sputtered, and she adjusted a knob.
“Daniel Wahnetah turned up last night.”
I almost couldn't ask.
“Alive?”
“Very. Knocked on his daughter's door around seven, had dinner with the family, then went home to bed. Daughter called me this morning.” She spoke loudly over the rush of traffic.
“Where was he for three months?”
“West Virginia.”
“Doing what?”
“She didn't offer that.”
Daniel Wahnetah was not dead. I couldn't believe it.
“Any developments on George Adair or Jeremiah Mitchell?”
“Not a word.”
“Neither really fits the profile.” My voice was tight.
“Guess this doesn't help you much.”
“No.”
Though I'd never allowed myself to say it, I'd been counting on the foot belonging to Wahnetah. Now I was back to zero.
“But I am happy for the Wahnetah family.”
“They're good people.”
She watched my fingers worrying the steering wheel.
“I heard about the news report.”
“My phone's ringing so much it's now off. I just left a meeting with Parker Davenport, and there was a crazy media scene outside the Sleep Inn.”
“Davenport.” She hooked an elbow over the top of the car door. “There's a real peckerwood.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up the road, then back at me. Sunlight glinted off her aviator shades.
“Did you know that Parker Davenport was born not far from here?”
“No, I didn't.”
She was quiet a moment, lost in memories that were hers alone.
“I take it you don't like the man.”
“Let's just say his poster's never going to hang above my bed.”
“Davenport told me that the foot is now missing and accused me of taking it.” I had to pause to keep the tremor from my voice. “He also said that a data technician who helped me take measurements has also disappeared.”
“Who's that?”
“An elderly black lady named Primrose Hobbs.”
“I'll ask around.”
“You know this is all bullshit,” I said. “What I can't figure out is why Davenport is gunning for me.”
“Parker Davenport has his own mind about things.”
A truck rumbled by, blasting us with a wave of hot air. Crowe straightened.
“I'm going to talk with our DA, see if I can't inspire a push for that warrant.”
Something suddenly struck me. Though Larke Tyrell had cited trespass when he'd banished me from the investigation, the issue of the courtyard house hadn't been raised today.
“I tracked down the owners.”
“I'm listening.”
“The property has belonged to an investment group called H&F since 1949. Before that it was owned by Edward E. Arthur, before that Victor T. Livingstone.”
She shook her head.
“You're talking way before my time.”
“I've got a list of the H&F officers in my room. I could bring it by your office after I check on my car.”
“I need to swing by Fontana when I'm done with the DA. We've got Fox Friggin' Mulder over there thinks he's found an alien.” She looked at her watch. “I should be back by four.”
I drove back to High Ridge House, feeling feverish with anxiety. To work off the tension I offered Boyd a jog. I also felt I should make up for breakfast. Not one for grudges, he accepted with enthusiasm.
The road was damp from yesterday's rain, and our feet made soft popping sounds on the muddy gravel. Boyd panted and his tags jingled. Jays and sparrows were the only other creatures breaking the stillness.
The view was another Impressionist tableau, an endless expanse of valleys and hills polished and buffed by a brilliant morning sun. But the wind had shifted overnight and now carried an edge. Each time we moved into shadow, I sensed winter and shortening days.
The exercise calmed me, but not much. As I climbed the stairs to Magnolia, my chest tightened at the memory of Monday's intrusion. Today my door was closed, my belongings intact.
I showered and put on fresh clothes. As I turned on the phone it rang in my hand. I answered with rigid fingers. Another journalist. I hung up and dialed Pete.
As usual, a machine took the call. Though I was anxious for an opinion on my legal situation, I knew it was useless to try his other numbers. Pete had both car and cell phones, but rarely recharged either. If he did progress that far, he'd forget to turn the unit on, or he'd leave it on a dashboard or bedroom dresser.
Frustrated, I dug out McMahon's fax, stuffed it in my purse, and headed downstairs.
I was making an egg salad sandwich when Ruby backed through the swinging door into the kitchen, a blue plastic laundry basket in her arms. She wore a white blouse, fake pearls, sweatpants, socks, and slippers, and her hair roll looked freshly lacquered. Her appearance suggested a morning outing, followed by a change from the waist down.
“Can I do that for you?” she asked.
“I'm fine.”
She set down the basket and walked to the sink, slippers flapping against her heels.
“I'm real sorry about your room.”
“I had nothing of value up there.”
“Someone must have come in while I was to market.” She picked up a dish towel, sniffed it. “Sometimes I wonder what the world's coming to. The Lord—”
“These things happen.”
“We've never had stealing in this house.” She turned to me, the towel twisted between her hands. “I don't blame you for being angry.”
“I'm not angry at you.”
She took a quick breath, opened her mouth, closed it. I had the impression she was about to say something, changed her mind, wary of how the telling might impact her life. Good. I was too strung out for sympathetic listening.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Do you have lemonade?”
She tossed the towel into her basket and crossed to the refrigerator. Withdrawing a plastic pitcher, she filled a glass and set it next to my sandwich.
“And that television business and all.”
“All through school, I was never once voted most popular.”
I smiled, not wanting Ruby to see how agitated I was. The ges
ture must have looked as strained as it felt.
“It isn't funny. You shouldn't let them do this.”
“I can't control the press, Ruby.”
She got a paper plate, placed my sandwich on it.
“Cookies?”
“Sure.”
She added three sugar cookies, then looked straight into my eyes.
“‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely.’”
“The people who matter know these accusations are false.” Keep cool.
“Then maybe you need to be controlling someone else.”
She hoisted the basket onto her hip and left without a backward glance.
Hoping for more rational conversation, I went outside to lunch with Boyd. I was not disappointed. The chow inhaled the cookies, then watched without comment as I ate the sandwich and considered my options.
Arriving at the garage, I learned that the problem with my car was minor, but a pump was required. The absent letter, either P or T, was in Asheville, and would try to obtain the part. Assuming that mission went well, repairs could be finished the next afternoon.
Could be. I noticed that the Chevy, Pinto, and pickups remained exactly where they'd been the day before.
I checked the time. Two-thirty. Crowe wouldn't be back yet.
Now what?
I requested a phone directory and was handed a 1996 edition, dogeared and reeking of petroleum products. Two hands were required to part the pages.
While there was no entry for the Eternal Light Holiness-Pentecostal House of God, I did find a listing for L. Bowman on Swayney Creek Road. P/T knew the intersection but could provide nothing more. I thanked him and returned to Ryan's car.
Following P/T's instructions, I headed out of town. As he'd predicted, Swayney Creek dead-ended into Highway 19 between Ela and Bryson City. I stopped at a filling station to ask directions to Bowman's house.
The attendant was a kid of about sixteen with greasy black hair, separated down the crown and tucked behind the ears. White flecks littered his part like snowflakes along a muddy creek.
The kid put down his comic and glanced at me, his eyes scrunched as though sensitive to light. Picking a cigarette from a scalloped metal dish, he drew deeply, then jerked his chin in the direction of Swayney Creek.
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